Jackson rose to his feet. It was like watching a mountain spring up spontaneously out of the couch, and Lexi’s eyes went wide as she stared up at him.

“This is not negotiable,” Jackson said to her. She looked like she’d argue but then thought better of it. Jackson turned back to me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I lied. I wasn’t good. I was a disaster of titanic proportions, but I was not about to let anyone, especially Lexi, know.

Jackson walked to the door and opened it, waiting for her, but Lexi didn’t follow. Instead, she turned to me and said, “I’m not Mom and Dad, you know, I’m not like them.”

“I know.” It didn’t change things for me, not one damn bit.

With that, she did an epic hair toss and flounced out the door. I could hear her boots clack down the hallway.

Jackson didn’t move from the doorway. His gaze met mine and he said, “You know, I never thought of you as broken beyond repair until right now.”

Annabelle

10

The remainder of the week passed without my breaking any more of “the rules.” I didn’t see Jackson again, but I did meet the groundskeeper, Mr. Guzman. He was trimming the trees along the drive as I dashed out the door, late again, and ran by, jumping over his extension cord as I went. To my surprise, he began to sing in a deep baritone, “And the race is on . . .”

I hit my brakes hard, skidding to a stop. I whipped around to look at him. He was on a ladder so he seemed very tall. He had a thick head of gray hair and a bristly mustache, the kind I’d only ever seen during Movember, mustache-growing month, or on old seventies and eighties television shows.

Winking at me, he continued, “And here comes pride up the backstretch.”

“Heartaches are goin’ to the inside,” I chimed in and his bushy eyebrows rose. Together we sang out the rest of the chorus, ending with, “And the winner loses all.”

“You know George Jones?” he asked.

“My dad’s a fan of old-school country.” I shrugged. “After a while it sticks.”

He laughed. “So true.”

“I’m Annabelle Martin,” I said. “I’m staying in the guest house.”

“I know.” His brown eyes twinkled, and his mustache curved up on the ends when he smiled. “I’m Juan Guzman, groundskeeper, handyman, and driver.”

“That’s quite a résumé.”

“My wife, Lupita, is the cook and housekeeper,” he said. “You’ll meet her, I’m sure.”

“That also seems like an awful lot of work for one person,” I said.

“Mr. Daire is just one man, so it’s not so much,” he said. “We couldn’t believe it when he said he was renting out the guest house. That place has been empty since he bought the estate.”