Free Going For Broke by Nina Howard

asked.
                  “Cows?” Victoria repeated.
                  “Yeah.  Rutledge said that the only thing in Illinois were cows and crooked politicians,” Parker answered.
                  “That’s about right,” Victoria said. 
                  “That looks like a big city,” Parker said.
                  “It is.  The biggest city for miles.  Where grandmother lives is a much smaller town,” Victoria answered.
                  “With cows?” asked Posey.
                  “You never know,” Victoria said.
                                                                                        ###
                  Victoria had never been to Barbara and Bud’s house before, though she knew exactly where it was.  It was a step up from the Chicken Shack for Barbara, but not much.  It was on a busy road right across from the elementary school, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the little houses up and down the street.  It was a square white box, and the Home Depot flowerpots didn’t hide the fact that it could use a coat of paint and a new roof.  The kid’s playhouse at their house in Connecticut was bigger than this house.  And probably better built. 
                  Even before her father had died, the Patterson's had always lived in the ‘have-not’ side of town.  Tenaqua, an old Indian name that Victoria had always been convinced meant ‘snobby’, was a town built on strong shoulders and old money.  It didn’t have the great estates of Lake Forest, which was 20 miles farther north, yet it had plenty of pedigree all its own.  There were gracious houses built all through the 20s, 30s and 40s that still had an elegant presence today.  Tudors, Georgians and Colonials stood side-by-side on neatly landscaped lots, with tall trees forming a canopy over the streets. 
                  Growing up, Victoria always felt she was lacking.  Lacking a big house, domestic help of any kind, even trips to Florida seemed exotic.  Other families had hordes of children, and often they were all dressed in identical outfits, like the Von Traps, the girls sporting enormous red bows atop their towheaded pig tales.  Their mothers drove them around in their Country Squire wood-paneled station wagons and spent their days playing golf and tennis at the club.  Her mother worked, and Victoria took the bus.  Now here she was driving a rental van with everything she owned inside.  She had come full circle, back in full force to the ‘have-not’ side of town.
                  She had thought about calling when they crossed into Illinois, and couldn’t find a single pay phone.  Not only had the FBI frozen her assets, they had sentenced her to a life of non-communication.  Pay phones just didn’t exist anymore.  Even the homeless had cell phones!   So with a fair sense of dread, she rang the doorbell.  Her stepfather, Bud Brewster, answered the door with delight.
                  “Vicky!  How wonderful to have you here,” Bud grabbed her in a big bear hug.  “Come in!  Come in!”  He ushered them into the tiny living room.  “You must be Posey.  Nice to meet you.  I’m Bud.”
                  Bud Brewster was a genial 70-something retired insurance agent who had lived in Tenaqua his entire life.  He had been married and raised two boys in town, and then after his wife died, he met Barbara and they married within a year.  He wasn’t rich, although he was the perfect antidote for Barbara.  Victoria remembered his boys who were a few years older than her at high school.  They were champion swimmers, and the Brewsters were your basic Preppy Presbyterian Perfect family. 
                  “Hello young man.  You must be Parker,” Bud formally put his hand