Which was more than could be said for the “adults”—the one who landed them in a ten-year mess, and the one who hid from that same ten-year mess—Dennis and Emma Drake.
It came down to roles, Leah decided. Self-assigned and otherwise. If Jack and Paul and Angela’s mother was a ghost, Angela was everyone’s big sister. Even Archer’s. Even hers.
“You know what’s odd?”
“Knowing you, darling, it could be anything.”
“Touché. There’s something poking at my brain and I don’t know why,” he admitted. “I was a little uneasy after our first visit, but I figured that was because I hadn’t seen Dad in years. But it’s worse now. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever-it-is, it’s right in front of us. We’re just so used to seeing it, we’re not noticing it. Or something. Hell. I don’t know.”
Leah had paused at the door to their shared bedroom and Archer absently reached out and rubbed her shoulders. A sucker for any kind of massage—she was a bit touch-starved, legacy of her odd upbringing and odder line of work—she let her head fall back and moaned, a sound that always elicited a Pavlovian response in her fiancé. But who wouldn’t make appreciative noises beneath Archer’s hands? The man was so skilled, he could have been a masseuse to the gods.
“What, Leah? Why’d you stop?”
“Just thinking ahhhhhh right there . . . mmmmmm . . . wondering when we should go back home. There doesn’t ummmmmm seem to be ahhhhh much more we cannnnnnnmmmm . . .”
“Do you mind if we stay ’til Friday? Two weeks chock full o’Drakes is more than enough to ask of anyone, never mind the mother of my mother-in-law.”
She groaned and it wasn’t at all Pavlovian, she sounded like a sleepy bear trapped in a well. “Argh, gah, don’t put it like that.” She shrugged so his hands dropped away. “Arrgghh.”
“Sorry.” Archer kissed the tender spot just behind her ear. “But y’know, if you set aside the horror and the years of psychological damage and the unprecedented new territory we’re stumbling through, it’s kind of funny.”
“No.”
“A teeny-weeny bit funny.”
“Not really, no.” She opened the door, stepped inside, then stopped short. The bed was neatly made and on her pillow was a small blue dessert plate, and resting atop the plate was a cream puff swan.
Archer’s eyes went big. “Whoa. He never makes those! He says swans are mean* and pate à choux is overrated.* How come you rate so high? And yes, that’s petty jealousy you hear in my tone.”
“I have no idea,” she lied.
Archer was cautiously approaching it as if it was a real swan that would fly away if he startled it. “Leah, I’m not sure you understand the significance here.”
“Why don’t you try patronizing me? That’s bound to help me figure it out.”
“This is the Holy Grail of pastry! You know how many of those tiny, delicious-yet-mean swan puffs he’s made me in twenty-some years?”
“Archer, Jack’s only been alive for—”
“Two! You’re here a week and you already have one? The world just doesn’t make sense anymore!”
“So this would be the worst part of the trip, then?”
“Yes! We have a new winner. Dammit.”
She walked to her side of the bed and studied it: light golden brown with pastry cream nestled beneath the wings and a beautifully arched neck. And best of all . . .
She picked up the plate and sniffed her swan, then showed it to Archer. “It’s not coffee flavored.”
“Which is making you smile because . . . ?”
“Because Jack’s trying new things. That’s all. And if you stop pouting, I’ll share it with you.”
“Okay. You should eat the head first—chomp!” Archer mimed savagely decapitating a bird shaped from pastry. “It’s deeply satisfying.”
“You can devour the head.”
“I love you so much right now.”
“As you should.”
FORTY
Angela Drake was kissing him and he had no idea why.
At her subdued request, he had driven her to his townhouse on Canal Street; neither of them had much to say on the way over. This made a forty-minute drive seem a lot longer than it was. Angela Drake wants to come home with me. I should be as happy as I am nervous. But I’m more confused than anything else.
The silence was broken when they pulled up to the low three-story brick building (which was only low in contrast to the skyscrapers in the distance). “This is nice.”
“It’s not home, but it’s much,” he replied, hoping for a smile. Alas. Thwarted hope. Sorry, Olivia Goldsmith. Your wit was not up to the task. Although it might have been my delivery.
He parked in his spot, got out, pulled the backpack full of leftovers and dirty dishes from the back seat, and walked her across the street and up the front walk.
The weight of the pack felt like a reproach. So you scrubbed a gravestone and indulged in roast beef sandwiches and Caprese salad. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you? That everything would be fixed—for both of you—and you would date and fall the rest of the way in love and live happily ever after?
No. Not for one moment. He had never fooled himself that anything about Angela Drake would be easy. But he wasn’t in it for easy, and it had been a wonderful day. Not just a wonderful day with Angela, a wonderful day in his life.
Up to a point.
And though he was furious with Inmate #26166, he thought his time was better spent trying to help Angela calm down after she threw up. He had a hunch that her male relatives would attend to that other matter, regardless.
When they got inside he saw her looking around appreciatively and decided to get a crucial detail out of the way. “I inherited this,” he explained. “My grandmother left it to my brother and me. By the time she passed away, it was just me.”
“Okay.” She was examining the books in the shelves to the left of the fireplace. “Gorey fan, hmm?”
“Yes. Also Wilkin, Hiaasen, McNair, Kinney, Iggulden, Miller, Gaiman, and Branch.”
“Eclectic,” she murmured, examining Susan Branch’s homey, watercolor-illustrated Vineyard Seasons shelved beside Frank Miller’s Sin City.
“Yes. And, again, I inherited this place. I wanted to be up front about it.”
She gave him an odd look, and he was amazed at how quickly he’d blown it: within twenty seconds of putting his key in the lock. A new record.
“The reason I’m telling you this—”
“Twice.” She softened that with a gentle, “You don’t have to explain.”
“—is because the last woman I went out with used real-estate listings to select romantic partners.”
That got her attention, and even better, the odd expression morphed to interest. “I guess that’s my cue to say ‘no way’ but . . . y’know. Chicago real estate.”
“Remarkably, that is exactly how she explained it to me,” he replied. “Once I realized why she asked me out, I told her I inherited this place. I didn’t earn it. Didn’t buy it. I’m a cop. I’ve always been a cop.” I’m not rich, in other words.
“She dumped you.”
“Unfortunately not. She told me that inheriting it wasn’t a deal breaker, because ‘no matter how you got it, it’s still a terrific piece of real estate, we should go out some more.’ Quote unquote. So I ended up dump—uh, breaking it off.”
She brought up a hand to cover her grin. “Jeez. I’m sorry. That’s awful.”
“That’s Chicago,” he deadpanned, because Richard Gere in Chicago had been a tap-dancing demigod. He loathed all musicals save that one.
He led her through the short hallway and the two steps down into the sunken living room. His furniture consisted primarily of classic dark wood and muted colors: a tan love seat, a deep brown couch, dark patterned throw rugs, lots more bookshelves. The reddish-brown hardwood floors glowed. He had an unnatural fondness for waxing them: It was tedious and he could shut off his brain while sinking into the task. It was much like meditating.
“Something to drink?”
“Please.”
“White wine? Red? Water? Tea?”
“Water is fine.”
She followed him into the kitchen, which was small and sleek with dark wooden cupboards and black appliances, and took a seat at the butcher’s block.