Archer shifted to full-on babble: “So very very sorry. Completely sorry. Just incredibly, very terribly sorry. It’s a wonderful meal, look! My plate! Totally clean!”
Jack walked over to the turtle table. Archer did his level best not to cringe. “You’re right,” he said, inspecting Archer’s plate. “That’s pretty clean. All your plates are pretty clean.” He gifted Angela and Leah with an approving smile. “So doing the dishes should be easy, doncha think?”
“I would be happy to do the dishes,” Archer replied at once. This was a duty that rotated between Drakes; today was Paul’s day. Paul, at least, would be delighted that Archer’s mouth had once again raced ahead of his brain. “So, so happy to help any way I can with the dishes.”
“Good.” Jack looked at Leah for a long moment. “Are you . . . I should have asked this before. Is there anything I should be making for you, for the baby? I went online earlier and read up on prenatal nutrition—”
“Which is why you’ve been filling me full of vitamin C and green smoothies and whole grains and yogurt,” Leah replied with a warm smile. “Among other things. That is kind of you, Jack. I’ve eaten better in the last week than I have in the last month. I have paid for meals in Paris that weren’t as good as one of your midday snacks. Thank you.”
Jack ducked his head, suddenly shy, and Angela was struck—again—by how young he was. “’S no trouble,” he mumbled, and then went back to the cookbooks.
“Your youngest cousin is terrifying,” Leah mock-whispered to Archer.
“He didn’t scare me one bit. Now for the love of God, give me all your dirty dishes so I can start my soapy amends.”
Leah looks better, Angela thought, watching the couple laugh. A little more rested, a little less pale. If anything, Jacky was the one who looked aggrieved and tired, and not just because of Archer’s ill-timed idiocy.
Angela slipped out of her seat and went to him. “Jacky-oh, are you okay?”
“Course.”
“Because you seem—”
“Aggravated because I’m surrounded by Visigoths?”
“Something like that.” Argh, too early. Can’t remember what a Visigoth is. Sounds bad, though.
“Haven’t been sleeping well.” This was a mutter directly into Martha Stewart’s Cooking School, a hefty hardcover that could, if swung with enough force, kill a pony.
“For how long?”
A shrug.
A puberty thing? A stress thing? He doesn’t study but he still gets A’s and B’s. I don’t think it’s school. Which means it’s probably us.
“Do you—did you want to see a doctor? I’d be glad to make an appointment for you.” He’d just gotten his license, so she added what she hoped would be an incentive to health maintenance. “You could borrow my car and hit DQ after, if you wanted. I would only ask that you bring me a banana split Blizzard. And maybe a Dilly Bar.”
That earned her a faded smile, nothing like his usual wide grin. “You don’t have to take care of me, Angela. I’m fine. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
“That’s not true, I can always take on more things to worry about. Worrying is practically my superpower.”
He shook his head. “I’m okay. Uh. That cop, Detective Chambers? He had to shelve Dad’s case, right?”
Is that what this is about? “Yeah, Jack, I’m afraid so. That’s why he was over here the other night—he came to warn me it was likely, and yesterday he left me a voicemail to confirm.” That I definitely haven’t listened to two or three or ten times. “I hope I didn’t get your hopes up.”
“I didn’t think that about you,” he said quickly.
“I thought if we had a new investigator, and Leah, that the case might be— Well, it was a long shot. But I hope you understand why I thought it was worth trying.” At his nod, she added, “And don’t worry, I’m not giving up. And Jason—the detective—he’s going to keep me in the loop. If anything breaks, he’ll let us know right away. It won’t be like—”
“Klown.” Jack smiled again, a real one this time.
“No, he’s not like Klown.” Damn. That was going to stick now. She hoped none of them ever ran across Kline again, particularly in public, because that would get awkward in a hurry.
“That cop. Not Klown. The other one. He’s really sad sometimes.”
Angela blinked. “Oh? I think—I think that’s just the nature of his job, Jacky. He works homicide. He deals with dead bodies and grief every day.”
Jack slowly shook his head. “I don’t think it’s because of his job.”
“You’re right, Jack,” Leah called from the other side of the kitchen.
They both turned to her, surprised. Archer immediately pointed at Leah. “It was the Insighting eavesdropper! It wasn’t me this time!”
“Eavesdropper? They’re five feet away having a conversation in normal tones of voice.” Leah turned back to them. “Detective Jason Chambers has depression. Or maybe dysthymia. He’s had it for at least three lives.”
Jack seemed to find that gratifying for some reason. “I knew he was sad, I told you!”
Archer shook his head. “Leah, I will never get over how creepy and impressive that is. Ow! Don’t pinch. Fine, it’s just impressive. Not creepy at all.”
Angela realized she was gaping (her mouth had even fallen open a little, creating a sexy goldfish look, how embarrassing) and looked away before Leah caught her. The wonderfully be-socked Jason was coping with depression or—or the other thing Leah mentioned?
Mental note: Look up dysh—dys—find out how to spell that word and then look it up.
And he’d been enduring it for multiple lives? Was that why he was so composed and quiet and calm all the time? Was he trying to learn from his other lives, or just enduring until he got a reboot? She was dying to ask him about it. She was dying to ask him any number of things.
But. Why did Leah do that? Leah was a professional; she didn’t diagnose near-strangers, especially out loud, especially when they weren’t her client, and especially not with others in attendance. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Leah was showing off. And since she did know better, what the hell was going on?
“What the hell is going on?”
“Gah!” Angela turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway. Annnnnd my morning gets weirder. She’s dressed! And interacting with family! At 8:00 a.m., no less. That’s— Wait, why am I mentally bitching about this? This is great. I can actually discuss my concern for a family member with an engaged parent who is fully clothed. She stepped forward and lowered her voice. “Mom, I’m glad you’re here. Can we go into the other room so I can talk to you about J—”
“I don’t want to talk about Jacob or Jason or whatever cop you’ve got fumbling around like an impotent idiot.”
Angela blinked. Okay. Lots of errors in that statement, starting with the fact that I wanted to talk to her about her youngest son.
And “fumbling”? “Impotent”? That’s a lot of rancor for someone she’s never met.
“Well, then, I’ve got great news, Mom.” But before she could finish
(cheer up, it’s being shelved again! again)
her mother cut her off for the second time. “We talked about this.”
“I know, Mom, and the thing is—”
“I said I don’t want you going again.”
Angela paused. “Careful, Mom. That was almost forceful.”
Widow Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to your brother?”
“Which one?”
“I’m fine!” Paul bellowed from somewhere in the house. “Leave me out of it!”
“Look at him!” Her mother pointed to a startled-looking Jack, who had moved on from Martha Stewart and was now clutching James McNair’s* Afternoon Delights: Coffeehouse Favorites to his chest. “He’s clearly not sleeping. This is a tough time of year for all of us, and you’re making it worse.”
Angela tilted her head to one side and studied her mother. “How am I, personally, making this time of year worse for ‘all of us’?”
“He’s dead. Let him stay dead.”
Er. What? “Mom—”
“Your visits are a waste of time. I don’t want you to go. Dennis doesn’t even want you to go.”
“Dennis,” she said carefully, “is doing someone else’s time. How can you be okay with that?”