Still, she’s probably home. And when she leaves to walk to the restaurant, she’ll come out the side door that faces the driveway. He recalls from his paperboy days that the Armbruster family rarely bothered to shovel the walk that leads to the porch because they don’t use the front door.
After another furtive glance to make sure the street is deserted, he strides up the driveway, unzipping his backpack as he goes. He reaches the side door, finds the gift bag, and hangs it on the knob. Halfway down the driveway again, he thinks better of it and backtracks. This time, he opens the door and hangs the bag on the inside knob, where it will keep the door ajar. That way, she can’t possibly miss it when she leaves.
Again, he turns away; again, he turns back with hesitation.
What if someone sees it before she does and steals it?
Glancing toward the street, he sees that one of the neighbors has materialized with her dog, standing by the curb.
Terrific.
Unfortunately, the leashed terrier isn’t as clueless as Doofus, and immediately starts barking. The old woman turns, spots Mick, and gives him a long, suspicious look before recognition dawns.
“How are you, Mick?” she calls with a cheerful wave as her dog continues to bark. “How’s your mom?”
“I’m great, Mrs. Gershin,” he responds in a low voice, hurrying away from Brianna’s house. “Mom’s great.”
“What’s that?” she pretty much shrieks above the barking, and he looks at the upstairs window to make sure Brianna hasn’t been summoned by all the commotion.
“Great, we’re all great,” he tells Mrs. Gershin. “Everyone’s great.”
Maybe he should ask her not to tell anyone she saw him here. He can explain about the Secret Santa.
No—-that’s a bad idea. She’s elderly and hard of hearing even without the yappy dog. He’d have to shout to get the point across.
It’s better just to get away while he can. With any luck, Mrs. Gershin isn’t just deaf, she’s also senile and will forget she ever saw him here.
Seeing Rowan’s number pop up on her cell phone, Noreen immediately excuses herself from the client meeting.
If it had been going well, she might have stuck it out and made a mental note to return the call later.
But it isn’t going well. The man sitting across from her and her partner Jennifer at the conference room table—-the wealthy businessman who’s trying to hide a five--year--old love child and major assets from his wife of forty years—-reminds her of Kevin.
Welcoming the opportunity to step into the short hallway outside the conference room, she answers the call. “Rowan?”
“Oh my God. There you are. What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I got one.” Maybe two. Or possibly three, she realizes, though she’s not about to surrender to any guilt trip her sister intends to lay on her. “You said it wasn’t important.”
“Only the first time, and I lied. You always call me back. Why didn’t you?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’re always busy, but—-”
“I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
There’s a pause. “No.”
Ah, there it is anyway: guilt, trying its best to ooze in despite Noreen’s intentions, and bringing with it a ripple of concern.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, pacing the short length of the hall, past her office, Jennifer’s office, the restroom, and the tiny waiting area. “Are the boys okay?”
The boys—-it’s what their parents always called their older brothers. Mitch and Danny were the boys; Noreen and Rowan were the girls. The boys were always a solid unit, while the girls were frequently at odds with each other. Then again, Rowan was pretty much at odds with everyone in the family at any given time.
I spent so many years trying to smooth over her messes. Is it any wonder that I’m wary when she calls, even now?
“The boys are fine. It’s me. I’m not fine.”
“What happened?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.” More alone than you’d ever imagine.
“I need to talk to you about something. I wouldn’t bother you if I had anyone else to turn to, but . . . I don’t.”