Текст книги "The Will"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

When I was finished speaking, Amber was no longer glaring, there was no humor coming from the two male Spears and the air in the room felt heavy.

I knew why.

It was because they knew about me. About Gran. About my grandfather and my father. And about how my father didn’t care about me.

Not in any way.

No way at all.

My mind was torn from this alarming understanding when Amber spoke and she did it quietly.

“That’s what Lydie would say. She wouldn’t say it like that, using words like ‘paragon of virtue,’ but that’s probably what she’d say.”

“As my grandmother was the wisest person I know,” I replied, “then perhaps you should listen. Now, do you want some meatloaf?” I asked and finished, “Or, is Noah a vegetarian and you fear you’ll appear unattractive in some way if you are not as he is?”

“I heard it’s a good way to lose weight,” she shared.

“Well, it isn’t,” I returned. “It’s a practice that people who do it have a belief in. Although that does not factor, if your belief is to do it just to lose weight considering there’s no need for you to concern yourself with losing weight. You have a fabulous figure. I can’t imagine why you’d try to change it.”

“That’s what I said,” Ethan piped in.

“You’re eight and my brother,” Amber returned, eyes narrowed on her brother.

“Well, I’m not eight or your brother and I’ve worked in haute couture for twenty-three years,” I reminded her and her gaze came to me. “And trust me, you have a fabulous figure. You’ve made two mentions of losing weight and you’ve barely been here an hour. Cease doing that. It’s ridiculous. And if someone tells you differently, simply inform them of that ridiculousness.”

She again blinked at me.

Ethan burst out laughing.

“Now,” I spoke through his laughter, “after dinner, are we taking your photo for Jean-Michel or are we not?”

“Totally,” she whispered, not in wonder this time. I didn’t know what made her whisper and it mattered not to me.

“Excellent. You’ll need to wash your face,” I instructed. “He’ll need a clean palette.”

“I can do that,” she agreed.

“Fine,” I returned and then looked to the table and asked, “Is anyone wishing seconds?”

“Meatloaf!” Ethan said, doing this for some reason over-loudly.

And I found that coming from Ethan, who was a very amusing and sweet boy, it was not annoying in the slightest.

“Give me your plate,” I ordered.

He handed me his plate.

I gave him meatloaf.

Then I returned my attention to my plate but after partaking of some carrots, I felt something unusual so I lifted my eyes.

And my stomach dipped in that way again when I saw Jake watching me. His face was soft and his eyes, now gray in the lights of the kitchen, held something in them I couldn’t decipher.

Before I could put my finger on it, his mouth slowly, lazily lifted in a devastating smile that did devastating things to my breathing pattern before he turned to his daughter and said, “Pass the rolls, babe.”

I found that I really wished to know what was behind that look. What he was thinking and maybe more, what he was feeling.

And I found that it caused an inexplicable pain that I would never know because I would never ask and it was likely he’d never tell me.

In order to get past the pain, I decided to finish eating so I could serve dessert because the meatloaf (a recipe I looked up on the Internet seeing as I’d never made a meal for a family that included young children so I’d branched out) was quite good.

But my pavlovas were divine.

* * * * *

It was after meatloaf and after pavlova.

The children were at the kitchen table doing homework and I was doing the dishes with Jake.

I found it intriguing that Jake did dishes. I also found it felt nice doing dishes with Jake. Then again, when I’d cook for Henry, he also helped me do the dishes and I liked that too.

“Meal was superb, babe. That thing at the end, fuckin’ hell,” Jake murmured while drying a plate.

“I’m pleased you enjoyed it,” I replied, feeling exactly as I told him, pleased (very) and I handed him another wet plate when he set the one he’d finished on the stack he was making.

“Told Lydie, will tell you, need a dishwasher,” he declared.

“Gran always said she had two. Her hands.”

“Yeah, that’s what she always said,” he replied quietly, his deep voice amused but I could hear the melancholy.

I decided not to reply because his tone made me feel the same, sans the amused part.

“You have an okay day?” he asked.

I had not.

“No,” I answered.

“No?” he asked on a prompt and I handed him another plate as I looked at him.

“I visited Eliza Weaver this morning.”

“Who?”

“Eliza Weaver, Arnold Weaver’s wife.”

“The attorney?”

I nodded and his brows drew together.

“Somethin’ wrong with the will?”

I shook my head and turned my attention to the silverware at the bottom of the sink. “The Weavers are family friends. Eliza’s ill.” I paused, thinking of her in the hospital bed Mr. Weaver had set up in their dining room, and finished. “Gravely ill.”

“Jesus, babe, sorry,” he whispered.

“I…” I looked at him and handed him some rinsed forks. “It was unpleasant seeing her that way. She used to be quite vivacious.” I looked back down to the sink and searched for more cutlery. “And Mr. Weaver adores her. He always has. He’s quite obvious about it, which I always thought was charming. He’s suffering.”

“Sucks, Josie,” Jake murmured.

“Yes,” I agreed and handed him more clean silverware without looking at him. “I spoke with Mr. Weaver. He’s taken a leave of absence from work but he’s a partner and this is difficult too. I talked him into allowing me to come over in the mornings for a few hours while I’m in Magdalene. He says Mrs. Weaver is tired of most of her company being nurses and her friends have to work during the day, and while I’m here, I don’t. So I’m going to go sit with her while he spends a few hours in the office.”

Jake said nothing.

Jake also didn’t take the dripping silverware I was offering him so I looked up to my side to find him staring down at me, unmoving.

“Is something the matter?” I asked.

He gave his head a slight shake and took the silverware, saying, “Nice thing for you to do, honey.”

I shrugged and turned my attention back to the sudsy water. “They liked Gran.”

“They also obviously like you.”

They did and I liked that. I just didn’t like it that they were suffering this way.

I didn’t reply.

“So, how long you gonna be in Magdalene?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

And I didn’t.

I had not called one auction house. I had not called a real estate agent. I had not started sorting through Gran’s things.

What I’d done that day, after deciding the menu, going into town, getting the food and visiting the Weavers was tug on my least nice top and Gran’s wellies and go work in her garden to prepare it to be at rest for the winter. I didn’t know who planted it, as Gran couldn’t actually work out there anymore, and there was far less in it than when she tended it in earnest, but it had been worked that summer.

I’d also made a note that I needed to go to the mall in order to acquire clothing that would be more suitable to tasks such as these.

And then I’d been troubled that I made that mental note because making it made no sense.

I wasn’t going to be gardening in my future.

So why would I buy clothes to do such a thing?

“How are you leaning?” Jake asked as I unplugged the sink in order to set the pans to soaking.

“I need to be in Rome,” I told him.

“When?”

When indeed?

Henry had flown there today so tomorrow would be the best-case scenario.

However, that was impossible.

And strangely, the idea of packing and boarding yet another plane, spending hours imprisoned on it, getting out and heading to yet another hotel, even if that hotel was in the fabulousness of all that was Rome, wasn’t all that appealing.

“I need to be in Paris,” I went on, speaking to myself and not realizing I wasn’t making any sense.

“What?” Jake asked.

“Or, I’m thinking, I should join Henry in Sydney.”

The job in Sydney wasn’t for a month.

But I wasn’t thinking about Sydney, even though I adored Sydney.

No, I was thinking more that I should join him when he was back in LA for a break.

And that break was three months away.

“Josie…what?”

I turned fully to him and looked up into his eyes.

“Boston Stone came here yesterday,” I announced.

His presence did that swelling and heating thing again even as his eyes narrowed and he whispered in a peculiar (but somewhat alarming) sinister tone, “He did what?”

“He wishes to purchase Lavender House,” I shared.

“Yeah.” I heard Ethan call from the table. “He wishes it but Lydie told him to go jump in the Atlantic.”

“She didn’t say that,” Amber contradicted with big sister superiority. “She told him over her dead body.”

I felt my stomach twist as the air again went heavy and Ethan’s eyes sliced to his sister.

“Jeez, Amber, be more stupid, why don’t you?” he snapped, but his voice held a small tremble.

He didn’t need to tell her she was stupid. She was looking at me and her face was pale.

“I’m sorry, Josie,” she said softly.

Wonderful.

Now the children were calling me Josie.

“It’s quite all right,” I said stiffly and turned back to the pots and pans.

I turned on the tap to fill the potato pan with hot water but Jake’s hand came out right after mine and turned it off.

I looked up at him again.

“What did you say to Stone?” he asked.

“I told him I wasn’t prepared to discuss it with him, seeing as he showed up unannounced five days after I lost my grandmother.”

“And are you gonna get prepared to discuss it with him?” he asked and I shook my head.

“No.”

I said it and I was surprised when I did because I hadn’t made that decision until right then.

Even so, I meant it.

“So you’re keeping the house?” Jake asked.

“Heck yeah,” Ethan answered for me and I looked over my shoulder at him. “Lydie said the only person who loves Lavender House more than her is Josie and she’d never let it out of the family.”

At his words, I put a wet hand to the edge of the sink and drew in breath, my mind blanking.

“Babe?” I heard Jake call but I said nothing. Then I felt a hand warm on the side of my neck and saw Jake’s chest in my vision as I heard, “Josie? You okay?”

I tipped my eyes up to him.

“The only person who loves Lavender House more than Gran is me and I’d never let it out of the family,” I whispered. “So yes, to answer your question, I’m keeping the house.”

This was, again, a decision I made right then.

And it was another decision I meant to keep.

I just had no idea how.

Or why.

Lavender House did not fit my life. I couldn’t leave a huge house unattended while I traveled the globe.

I also couldn’t let it go.

Not ever.

Not ever.

Once I died, it would understandably go “out of the family” seeing as I had no children and at my age, never would.

But it would remain in the family until that happened.

“Cool!” Ethan cried and I started, focusing again on Jake who was staring down at me intently, his hand still on my neck. “Totally knew it,” Ethan went on. “This means we get to keep comin’ over but now Josie’ll cook for us.”

“Yeah,” Amber replied with less enthusiasm, then again, it would be difficult to have more than Ethan.

“Babe,” Jake called and since I was already looking at him, I nodded to indicate I was focused on him. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“No,” I for some reason shared.

He studied me.

Then he said, very quietly this time, “We’ll talk. Tomorrow. Without the kids.”

Again, for reasons unknown to me, I nodded my agreement.

His hand gave me a squeeze. “Go pour yourself more wine and relax. I’ll finish the pans.”

“I can finish the pans.”

“Babe.” Another squeeze, this one deeper as his face dipped close and his voice dipped low and serious. “What did I say?”

I found this surprising. It was inappropriately overbearing and dictatorial.

It was more surprising when I found myself nodding, slipping out from in front of him and doing what he inappropriately dictatorially told me to do.

This meant I spent the next fifteen minutes before we all retired to the family room to watch TV sipping wine at the kitchen table. But only after I went to go get my phone so I could check Ethan’s answers to his multiplication homework (I was hopeless at math) on the calculator.

He got one wrong out of thirty.

Which meant he was also bright as well as amusing and quite sweet.

And I felt this to be the utter truth even when I asked him to do the incorrect problem again and he counted it out on his fingers with his lips moving.

And I felt this because, I decided, that was adorable too.

* * * * *

It was the end of the evening. We were standing outside close to Jake’s truck and I was addressing Amber.

“I’ll inform your father when Jean-Michel gets back to me,” I told her as she’d cleaned her face with my face wash and I’d taken her photo. Though I wouldn’t text it to Jean-Michel until the next day as it was late, he was in New York and that would be rude.

“Right,” she mumbled.

“It was lovely meeting you,” I went on.

“Same,” she muttered, lifted a hand in an awkward wave and moved to the truck.

She barely started her short journey before Ethan darted forward and gave my waist another hug.

This time, I dropped a hand to his shoulder and gave it a squeeze before he pulled away.

“Super cool to meet you and the food was fah-ree-king awesome!” he declared.

“I’m glad you thought so and it was lovely to meet you as well,” I replied.

He gave me a big smile, a wide wave and hastened to the truck.

Jake filled his place and when he did, he declared, “It was a good night.”

It actually was and it appeared it was so for all of us.

I nodded.

“Tomorrow, nine o’clock. Meet me at The Shack.”

I stared at him, aghast.

I was aghast because The Shack was, well…a shack. It was on the wharf and although I’d heard of it and knew Gran had been there on occasion, I’d also seen it and it was, well…ghastly.

“The Shack?” I asked and he smiled.

“The Shack, slick,” he stated strangely for I couldn’t comprehend why he added the world “slick.” “Nine,” he finished.

“I, uh…perhaps I can make you breakfast,” I suggested.

“You could, but if you did then I wouldn’t get to introduce you to their seafood omelets that are so good they’ll knock you on your ass. And I want you focused on tellin’ me all the shit that’s goin’ on behind those pretty blues and not on cookin’ breakfast.”

Pretty blues?

Was he referring to my eyes?

Just the thought made my stomach again pitch.

“So nine. The Shack,” he ordered.

I sighed before I agreed, “All right.”

He gave me another smile, leaned in and gave me another brush of his lips on my cheek and then he moved back nary an inch before he whispered, “Thanks for a good night.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Even in Lavender House’s dim outside lights, I could see his eyes light with amusement before he shook his head and moved away, saying, “Later, babe.”

“Uh…erm…later,” I called.

I watched him swing up into his truck.

I waved back when Ethan waved at me from the backseat.

I only moved to the house when the truck started growling along the drive.

Once inside, the door closed and locked behind me, it wasn’t until I hit the kitchen to turn off the lights that I felt it.

The house felt strange.

As in, strangely empty.

It had never felt that way. It always felt the opposite, even with only Gran and me.

Vibrant.

Alive.

Now it felt quiet.

Lonely.

“Or maybe that’s just how you feel, buttercup.”

The words were said by me and not only the fact that I’d utter them, but the words I uttered were so startling, and troubling, I instantly shoved them out of my head and moved to the light switch.

But I reversed directions and instead of turning out the lights, I went to the stoppered bottle of wine and poured myself the last of it.

Carrying it with me, only then did I turn out the lights.

And I headed to the light room.

Chapter Six

Fierce

The house mostly dark and totally quiet, a bottle of beer in one hand, Jake reached his other hand into the drawer he’d unlocked in his desk.

He pulled out the tall stack of envelopes tied in a blue satin ribbon the color of Josie’s eyes.

He drew in breath, set the stack on the desk and tugged on the end of the ribbon until it slid apart. Then he ran the tip of his index finger down the stack until he found it.

His favorite one even if it was the saddest.

The envelope was pink.

Setting the beer aside, he turned the stack on top of the pink envelope over and nabbed it.

Then he shifted up the stack and slid out the blue one.

He grabbed his beer and moved to his chair at the window. The standing lamp was already on so he sat in the chair, put the beer on the table beside him and pulled out the often handled letters, carefully opening them.

He grabbed his beer again, sat back and lifted the letters, the blue one on top, his eyes moving over the small, tidy, yet somehow delicate and definitely feminine writing.

Dearest Gran,

We just got off the phone and I’m concerned about you. I know that sounds strange since our phone call was about how you were concerned about me.

Please don’t be. Please?

I’m happy, Gran. I truly am. Honestly.

When we were talking earlier, I wanted to say this but I didn’t know how to say it. Perhaps I couldn’t get my mouth to say the words because I didn’t want to admit it out loud or say it to you and upset you more.

But you should know—I’m fine with being alone. I want it to be that way. Honestly, I do.

You know I’m not alone most of the time regardless. But I do think you know what I mean.

My first memory is him and her in the kitchen, she was on the floor, you know how it was. I told you. And there were more memories after that that were even less pleasant. You know of those too.

And yes, the truth is, this affected me. Yes, it made me shy away from connections. And I know you don’t think this is healthy, but truly, it’s fine.

There are people who need people, sometimes a great many people. And I understand that what happened made me not that kind of person. But it means the connections I make are actually meaningful, not a collection of souls in order not to feel lonely. I don’t need that for I never feel lonely.

If I were to have a man, he would need to be very gentle and understanding, patient and kind, thoughtful, softhearted, and yes, maybe dashing and refined, definitely intelligent and successful.

All of these things and the last mostly because I would wish him to have his own diversions for I wouldn’t wish him to need to spend too much time with me. This is because I like being alone. I like my own company.

This isn’t to say I didn’t sometimes long for a gentle touch, a man’s eyes falling on me appreciatively, building a shared history where we might one day simply gaze at each other, understand and smile.

But I long ago gave up these yearnings. I meet many men and this man, this man that I would need to share my life with, he doesn’t exist, Gran. I’ve come to understand that and it’s settled in me. I’ve built a life I enjoy, one that keeps me busy, and I’m happy with that.

Truly.

I find it remarkable, after all that you endured, that you’d still believe in love. In romance. In all that heady possibility. And I adore it that you want that for me.

What I wish you to understand in your heart is that, although it feels lovely you wish for me to have all kinds of beauty, I’m perfectly happy without it.

I have your love and that’s all I need.

And you have my love too.

Forever and completely.

Yours,

Josie

Jake took a sip from his beer, set it aside and brought the pink paper to the front.

He tagged his beer and tipped his eyes down to the untidy, scrolled girlish letters.

Granny!

Oh my goodness! You would not believe!

Alicia heard it from Tiffany so she told me and I didn’t believe her and then he came up to me at lunch!

Andy Collins!

It was amazing. He sat and talked with me all during lunch. And he said he’d see me there tomorrow!

Now, you know, I’m not going to settle for anything but the best . My man is going to be strong and tall and handsome and smart and protective and fierce , so very FIERCE , and wonderful and he’s going to adore me. Then he’s going to let me talk him into moving to Maine and living at Lavender House and having three babies (two girls, one boy, the boy the oldest, of course, so he can look after his sisters) and I’m going to garden and tend the lavender and cook at the Aga and he’s going to be, I don’t know, a fisherman or whatever.

I’m not sure Andy’s up to all that, although he’s strong and tall (he’s on the football team!) and very cute.

I wish I could show you his picture.

Of course, Dad says I can’t date until I’m seventeen which is bizarre and mean because most of my friends started dating at fifteen (just not car dates) and I’m already sixteen (and have my own driver’s license, for goodness sakes!) and I’ve already had to say no to two boys! It was a disaster! I hated it! And everyone thinks I’m a big priss, which is terrible !

But neither of them were Andy, the cutest boy in school!

I’ll write again tomorrow and let you know if he sits with me at lunch.

I wish you were talking to Dad. Maybe you could talk him into not only letting me come to Lavender House this summer but also allowing me to go out on a date with Andy (if he asks and just in case you didn’t get it, I hope he asks !!!!!!!!!).

OK. Well, I should go. I have homework to do (Algebra. Blech. Mr. Powell is such a bore !). I just wanted you to know that. Now, I have to go steal a couple of stamps from Dad’s desk. One for this and one for the letter I hope to write you tomorrow that tells you Andy sat with me again.

I love you. I hope you’re doing good. I miss you.

Start to talk to Dad again. Please? I missed Lavender House last summer.

But mostly, I missed you.

All my love, forever and completely,

Josie

Jake set the letters aside and looked out the window at the sea knowing that Andy sat with her again the next day.

And he knew Andy did more.

He beat her, lamb.

He closed his eyes as Lydie’s words hit his brain but that didn’t stop them from coming.

She wanted to go out with that boy so badly, she snuck out. She did it for over a year. When she got home one night, he’d found out and he beat her, lamb. Her father beat her so badly, she was in the hospital for a week.

Jake opened his eyes and took another drag from the bottle.

He beat her, lamb.

He drew in breath.

Beat her so badly, she was in the hospital for a week.

He stared out the window, not seeing anything.

My man is going to be strong and tall and handsome and smart and protective and fierce , so very FIERCE , and wonderful and he’s going to adore me.

That he could do.

He would need to be very gentle and understanding, patient and kind, thoughtful, softhearted, and yes, maybe dashing and refined, definitely intelligent and successful.

That he couldn’t.

Jake took another pull from his beer.

He beat her, lamb.

He felt his jaw get tight even as his fingers gripped the beer hard to stop himself from throwing it. If he did, he’d have to clean that shit up and it might wake the kids.

Instead, he put the letters back in their envelopes, got up and took his beer with him as he moved back to the desk. He put Josie’s letters that Lydie had given him back together and tied them with the ribbon.

Then he opened the drawer and was about to toss the pile in when he saw it at the bottom.

He set the letters on top of the desk, reached into the drawer and pulled out the frame.

It was of Josie.

She was on a beach. Her skin was tan. The breeze blowing so much at her long blonde hair, she had her hand lifted in it, pulling it away and holding it at her crown, but tendrils were captured by the lens arrested in flying around her face. Her other hand was resting on her hip. She was standing, smiling into the distance, a scarf blowing back from her neck, sunglasses on her eyes, her sundress plastered against her tall, slim but curvy body.

That shit for brains photographer boss of hers took that picture, gave it to Lydie and Lydie had given it to Jake.

It looked like a shot from the ‘50’s of some Italian bombshell. Italian because Josie looked sophisticated. Exotic. Glamorous. Classy. So much of all those, she couldn’t be American but something foreign, unknown, unobtainable.

Impossible.

So I’m going to go sit with her while he spends a few hours in the office.

Jake didn’t take his eyes from the picture even as he belted back more beer.

And trust me , you have a fabulous figure. You’ve made two mentions of losing weight and you’ve barely been here an hour. Cease doing that. It’s ridiculous. And if someone tells you differently, simply inform them of that ridiculousness.

He smiled at the picture.

He beat her, lamb.

His smile died.

Fuck, that shit for brains photographer boss of hers had all that for fucking years.

Years.

And she still sat beside her grandmother’s casket alone.

So yes, to answer your question, I’m keeping the house.

She was keeping the house.

That meant they might get to keep her.

Jake just needed to see to making that happen.

He put the picture back in the drawer and returned the letters there. He closed it. He locked it. He slugged back the last of his beer, turned out the lights, went to his bedroom, undressed and hit the sack.

It was late and he needed some sleep.

Because tomorrow morning, for breakfast, he was meeting Josie.

Chapter Seven

Winded

My high-heeled boots thudded on the boardwalk as the heavy breeze blew my Alexander McQueen scarf behind me.

I spied Jake at the window to The Shack through my sunglasses that I was wearing even though the day was cold, gray and threatening rain.

I was lamenting my choice of the McQueen scarf. It was cream with hot pink skulls on it (one that was of his signature design) but it wasn’t exactly warm.

Still, it was fabulous and fabulous required sacrifice. I knew that from years of practicing fabulous.

Or trying to.

As if he sensed my approach, Jake turned, his non-sunglassed eyes did an obvious head to toe and his unfortunately attractive lips spread into a wide smile that exposed equally unfortunately attractive teeth.

He moved my way as I got close and I heard him call to the window, “Just yell when they’re done, Tom.”

“You got it!” was called back by the invisible Tom.

I stopped where Jake stopped, at the end of The Shack where there was a tall table with a variety of things on it.

“Good morning, Jake,” I greeted.

“Mornin’, Slick,” he greeted back, still smiling big.

But I blinked.

Slick.

I finally understood his use of the word “slick.”

Good God.

He’d given me a nickname.

And it was Slick!

I opened my mouth to protest this but he stuck a hand toward me and I saw he had two white paper cups.

“Coffee,” he pointed out the obvious.

Forced by politeness to express gratitude rather than express aversion to my nickname, I took it and said, “Thank you.”

“Shit’s here to put in it,” he motioned to the table. He then put his coffee on it and pulled off the white lid.

I eyed my selections and noted with no small amount of horror that they had powered creamer and no sweetener.

“Thought Fellini was dead,” Jake noted bizarrely, pouring a long stream of sugar from a silver-topped glass container into his coffee.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

He kept pouring for a bit then put the sugar down and turned to me. “Babe, you look like you’re walkin’ on the set of a Fellini movie.”

I blinked at him again before I asked, “You’ve seen a Fellini film?”

And he smiled big again. “No, but that doesn’t mean you don’t look like a broad from one of those old art house movies where the babes are all sex kitten bombshells dressed real good, wearing sunglasses with scarves flyin’ all over the place.”

I stared at him thinking this might be a compliment.

A very nice one.

Or, a very nice one Jake Spear style.

“Scarves, I’ll add, that don’t do shit when it’s fifty degrees but the wind chill makes it feel like forty,” he went on.

I kept staring at him.

“Josie? You awake?” he asked when this went on for some time.

“You use too much sugar in your coffee,” I blurted.

“Yeah,” he said, going back to his coffee that he was now stirring. “You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”

I found that interesting.

He looked at me, down to the table then at me again and asked, “You gonna set up your coffee?”

I hid my distaste as I looked at what was on offer to “set up my coffee” then I looked back at him and shook my head.

I usually took a splash of skim milk and a sweetener.

That morning, I’d drink it black.

“Right, let’s sit down,” Jake said and tossed his stirrer in the (filthy and encrusted with a variety of things, not all of them coffee) little white bin provided on the table.

He then started moving to the mélange of unappealing white plastic chairs with their equally unappealing white steel (liberally dusted with rust) tables that likely saw cleaning only through the salty air and sea breeze.

“Sit down?” I asked Jake’s back, following him. “Outside?”

He selected a table (there was a wide selection seeing as no one was there) and turned to me. “You got a problem with outside?”

“Not normally. Al fresco dining is usually quite lovely. But not when the wind chill factor is forty.”

“Al fresco dining,” he repeated.

“Dining outside,” I explained and this got another smile.

“Know what it is, Slick,” he stated. I opened my mouth to share how I felt about this nickname but he returned to his earlier subject before I could say a word. “You need a decent scarf.”

“This is a decent scarf,” I retorted. “It’s Alexander McQueen.”

“Maybe so but I’m not sure Alexander whoever’s been to Maine.”

I wasn’t either. Alas, he nor his genius was with us any longer so if he hadn’t, that would now be impossible.

This conversation was ridiculous and he wasn’t moving so I decided to seat myself. As I did, I longed for some antiseptic wipes (about a hundred of them, for the chair and the table). Since I didn’t have any, I settled in a chair and sipped the coffee.

After I did that, I stared at the cup mostly because I was surprised that it was robust and flavorful.

“Tom doesn’t fuck around with coffee,” Jake murmured and I turned my eyes to him.