The Will

Chapter Four Only There

I parked in the curving lane at the front of Lavender House, opened the door and got out, slamming the door behind me and moving to the trunk where I’d stowed the groceries.

I wouldn’t be in Magdalene for very long but I would be there for a while. I also had a life where I ate most of my meals in restaurants or at parties and rarely had the chance to cook.

After Jake Spear left and I got no answers to questions that were hounding me, I decided that since I was there, I’d take advantage of being there.

Meaning I would give myself a treat and cook.

Thus, I prepared for the day and went to the market in town.

I had filled brown paper bags in each arm when the SUV drove up the lane.

I looked through my shades to the shiny black Escalade and primarily the man who sat behind the wheel.

I’d never seen him before.

I watched him approach deciding I did not need this.

I had a number of things to do, the priority at that moment was getting the groceries in the house, but it was never a priority to deal with an unannounced visitor seeing as it was most rude to show up unannounced.

He could be someone who simply wished to give his condolences. However, he could call, like dozens of other people had done since Gran had died. He didn’t need to come to the house.

Especially since I had no idea who he was.

His sunglassed eyes never leaving me, he got out of his vehicle and I saw he was tall, lean and well-dressed, in well-fitting, excellent quality dark blue trousers and an equally well-fitting, tailored light blue shirt.

No tie.

His dark brown hair was cut well.

And at a glance, I knew his sunglasses cost five hundred dollars.

“Can I help you with those?” he called when he was about ten feet away.

“Not to be rude,” I replied. “But I don’t know you so I’m afraid I’ll need to refuse.”

He nodded his head, stopped four feet away and suggested, “Let’s remedy that. I’m Boston Stone.”

My face must have betrayed my response to his absurd name because he smiled and it was not an unattractive smile.

“My mother said she was under the influence of drugs post-birth,” he explained his name in a manner where I knew he’d done it frequently in his life. Then again, with that name, he would have to.

I nodded and asked, “How can I help you, Mr. Stone?”

His head tipped slightly to the side before he answered and part of his answer included him strangely repeating himself, “I’m Boston Stone. CEO of Stone Incorporated.”

I said nothing.

“I believe Terry told you about me?” he queried.

“Terry?” I queried back.

“Terry Baginski. The associate at Weaver and Schuller who read your grandmother’s will yesterday.”

I felt my body lock as an unexpected and unpleasant pulse thumped through it

Stone Incorporated. In all that had happened, I’d forgotten.

The other thing Gran never told me. This man wanted to buy Lavender House.

“Yes,” I stated. “Ms. Baginski told me about you.”

“As you’re busy,” he replied, tipping his head to the bags in my arms, “I’ll not keep you except to ask if you’d like to have lunch with me tomorrow to discuss your plans for Lavender House.”

That pulse thumped through me again and it was far more unpleasant.

Boston Stone of Stone Incorporated.

A man behind a company.

Not a family with children, the wife cutting lavender to put in the family room and on the kitchen table, the kids playing Frisbee in the back yard around the arbor with petals of wisteria blowing through the air around them, the husband knowing how to fix the sink and keeping the house in tiptop shape with loving care…forever.

I tasted something sour in my mouth and forced through it, “Mr. Stone, I don’t wish to be rude, but as you can see, I’m busy. And as you know, my grandmother died only five days ago. There are a variety of things on my mind and one of them is not having lunch with someone to discuss my plans for Lavender House.”

This wasn’t strictly true. I’d given vague thought to it.

It was just that it was vague.

Now, with this man standing in front of me, it was not vague in the slightest and I didn’t like how that felt.

“Of course, my apologies. It’s too soon,” he murmured.

“It is,” I agreed.

“Then I’ll repeat my offer of lunch but I’ll do it in order to give you a lovely meal and, perhaps, take your mind off your recent loss.”

I studied him as I processed his words.

And then I processed his words.

Good God, I’d just met the man in my grandmother’s driveway and he was asking me out.

Although he was quite handsome and it was done smoothly, in a kind tone, and with respect, I couldn’t believe it.

“Mr. Stone—”

“Ms. Malone, just lunch, no business, getting you away from memories and taking your mind off things. I know a place that does wonderful things with mussels. If you like seafood, I’d enjoy introducing you to it.”

He was quite nice, not to mention I loved mussels and all seafood.

I just had no desire to have lunch with him.

“That offer is kind, Mr. Stone,” I said quietly. “But I’m afraid your endeavors wouldn’t succeed. I have much to think about and even more to do.”

He nodded and lifted then immediately dropped a hand. “Of course. But if you change your mind, the information Terry gave you includes a direct line to me. Just phone and we’ll make plans.”

“If I change my mind”—highly unlikely—“I’ll do that.”

His smooth voice dipped lower and even smoother when he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Josephine. Lydia was much loved and there were many reasons for that. So please know, I understand this loss is grave.”

I felt my throat close so I just nodded.

“I hope you call,” he finished, still talking lower and smoother.

“I’ll think about it. Have a nice day, Mr. Stone.”

His sunglasses held my sunglasses before he dipped his chin, turned and moved to his SUV.

I watched him get in and slam the door. After he did that, I moved to the house.

When I’d entered, I kicked the door shut behind me with my pump and stopped dead.

I did this because it hit me.

All of it.

Everything I was seeing.

Everything I was experiencing.

But most of all, everything I was feeling.

The shafts of light piercing the shadows, dust motes drifting making the air itself seem almost magical.

The abundance of furniture stuffed in the large rooms opening off the foyer. All of it old, all of it plush, all of it comfortable.

And then there was the profusion of knickknacks, some of them likely worthless, some of them perhaps priceless, but all of them precious. The gleaming wood of the antique tables. The framed prints on the walls that had hung there for decades, maybe some of them for over a century.

My mind’s eye conjured an image of the land around the house. The rough gray stone of the coastline. The rocky beach with its deep pier. The massive bushes of lavender that hugged the sprawling tall house all around. The green clipped lawns. The arbor covered in wisteria with the white wicker furniture under it pointed at the sea. The rectangular greenhouse leading to the mosaic-tiled patio, also pointed at the sea. The small garden surrounded by the low, white fence.

My family had lived in that house for over one hundred and fifty years. My grandmother had grown up there. She’d lost her sister there. She’d escaped there after her husband used and abused her. She’d helped me escape there after her son used and abused me.

I’d only ever been truly happy there.

Only there.

Only there.

On this thought, I numbly moved through the house to the kitchen and, once there, dropped the bags on the butcher block, shoved my sunglasses back on my head and took in the huge expanse.

The Aga stove that stayed warm all the time and produced sublime food. The slate floors. The deep-bowled farm sink. The plethora of cream-painted glass-fronted cabinets. The grooved doors of the cupboards below. The greenhouse leading off it where herbs grew in pots on shelves in the windows. The massive butcher block that ran the length of the middle of the room, worn, cut and warped.

I shrugged my purse from my shoulder and set it beside the bags. I then moved back out to my rental car, getting the last bag, slamming the trunk and taking it into the house.

I put the groceries away and I did it not feeling numb anymore.

Not even close.

My brain felt heated, even fevered.

I no longer felt uneasy.

I felt unwell.

Something wasn’t right.

No, everything wasn’t right.

Then again, there was no right to a world without Lydia Josephine Malone in it.

And I only knew one way to make it right.

I folded the bags and tucked them in the pantry then moved directly to the phone.

Gran kept her address book there.

I opened it and flipped through the pages, finding the M’s. There were sheets of M’s and sheets of names written amongst the pages.

But I wasn’t there.

I moved back to J.

My brain cooled when I saw it in her looping script.

Josie.

She didn’t write in the lines. She scrawled all over the page however she wanted to do it and I felt my lips tip up slightly even as I felt the backs of my eyes tingle.

On the page was my mobile number, several before it crossed out when I’d changed them over the decades. Henry’s mobile number(s). Henry’s address in LA with a big looped Pool House scribbled beside it—this meager information taking up the entire page.

I drew in a calming breath and closed my eyes.

I opened them and flipped close to the back of the book. I found the number and grabbed the old phone from its cradle on the wall. So old, it had long twirly cord. A cord, I knew, that was long enough that you could talk on it and get to the sink, the butcher block, but not the stove. I knew this because I’d seen Gran talking on it as she moved about the room.

I punched in the number from Gran’s book in the keypad and put it to my ear.

It rang three times before I heard a man answer, “Hello?”

“Mr. Weaver?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Josephine Malone.”

A pause then, “Josephine. My dear. How lovely it is to hear from you.”

I swallowed and said softly, “And it’s lovely to speak to you, Mr. Weaver. But, just to say, I’m calling because Ms. Baginski shared about Mrs. Weaver.”

Another pause before, “Of course. Yes, I should have called and explained. That was why we weren’t at the funeral.”

“That’s entirely understandable,” I murmured then went on to say, “But I’m phoning to share I was distressed to hear this news.”

“Yes, dear, it’s distressing,” he agreed in a kindly way, pointing out the obvious without making me feel foolish that I’d done the same.

Even mucking this up, I still carried on.

“Is Mrs. Weaver well enough to receive visitors?” I asked quietly.

This was met with yet another pause before, softly, “I think she’d like that, Josephine. She always enjoyed seeing you. She’s best in the mornings, however. Could you come by tomorrow, say about ten?”

I didn’t want to go by the Weavers tomorrow at about ten. I didn’t want to visit a kind woman in the throes of a grave illness or spend time with a kind man who was in the throes of possibly watching his wife die.

But Gran would go.

And I would detest knowing what I knew about Eliza Weaver and not taking the time to visit at about ten tomorrow to find some way to communicate that I thought she was kind and she’d touched my life in a way I appreciated.

“I would…yes. I could. Absolutely,” I accepted.

“She can’t have flowers or—”

“I’ll just bring me,” I assured him.

“Eliza will look forward to that, as will I.”

“Lovely,” I replied. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“See you then, Josephine.”

“Take care, Mr. Weaver.”

“You as well, my dear. Good-bye.”

I gave him my farewell and put the phone back in its receiver. Then I moved back to Gran’s book and flipped the pages until I found it. I grabbed the phone and punched in the digits.

There were five rings before I heard, “You’ve reached the Fletcher residence. We’re unable to get to the phone right now, but please leave a message.”

I waited for the beep then said, “Reverend Fletcher? This is Josephine Malone. It seems I’ll be in Magdalene for some time and…well, you mentioned dinner. And I would enjoy having dinner with you and Mrs. Fletcher. Or you can come to Lavender House and I can cook for you to express my gratitude for all the thoughtful things you did for Gran. Whenever you have time, I’d be happy to hear from you. You can call me at the house or use my mobile.”

I gave him my number, said my good-byes and I hung up.

Once I did, I took in another, deeper breath and flipped to the S’s.

There was no listing and I found that unsurprising.

Then it occurred to me and I flipped back to the J’s.

One page from mine, there it was. Jake and a number.

I stared at the number for some time before I made my decision.

I moved to the butcher block to get my phone from my purse. I went back to the address book and programmed his number into my phone.

But I didn’t use it.

What had to be said, and done, needed to be face-to-face.

Therefore, I moved to the drawer where Gran kept the phonebook.

I flipped through the pages at the back that were printed on thin yellow paper, not knowing what I was looking for.

Then I found what I was looking for.

One listing with the bold heading Exotic Dancers.

It had a phone number and address.

I ripped the page out of the book, replaced the book in the drawer, folded the page and tucked it in the back pocket of my jeans.

That done, I moved to the spiral staircase to go to the light room so I could find Gran’s safety deposit box key.

* * * * *

I sat in the dark parking lot staring at the building.

There were no windows in the building. However, the parking lot was well-lit.

And almost completely full.

The sign out front said the establishment was called “The Circus.” This sign was surprisingly quite tasteful, black with blue scrolled letters. No flashing lights or neon and there was only one on the front of the building, not even one on a big stand protruding out into the street.

The building was a lone building in the middle of nowhere, the parking lot large. But there were no weeds growing through cracks. The black paint with gray trim of the building was clean, looking fresh, and expertly done. No graffiti or markings.

The door to enter was padded with buttoned black leather. There was a large man standing beside it wearing a blue windbreaker and black trousers. And there were a goodly number of cameras mounted under the eaves. Those, as well as the lighting, making the outside feel safe.

I got out of my car, closed the door and hit the button on the key fob, hearing the beep. I did this wondering if I should have changed clothes.

I’d never been to a strip club. I had no idea what to wear.

I’d decided not to change from what I’d worn that day to the market, and while stripping Gran’s bed, doing Gran’s laundry, unpacking my suitcase and emailing Daniel on my phone a variety of reminders of how to take care of Henry.

I was wearing my dark blue bootcut jeans, my well-fashioned eggplant-colored top that had an intricately draping neckline, and my navy blue patent leather Manolo Blahnik pumps. Before leaving, I’d simply refreshed my makeup and perfume, pulled on a well-tailored black Italian leather jacket, and made my way to the address on the phone listing.

At that point, it would have to do.

I walked through the lot and approached the door. When I got close, I noted the man beside it had a twisted wire leading up to his ear.

As I approached, he dipped his chin, murmured, “Ma’am,” and moved, opening the door for me.

He gave no sign he was surprised a woman was entering such a club and I found this interesting, as I found his good manners the same.

I gave him a small smile, walked in and stopped.

This was partly to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. It was also partly to allow my ears to adjust to the music. But mostly it was in shock.

Like the outside, the inside was clean and well maintained, but more.

There was a large circular stage in the middle on which there were five women dancing. There were shiny silver poles that were not smooth but had spirals formed in them. Off the stage, there were two runways that led back to a wall and across the length of it, these with more poles and dancers.

It was not a surprise that they were not clothed. They had on G-strings and nothing else.

What was a surprise was that they were all very attractive with lovely, toned bodies, a variety of interesting and not-unfashionable (but all very high-heeled) shoes and sandals and all but one had very becoming hair (the one who didn’t had her hair dyed a rather brash red that did nothing for her coloring).

What also was a surprise was that, surrounding the stages, there were rather attractive black padded, semi-circular booths with small round tables in front of them to hold drinks. Further, there were stylish tables and chairs filling the rest of the space with larger booths upholstered in dark blue leather and having larger tables in the middle of them set against the walls not taken up with stage or bar.

And the bar was also very tasteful, fully mirrored at the back but it had cleverly positioned lights shining blue on the bottles and variety of clean, some of them rather chic, glasses on glass shelves. Around the bar were tall, backed, comfortable-looking stools covered in dark blue leather.

And the last surprise was that there were a great number of people there. The club was situated between Magdalene and the town to the north, which was fifteen miles away. As there was only one listing in the phonebook, obviously, if you were looking for this kind of entertainment, this was the only place close you’d find it. Therefore, this perhaps should not have been a surprise.

But it was and it was because it didn’t appear that the place was filled with foul, ill-kempt, lascivious men wearing big coats with their hands in their pockets.

In fact, quite a number of the patrons weren’t paying attention to the dancers but appeared to be there simply to enjoy a drink.

And three of the booths lining the stage were filled with women, all of them wearing varying tiaras with one woman who was strangely sporting a hot pink boa of questionable quality. She was also wearing a tiara but unlike the others, hers had feathers protruding from it and words formed in that proclaimed her proudly as the “Bachelorette.”

How odd.

I moved to the bar and took one of the stools available at the side close to the wall. I put my purse on the bar and waited for the midnight-blue-shirted, black-trouser-wearing, young and quite attractive bartender to make his way to me.

He smiled an easy white smile when he did and asked, “What’ll it be?”

“A Shirley Temple,” I ordered. He blinked. I ignored that and went on, “And I’d like for someone to tell Mr. Spear I’m here, if that’s possible. You can tell him it’s Josephine Malone.”

He stared at me for a moment then asked, “You want a Shirley Temple?”

“Yes, please,” I confirmed. “And for Mr. Spear to be told I’m here, if you don’t mind.”

He studied me another moment before he nodded and moved away. I saw him grab a glass and do things with ice, bottles and the soda gun. I also saw him catch the eye of a large man in the crowd wearing another blue shirt and black trousers.

That man went to the bar. The bartender leaned into him, said something and jerked his head to me. The large man outside the bar glanced at me, nodded and moved away, his hand going to his back pocket to pull out a phone.

The man served me my drink. I paid for it after expressing gratitude and he moved away to an area cordoned off from the rest of the bar by two high, curved silver poles.

It was then I saw the waitress who was waiting there and noted that she, too, was dressed tastefully. I couldn’t see her bottom half but I did see her off-the-shoulder black top that was form-fitting and showed a hint of cleavage but it was far from risqué. She had a black velvet ribbon tied around her neck, her makeup was excellently done from what I could tell with the dim light and she had quite lovely hair.

I sipped my drink and looked through the crowd to see the other waitresses dressed the same. Off-the-shoulder top, velvet ribbon at the throat and this was paired with a slim-fitting, quite short but not vulgar dark blue skirt. Sheer black hose. Very attractive black platform pumps.

I surveyed the waitresses and the dancers and even the multiple men in blue shirts and black trousers. None of them were thin, pale, sunken-cheeked, glassy-eyed or appeared woebegone in any way.

They all seemed simply to be at work and the waitresses quite often smiled what looked to be genuine smiles at their customers while they moved amongst the tables and booths.

Yes. Glancing around Jake Spear’s establishment, I realized I had done precisely what he said I’d done.

I’d been judgmental.

That sour taste came back to my mouth.

I washed it away with a sip of my drink.

Five minutes later, the large man who the bartender spoke to walked through the club to me.

He stopped close, leaned in and said, “Mr. Spear is unavailable, Ms. Malone. Can I give him a message?”

I was not surprised he was unavailable. If someone had treated me as I had treated him, I would be unavailable too.

I shook my head but elevated my voice to be heard over the music in order to say, “No, but thank you.”

He nodded and moved away.

I sipped at my drink, watched the goings-on at a tasteful strip club and did so considering my dilemma.

I needed to apologize (again).

And I needed answers.

I sighed, knowing I had no choice because Jake Spear wasn’t giving me one and I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t give me one either.

I reached into my purse on the bar, pulled out my phone, found his number and hit the screen to connect.

I put a finger in my other ear and listened as it rang five times before I heard his rumbling voice command, “Spear. Leave a message.”

I got the beep and said into my phone, “Mr. Spear…uh, Jake, this is Josephine Malone. I’m calling because I’d very much like the opportunity to apologize for my behavior and the things I said to you this morning. Also, I’d like the opportunity to discuss, well…other, erm…things. You’ve every right to be angry at me for I’ve behaved very badly. But I’d be most grateful if you gave me the chance to, um…rectify matters.” I paused, not knowing how to end it then I decided on, “I hope to hear from you. Do take care.”

I disconnected, put the phone back in my purse and again took up my glass. I sipped at my drink until I finished it, thinking I really wished I’d have the opportunity to talk to the redhead about her choice in hair color. If she was dead set on red, a deep auburn would suit her much better.

There was also a blonde who would benefit from a keratin treatment. Her hair was lovely but there was a good deal of it, it was quite long and it was clear she did her own blowout. This was not clear because it was done poorly, just that it wasn’t as sleek as she was likely going for. With that amount of hair, it had to take her ages to do it. And the way she used it with her dancing, straightened and softened, it would make quite a splash and perhaps up her—from what I could tell protruding from her G-string—still rather plentiful tips.

She might drive a Corvette and it was clear she was far from the least talented dancer but everyone enjoyed having more money.

With a sigh, I put my finished glass to the bar, waited until I caught the bartender’s eyes and gave him a grateful smile.

He returned it, tipping up his chin. I dug in my purse, got my wallet and slid a five-dollar bill under my glass then slid from my stool and made my way out of the club.

Once outside, the man by the door invited me to “have a good evening.”

I returned the sentiment then promptly tripped over my pumps when I saw Jake Spear resting lean jeans-clad hips against my driver’s side door, his black leather jacket covered arms crossed on the wide wall of his white shirt covered chest.

When I tripped, he looked to his feet and I lost his face in the shadows. Luckily, by that time, I’d righted myself without hitting the pavement but I did this mentally cursing my infernal clumsiness.

I moved to him with no further incident (thankfully) and stopped three feet away.

When he lifted his impassive eyes to me, I greeted, “Hello, Jake.”

“She finally uses my name,” he muttered in return.

I pressed my lips tight, uncertain what to make of this.

“Got your message, babe,” he said.

Well, that didn’t take long.

“Good,” I replied quietly.

“Hauled your ass to a titty bar to see me,” he noted.

“Uh…yes,” I agreed to the obvious seeing as we were both standing outside said titty bar.

“Classed up the joint in there, Josie,” he went on to remark and I blinked.

“You saw me?”

“Got cameras everywhere, inside and out,” he stated, jerking his head toward the building.

“Of course. Yes. I noticed the ones outside. It’s quite good you have an eye to the security and safety for your establishment.”

His lips twitched before he returned, “Yeah, good for my establishment when drunk, horny assholes wanna do shit that makes them even bigger assholes, someone sees it, it stops before it starts.”

I found his comment intriguing and thus observed, “You seem not to have a great deal of respect for your clientele.”

“Most of them pay for their drinks, give the girls bills to pay for their show, got no problem with them. It’s the drunk, horny assholes who suck.”

I would imagine this was true.

“Of course,” I murmured.

He said nothing, just held my eyes.

I found this uncomfortable and didn’t know how to begin to say all the things I needed to say.

Therefore, unfortunately, I decided to stall.

“Well, Jake, I don’t know if you have advisors that see to this kind of thing, I would guess you do as your club is quite refined, but I’d have a word with them, whoever they are. The redhead is very attractive but with her skin tone, a darker auburn would suit her far better. That said, she’d make a striking brunette.”

He stopped holding my eyes and started staring at me. There was a nuance of difference but I could sense that difference. Most definitely.

“And,” I sallied forth when he made no reply, “the blonde could use a keratin treatment. Her hair is remarkable but she’d find it much more manageable on a day to day basis and with her, well…moves, I believe she’d also find it quite beneficial with her…um, work.”

He again said nothing, simply kept staring at me.

I, for some unhinged reason, kept chattering.

“It was well-chosen, the platform pumps for your waitresses. Platforms elongate the legs beautifully but they’re also very comfortable. Further, they’re attractive.”

When I finished this inane statement, he burst out laughing, the deep richness of it ringing through the cool night air.

I decided again to press my lips together as this would stop me from speaking.

When he’d stopped laughing but was still smiling, he caught my eyes again and whispered, “Lydie was right. Adorable.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothin’, babe,” he murmured but his voice was stronger when he said, “You got something to say?”

Well, here it was. I could delay no more and not only couldn’t I, I shouldn’t as I was making a fool of myself.

“This morning I behaved badly—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted me, his voice gentle. “You mentioned that shit on the phone, Josie. Heard it. Got it. We can move on from that.”

That was very kind.

I nodded while taking in a deep breath.

Then I said, “I’d like for you to come to Lavender House for dinner tomorrow night.”

His head tipped to the side and he asked, “Yeah?”

“Yes, I think…” I hesitated then admitted, “Actually, I don’t know what I think except for the fact that you’re correct. Gran clearly very much wanted us to get to know each other and, well…we should do that.”

“Yeah,” he said again and it was gentle again. “We should.”

Now was the hard part.

“I, well…I’m just uncertain how she wanted us to get to know each other and we should probably discuss that. But I…well, that is to say I believe—”

“Babe,” he yet again interrupted and it was still gentle, but this time more so, “This is not that. You’re pretty, really fuckin’ pretty, and you got a lot goin’ on and all of it’s real good. But you’re not my thing.”

I was confused.

“Your thing?”

“My type,” he explained. “I get off on big hair and big…” he hesitated, his lips again quirking before he continued, “other stuff and don’t mind my women showin’ skin. You’re a seriously good thing. You’re just not my thing.”

I understood what he meant and three seconds ago, if I was told I’d be given this knowledge, I would have guessed that I would find it a relief.

Having it, I didn’t feel relief. I felt a number of things but none of those things were relief. They were far from it. They included my brain again feeling fevered and my skin again prickling, all over, like jolts of electricity were dancing across the entirety of it. I wanted to claw at it, rip it off and this made all of it worse because I didn’t know why.

To hide this reaction, I turned my head away and looked down at the pavement at my side.

When I did, I felt him move, felt his body come close to mine and heard his voice whisper, “Shit, babe.” A pause then, “Fuckin’ shit.”

After he said that, I felt his big, warm hand curl at the side of my neck and I looked up at him.

When I did, he said softly, “I didn’t think I’d be your thing either.”

I told the truth. “You’re not.” After I did that, I lied (or it felt like I lied, but I actually didn’t know what I was thinking), “I think you’ve mistaken my reaction to your pronouncement.”

His lips yet again quirked and his fingers at my neck squeezed and he asked, “And what’s your reaction to my pronouncement?”

“I don’t understand what Gran wanted for you and me.”

“Maybe she wanted us to be friends?” he inquired, but even doing it, it was an answer. “Maybe she wanted to know you got someone who cares, who’ll look out for you, listen to you, take your back when you need it and give a shit not just when you need it but all the time?”

There it was.

The answer to my questions.

But I still didn’t understand.

“Yes,” I whispered. “She’d want that for me.” My eyes strayed to his shoulder and I murmured, “But that makes no sense. She knows I have Henry.”

“A boss is a boss,” he declared, giving me a hint of what Gran had shared with him and that was that he knew precisely who Henry was. I looked back to him when he kept talking. “Always, Josie. He can give a shit but bottom line, it comes down to it, whatever that it might be or even if it never happens, he’s just a boss.”

I, of course, knew Henry was my employer. There were times when knowing this was all he’d ever really be was painful.

But after two decades and then some together, that had grown.

Hadn’t it?

“Henry is—” I started.

“Not here,” he interrupted me to say. “He gave a shit, Josie, no way in fuck, don’t give a shit what excuses you might have for the guy, would he be anywhere but sittin’ at your side while you cried behind your shades, starin’ at your grandmother’s casket.”

Well, there was the answer to that.

He saw me crying at the funeral.

Jake wasn’t done.

“And, he was here, no way you’d have dinner alone last night, open to some fuckwad to make a pass and upset you. That’s the bottom line, babe. Think about it.”

I stared into his eyes and thought about it.

Henry wanted to come, declared he was going to come, but I told him that he had to do the shoot. He was contracted. It was set up. And a location shoot for a magazine wasn’t something you walked away from. A number of people were involved and quite a bit of money.

Further, Henry never did things like that. Even when he had the flu that one time when we were in Alaska, shooting a bathing suit spread in the snow, he’d zipped up his parka and done the shoot. He had a reputation for not only his immense talent but his dependability, his easy-going ways and his bent toward no muss, no fuss.

But Jake was correct. The bottom line was, when I told him not to come with me and do the job, he’d agreed.

“Josie,” Jake called and I focused on him again. When I did, his fingers gave me another squeeze and he asked, “You have dinner tonight?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Honey, you gotta eat.”

It took me a moment to respond. This was because four people in my life called me honey. My father, when he was in a good mood or he’d done something horrible and was trying to make amends. Gran. Henry.

And now Jake.

And Jake’s, like Gran’s and Henry’s, felt nice.

I let myself feel that before I assured him, “I went to the grocery store today. I’ll have some fruit and cheese when I get home.”

“Right. And tomorrow night”—he grinned—“you promise you aren’t gonna disappear, I’ll show. But I gotta say, Ethan’s gonna be with me. Not givin’ Amber another hour to do fucked up shit with her moron of a boyfriend and not givin’ her another wad of cake to blow on mascara.”

This was not good news.

Not that he’d agreed to come. I was actually looking forward to that in a strange way I didn’t quite comprehend.

No. Because I didn’t like children. I found them loud and attention-seeking. They interrupted and, these days, parents didn’t admonish them for this rudeness. They broke things. They spilled things. They whined. They refused to eat food they hadn’t even tried, declaring erroneously they didn’t like it when they could have no idea if they did or didn’t.

And when they ate, they often did it with their mouths open, which was repulsive.

Obviously, I shared none of this with Jake Spear.

“Is there anything he, or you, don’t like to eat?” I asked instead.

“Ethan helped Lydie cook a bunch a’ shit in that kitchen. She taught him to dig his food however that comes. I already learned that so whatever you make, we’ll eat.”

I highly doubted that, at least about Ethan.

I didn’t share that either.

“All right,” I replied.

“We’ll be there at six.”

Six.

Very early.

Wonderful.

Well, I’d have to work with that seeing as his son probably had to be at school early the next day or do homework or take care of the class gerbil or something so they couldn’t be out late.

“Fine,” I agreed.

“Okay,” he murmured, again grinning.

Then he said nothing.

I didn’t either.

When this stretched for some time, and the fact that his warm hand was still wrapped around my neck became uncomfortable mostly because it didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest, I broke our silence.

“Are we done?”

“Not by a long shot,” he answered. I drew in a deep breath at his reply and he finished, “But we are for now.”

“Well then…goodnight, Jake.”

“Right,” he muttered and I watched, my eyes widening in surprise as he leaned in and whispered against the skin of my forehead, “’Night, Josie.”

I felt his lips brush there and that was also not uncomfortable. Not in the slightest. In fact, it felt so not uncomfortable as to make my skin again prickle but this time in a different way.

He pulled back, gave me a squeeze at the neck and a smile before he slid away.

I watched him move for a second before I forced myself to stop watching him move.

I did this by getting in my car, starting it up and not looking back as I drove away.