And what had Kylee been talking to David about?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The noises coming from George’s shop set Gerrit’s teeth on edge. Every pound of his neighbor’s hammer, every buzz of his Skilsaw, made Gerrit want to fill one of his gardening gloves with rocks and slap George across the face with it. And that radio station he was blaring?
Christian music.
Blech.
The sounds mocked him, reminding him over and over that George had a successful business. Reminding him over and over of George’s smug face. Reminding him one hammer blow at a time of the day he’d come out of the farm shop to find his father shaking George’s hand to seal the deal on a large loan of money that should’ve been his. Money he and Hannie had desperately needed.
“You don’t know anything about it,” his father had said when Gerrit confronted him. “You’ll find another way to build that house you want.”
“But I’m your son.”
“And George has got nobody.”
His father’s eyes flashed, daring him to disagree. When George’s dad died of cancer a couple of years before, Gerrit’s father lost his only friend. And George was left an orphan, as his mom had run off on him and his dad long ago.
“So you’ll help him, but you won’t help me?”
Betrayal had stabbed at Gerrit, lending a sharp edge to his voice.
His father had turned away. “You don’t need any help.”
Gerrit blinked at the flower bed and the roots in his hands. His father had been wrong. And Gerrit was hardly getting any weeding done.
A shot of pain made him groan as he pushed himself up off his knees. Sweat poured down his face from the midday sun. He couldn’t sit out here listening to George make a racket for one more minute. And was that Mallory’s red Jetta parked over there? Oh, so George could make all the noise he wanted when his daughter was around, but Bernard was too loud?
Unbelievable. George thought he was so much better than him—bragging about becoming a grandpa, calling the cops on him as if he were a criminal—but he wouldn’t even have a furniture business if it wasn’t for Gerrit’s father.
There had to be something he could do to hit George where it hurt. Something to get back at him for his stunt with the police. But what?
It was cool inside the house. Gerrit pulled a Pepsi from the fridge and took a long, satisfying swig. Daisy watched him with longing in her big brown puddly eyes.
“Not a chance, girl.” He made a show of gesturing at her water dish. “You have your own.”
The dumb dog crept closer, pleading. Licking her chops.
“Your mother would kill me.”
She realized he was serious and slumped to the floor in defeat, resting her chin on her front paws. He took another drink and set the can down on the counter.
A shrill ring nearly made him jump out of his skin. The landline. “For crying out loud.”
It rang again, and he hurried to check the caller ID. It was probably a telemarketer, as usual, but he wanted to make sure. He grabbed the receiver and squinted at the screen. Unknown Name, Unknown Number. Bah. No way was he answering that.
He set the receiver back on its base as the ringing stopped. Good. Then he gave the contraption another look.
Hold the phone. What if . . . ?
Their home number was unlisted and appeared as Unknown Name, Unknown Number when he called someone, too. Which meant if he were to call George’s work phone to, say, place a custom furniture order using fake information, George wouldn’t know who it was. And if George were to complete the order and try to contact his fake customer for pickup, Gerrit and Bernard would be avenged.
He pulled up George’s cell number from his own cell and considered what he was about to do. He wouldn’t order a five-piece living room set or anything. He wasn’t a monster. But a nice little end table that wasted an adequate amount of George’s time and money would be just the ticket.
His conscience flinched, but he quickly ignored it. Yes, part of him knew it was childish. But another part remembered the self-righteous look on George’s face as he shook his father’s hand. The indignation in his own heart when he learned George had purchased the lot right next to the one he himself planned to buy. Not to mention the humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of that snot-nosed officer who had talked down to him.
George had brought this on himself.
He punched in the number and hit send. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello, thank you for calling Sinnema Custom Woodwork. How may I help you?”
Gulp. He hadn’t counted on Agatha answering the phone. What was he doing? He was in way over his head. He should hang up right this second and cut his losses.
“Yes, hello.” He purposefully lowered the tone of his voice, making it sound gravelly so she wouldn’t recognize it. “I’d like to place an order.”
“Wonderful! Can you describe what you are interested in?” Agatha’s cheerful voice gave him fresh resolve. This woman had never suffered a day in her life. She had no idea what he had been through. What her own husband had put him through.
“An end table.”
“What kind of end table do you have in mind?”
They went back and forth, discussing the details. The dimensions of the table. Which kind of wood he would prefer. How long it would probably take. Gerrit was glad it wasn’t the sort of business that required your credit card number up front.
By the end of the conversation, Gerrit’s throat hurt from talking funny the whole time, causing him to cough into the phone.
“Sounds great,” Agatha finally said. “George will get to it as soon as possible.”
“Uh, thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
“You have a good day now.”
He hung up the phone, his heart pounding with self-satisfaction. He’d pulled it off.
