Seeing as how I’d been searching that damned trailer high and low for a will, it seemed odd that he had it. I waited for him to explain, because I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the hell was going on.

“It names your mama as the primary beneficiary. I drew it up myself—after insisting that he and Ruthanne each needed a simple will because they had minor children. My intention was to protect you and Brent.” He took another slow breath, lips pinched. “I was hoping you’d find a new will, revoking any previously made. But more importantly, I was hoping you’d find divorce papers.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, but that was a lie. I got the gist of what he was saying. I just couldn’t wrap my head around what, exactly, it meant. Because there was no goddamned way it meant what it sounded like.

“I’ve sent to Austin and the surrounding states for a divorce decree, but nothing’s come up yet. In the absence of a divorce decree, which would invalidate any wills made prior to it—”

“Are you seriously about to tell me that even though she left us—left him—fifteen years ago, she’s going to get the trailer and the stuff in it?”

I hadn’t thought the man could look more pained than he normally looked, but I was wrong.

“Assuming she’s alive and was still married to your father upon his death, your mother is entitled to everything that belonged to Bud. If there hadn’t been a will, she’d still inherit all their community property, because she is—as far as I can find—his legal spouse.”

I sensed there was more and what it was before he said it.

He swallowed and unloaded the worst of it. “If he never incorporated Wynn’s Garage—I’ve spent the past two weeks searching but can’t find any evidence that he did so—then the garage was a sole proprietorship, indistinguishable from the individual upon his death. Making it part of his estate.”

Holy fucking shit, this was not going down. “So I own nothing? I’ve worked for my dad since I was thirteen years old—unpaid for the first several years, not that it stopped him from having me do every oil change and tire rotation that came in. I took responsibility for everything when he got sick. I’ve done everything for the past year—”

“I understand, Boyce, and this is as inequitable a thing as I’ve ever—”

I stood. “I have to go.”

He nodded. “I’ll have to institute a search for her. If she’s worked or applied for credit, an apartment, a loan of any kind—it won’t take more than a week to find her.” He grappled with his collar again. “One last thing. I made a will for her as well—a duplicate of your dad’s with him named as her beneficiary—which made her my client. I will not represent her against you, but I can’t represent you either. It would constitute a conflict of interest in the eyes of the court.”

“Well, fuck,” I said, in one of the many understatements of my life.

Pearl

Saturday afternoon, I was studying when a knock rattled the front door. Besides Mama and Thomas, only Melody knew where I was living. As I expected, she’d gone utterly silent when I called and told her, like that dead calm right before the worst part of a squall hits. “Mel?” I said, and she sputtered to life, firing interrogations without waiting for answers and citing all the reasons she was certain I’d gone off the deep end.

Mel was in Dallas though, so whoever it was had probably come for Boyce, who’d taken a box of documents to the attorney who was helping him sort his dad’s affairs.

I’d spent the morning in a futile job search, the details of which wouldn’t quit replaying in my head. Most places had already hired for the summer, and I had no job history or employable skills to entice the few that had an opening. Dressed like it was rush week instead of a Saturday in the most laid-back town on the coast, I’d filled out applications and smiled until my face ached. Everyone had the same questions: Have you worked retail? Waited tables? Run a register? Worked with the public in any way, shape, or form?

No, no, no, and no.

When the knock sounded again, I tiptoed to the door. There was no peephole, so I lifted a mini-blind slat. Brittney Loper. She turned my direction and I dropped the slat.

“Boyce, I saw you. Open up, dammit.”

I was so not in the mood for Brittney Loper.

Granted, I was never in the mood for Brittney Loper.

“Boyce, c’mon! I need you.”

Oh God. Hoping she didn’t mean what I feared she meant, I turned the bolt and pulled the door open to cutoffs, boots, and a tank sporting the name of one of the touristy bars on the main drag. Her chest could still influence gravity. I wanted her to look worse for wear, but she didn’t. Blinking thick lashes and tilting her head full of dirty-blond hair like an adorable puppy, she checked the metal numbers tacked into trailer’s siding and then the existence of the garage next door.

Why hadn’t it occurred to me that his life included this. Boyce was a man. Men had needs. Needs that would be filled by women who looked like Brittney, if they looked like Boyce.

Her gaze swung back to me. “Pearl Frank? Right?”

“That’s me,” I gritted out. “Boyce isn’t here, Brittney. He’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“Whoa. I didn’t know you and Boyce—” She snorted a giggle. “Ah, this explains a whole helluva lot! But I thought you were away at college or something?”

“I graduated.” What explained a lot of what?

“Cool. And you decided to move back here… for Boyce? That’s kinda—”

“No, that’s not—”

“—sweet.”

“—why.” Sweet? Was she high? Knowing Brit, that was entirely possible. “I just needed somewhere to stay, and Boyce has a spare room since…”

“Since his worthless turdass of a father kicked it, finally. That guy was barely a step above my old man.”

A step above?

“So when will Boyce be back? An hour, you said? Because my piece of shit truck is shaking like a tweaker between hits.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the beat-up pickup in Wynn’s driveway. “I dunno what I did to it, but it’s pissed. I gotta have that thing to get back and forth to work or I’m screwed.”

Even Brittney Loper was employable.

That’s uncalled for, my conscience tut-tutted. “I have the opposite problem. Working car, no job.” Small talk? Shut up, Pearl.