“All done,” Quincy said, backing away, hands raised. “You’re good as new.”
The drama lured Joe off the couch. He hovered nearby, watching Janelle examine her bandaged finger. He lowered his gaze to the knife on the counter and its blood-splotched blade.
“That looks sharp,” he said, picking up the knife and touching the pad of his index finger against its tip. “You need to be more careful.”
He stared at Janelle and Quincy, as if seeking assurances that they would be. Beads of liquid clung to his bottom lip—remnants of his first cocktail. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and, knife still in his grip, licked his lips.
CHAPTER 13
Jeff retrieves me a half-hour later, summoned by Jonah Thompson, who found his number on my cell phone, which I handed to him when he asked me the name of an emergency contact person, shortly after I puked all over his shoes. I’m in the lobby ladies room when he arrives, hunched over a toilet even though my stomach feels as squeezed dry as an empty water bottle. It’s up to one of Jonah’s co-workers to fetch me from the stall. A tiny bird of a reporter named Emily who nervously calls to me from just inside the door, like I’m someone contagious, someone to be feared.
Back at the apartment, Jeff puts me to bed in spite of protests that I’m feeling much better. Apparently, I’m not, for I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I sleep fitfully for the rest of the afternoon, only vaguely aware of either Jeff or Sam popping into the bedroom to check on me. By evening, I’m wide awake and famished. Jeff brings in a tray of food fit for an invalid—chicken noodle soup, toast, and ginger ale.
“It’s not the flu, you know,” I tell him.
“You don’t know that for sure,” Jeff says. “It sounds like you were pretty sick.”
From a combination of lack of sleep and Wild Turkey and so many Xanax. And Him, of course. Seeing that picture of Him.
“It must have been something I ate,” I say. “I’m much better now. Honest. I’m fine.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that your mother called.”
I groan. I can’t help it.
“She said the neighbors are asking why you’re on the front page of the newspapers,” Jeff continues.
”One newspaper,” I say.
“She wants to know what to tell them.”
“Of course she does.”
Jeff snags a triangle of toast, takes a bite, puts it back on my tray. While chewing, he says, “It wouldn’t hurt to call her back.”
“And have her berate me for not being perfect?” I say. “I think I’ll pass.”
“She’s concerned about you, hon. It’s been an eventful few days. Lisa’s suicide. Being in that newspaper. Sam and I are worried about how you’re dealing with it all.”
“Does this mean the two of you actually had a conversation?”
“We did,” Jeff says.
“And it was civil?”
“Abundantly.”
“Color me surprised. What did the two of you talk about?”
Jeff reaches again for the toast but I swat his hand away. He instead kicks off his shoes and pulls his legs onto the bed. On his side now, he scoots close, his body pressing against the entire length of my own.
“You. And how it might be a good idea to have Sam stick around for a week.”
“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with the real Jefferson Richards?”
“I’m serious,” Jeff says. “I spent all day thinking about what you said last night. And you’re right. The way I got those charges against Sam dropped was wrong. She deserved a better defense. And I’m sorry.”
I hand Jeff more toast. “Apology accepted.”
“Plus,” he says between bites, “this cop-killing case is going to start taking up more of my time, and I don’t like the idea of you being home alone most of the day. Not after your picture’s been plastered all over the city.”
“So you’re suggesting that Sam becomes my babysitter?”
“Companion,” Jeff says. “And she’s actually the one who suggested it. She mentioned the two of you did some baking together yesterday. It might be nice to have some help during Baking Season. You always said you wanted an assistant.”
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “It’s a lot for you to handle.”
Jeff tilts his head at me. “You sound like you’re not sure.”
“I think it’s a great idea. I just don’t want it to affect you. Or us.”
“Listen, I’m going to be honest here and admit that Sam and I will probably never be friends. But the two of you have a connection. Or you could. I know we don’t talk much about what happened to you—”
“Because there’s no need to,” I hastily add.
“I agree,” Jeff says. “You say you’ll never get past what happened, but you already have. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Quincy Carpenter, baking goddess.”
“Whatever,” I say, although the description secretly pleases me.
“But maybe you do need some kind of support system to cope. Someone other than Coop. If Sam’s that person you need, I don’t want to stand in the way of it.”
I realize, not for the first time, how lucky I am to have landed someone like Jeff. I can’t help but think he’s the one big difference between Sam and me. Without him, I’d be just like her—wild and angry and lonesome. A tempest never reaching shore, forever tossing about.
“You’re awesome,” I say, pushing the tray aside to throw myself on top of him.
I kiss him. He kisses back, pulling me tighter against him.
The stress of the day melts into desire and I find myself undressing him without even thinking about it. Loosening the tie still knotted around his neck. Popping open the buttons of his Oxford shirt. Kissing the rosy nipples surrounded by a thicket of hair before moving lower, unzipping his Chinos, feeling his arousal.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I try to ignore it, thinking it’s a reporter. Or, worse, my mother. Yet the phone continues to rattle against the bedside lamp, insistent. I check the caller ID.
“It’s Coop,” I say.
Jeff sighs, his desire deflating. “Can’t it wait?”
“Not while my picture is still on the front page.”
Vibrating phone in hand, I spring out of bed and hurry into the master bathroom, closing the door behind me.
“Why didn’t you tell me Samantha Boyd contacted you?” Coop says by way of greeting.
“How do you find out?”
“I got a Google alert,” he says, the answer so unexpected he could have told me aliens and I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “Although I would have preferred to hear it from you.”
“I was going to call you,” I say, which is the truth. I had planned to call him right after I got done confronting Jonah. “Sam showed up at my place yesterday. After Lisa’s death, she thought it would be a good idea if we met.”
I could have told Coop more than that, of course. How Sam had changed her name years ago. How she dared me into downing two Xanax too many. How I threw all three back up the moment I saw His picture.
“Is she still there?” Coop asks.
“Yes. She’s going to be staying with us.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Until she figures out some stuff.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“Why? You worried about me?”
“I always worry about you, Quincy.”
I pause, unsure how to respond. Coop’s never been this forthright before. I don’t know if it’s a good change or a bad one. Either way, it’s nice to hear him admit out loud that he cares. It’s definitely more heartwarming than a nod.
“Admit it,” I finally say. “When you saw that Google alert, you almost drove out here to check on me.”
“I got as far as the end of the driveway before stopping myself,” Coop replies.
I don’t doubt him. It’s that kind of devotion that’s made me feel safe all these years.
“What changed your mind?”
“Knowing that you can take care of yourself.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But I’m still concerned that Samantha Boyd has come out of hiding,” Coop says. “You have to admit, it’s startling.”
“You’re starting to sound like Jeff.”