“I did,” he said. “I didn’t see how I could turn her down.”
He was a thick man, solid on the earth, the kind of guy you’d call to fix your problems—get your kitten from a tree, watch your house while you’re away, help you find a missing loved one. It seemed to Finley that there were far too few totally reliable people around. People who did what they said they were going to do. People who showed up at the appointed time. That was why she liked Jones Cooper—a lot. He was everything her father wasn’t. Phil was flighty, unpredictable, prone to tantrums. Not that she had daddy issues.
Jones’s brow was creased with concern as he lifted a big hand to rub at his crown.
“You’re going to help?” Finley asked Eloise.
Finley knew that her grandmother was planning her trip to go see Ray, though an exact date had not been set. Soon, Eloise kept saying, as if she was waiting for something and didn’t want to say what. Finley suspected that Eloise was worried about leaving her alone, especially since Rainer showed up a few months ago. Finley had offered assurances; she wanted her grandmother to experience a little freedom, a little happiness. No one deserved it more.
“This one’s not mine,” said Eloise. She held Finley in a kind but unwavering gaze. Finley’s heart did a little dance. “It’s yours, Finley.”
Jones and Finley exchanged an awkward look. She saw a micro-expression cross his face. She’s just a kid. I can’t work with her. All the walls came up inside her. No way, she thought. I’m not doing what you do. Then they both turned their eyes to Eloise, who leaned back in her chair, took a sip from her coffee.
“Squeak-clink is yours,” said Eloise evenly, putting the putty-colored cup down on the table. “I’m just overhearing.”
Finley choked back a flutter of panic, a deep sense of resistance. She hadn’t done “The Work” yet, as Eloise liked to call it, not really, and she wasn’t sure she even wanted to. At the moment, Finley was thinking about psychology (maybe, probably)—which made her mom deliriously happy. It was a profession where Finley surmised her abilities might be helpful—though she couldn’t say how exactly. It was just an instinct.
The truth was that Finley wasn’t at all sure how she planned to use her “gifts.” The way Eloise lived, a slave to it, constantly in service to . . . them? Finley wasn’t certain that she wanted that for herself.
We are chosen, Eloise said ominously, more than once. We don’t choose. Finley had rankled at the idea of having no choice. The idea of fate, of a predetermined course to one’s life did not jell with her beliefs.
“How do you know I’m not the one overhearing it,” Finley said. She didn’t like the way she sounded, young and peevish.
“We both know it’s you, dear,” said Eloise, putting a gentle hand on Finley’s. “I’m sorry. I’d take it from you if I could.”
There was something strange about the way she said it, something unsettlingly final in her voice.
Finley glanced back and forth between Jones and Eloise. She expected Jones to speak up, to insist that it was Eloise he’d come for, not Finley. Instead, he cast his eyes down at the table. He grabbed onto the edge and gave it a little wobble. It was uneven. He looked underneath, presumably to determine the problem.
“You need to put something under there,” he said to Eloise. “To stabilize it.”
She raised her palms at him to indicate that he was free to do what needed doing but that if it were up to her it would wobble forever.
Jones got up and opened Eloise’s junk drawer, came back with a folded-up piece of cardboard, and kneeled down on the ground with a groan.
“How do you know that squeak-clink has anything to do with this?” asked Finley weakly. She pointed toward the papers on the table.
Eloise smiled, that sad, gentle smile she had. “You tell me,” she said. “Does it or doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Finley lied, looking down at her hand. She’d bitten her nails down short, and the black nail polish she wore was chipping. Really, Finley. Get a manicure, her mother’s voice chided.
“Look,” said Jones. He rose slowly, stiffly to his feet and then tested the table; it stayed solidly in place. “Seems like you two need to talk. And I have plenty of work to do on this one, lots of threads to pull, some gaps to squeeze into. Let’s just leave it that when and if there’s something, one of you will get in touch. No pressure.”
Eloise got up to see him out, while Finley nodded mutely and stayed seated.
“Should I leave it?” he asked Eloise, casting an uncertain glance in Finley’s direction.