Of course it was. Paris’s sixteenth arrondissement is where people live when they have plenty of money and no interest in being hip. It’s the equivalent of the Upper East Side in New York, or Mayfair in London.
She air-kissed my cheeks twice and turned to leave. “The next time I stop by—”
I bit my lip to avoid groaning out loud. The next time?
“—I’ll bring you a set of keys. Use them or not, as you wish.”
? ? ?
“I BROUGHT EXTRA,” said Tony, barreling through my front door with his tie flung over his shoulder and four six-packs of beer under his arms.
For the second time today, I stood aside and watched someone cart provisions into my house.
“I know it’ll be tough for you to get to the store after the surgery,” my brother called over his shoulder. “This way you’re fully stocked.”
I followed him into the kitchen. “Um, thanks. But I don’t drink beer.”
“Yeah, I know. One of many areas in which you do persist in demonstrating bad taste.” He yanked open my refrigerator door and began whipping bottles of Brooklyn lager out of their cardboard carriers, then dumping them into the empty produce drawers. “These aren’t for you, though. They’re for Martin and me. So we’ll have something decent to drink when we come visit you in your sickbed.”
I burst out laughing. “How considerate.”
“Don’t mention it. You can pay me back later.”
“You’re too kind.”
“I know. My chivalry knows no limits. I was also thinking . . . ugh.” Tony inhaled, wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What are you doing in here, Sis? Warding off vampires? Your house reeks of garlic.”
“Damn it.” I lit another scented candle. I’d spent half an hour this morning digging out Tupperware and Ziploc bags and transferring the contents of Madame Aubuchon’s enormous vat, ladle by ladle, into my freezer. There was enough soup to last me weeks. “Somehow I’ve got to get rid of that smell before tonight.”
“Why? What’s happening tonight?”
“I’ve got a date. I’m cooking.”
My brother heaved himself up to perch on my countertop and sniffed again. “I hope that’s not what’s for dinner.”
I glowered at him. “Actually, I’m serving steaks. I bought two.”
“Hint taken. Don’t worry, I’ll scram.” He sat swinging his legs, rubbing scuff marks from the heels of his black dress shoes onto the pale wood of my cabinet door. He knew this drove me crazy. He knew that I would leap to scrub off the marks the minute he exited the room. He also knew I would never give him the satisfaction of asking him to stop. I pointedly fixed my eyes on the ceiling, away from his feet. He pointedly kicked faster. Honestly, sometimes we behave exactly as if we were still ten years old.
“Anyway.” Kick. Kick. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. Fabulous.”
“Seriously.” The kicking slowed. “You’ve had a hellish week.”
I blew the hair out of my eyes. “That I certainly have.”
“The surgery is a definite go? One week from today?”
“Yes.”
“Sis. Anything I can do to help?”
I met his gaze. There was no longer any trace of mischief, nothing but love in his eyes.
“I don’t know. I may need your help eventually with some of the crazy stuff I turned up in Georgia. I’m not quite sure where things are going to end up.”
“What things? What crazy stuff?”
I had not yet confided in my family that the police were reopening their inquiry into Boone and Sadie Rawson’s murders. There seemed no point in prompting alarm, when it would likely come to nothing. I had resolved to follow Beasley’s advice: lie low, don’t get my hopes up, let the investigation run its course.
I waved my hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. I think the key thing for the moment will be to get this operation over with, and then to get well. Knock on wood.” I glanced around, spotted a wooden salad bowl, rapped it twice for luck. “And after that I need to keep busy. I’m thinking I’ll write a book.”
“Why not.”
“I should already have one under my belt, at this point in an academic career. If I ever want to get tenure. I wrote a paper this fall, on the politics of divorce in working-class, post-Napoleonic France. It was well received. I could easily expand it.”
He scratched the stubble on his cheeks. The glint was back in his eye.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing. I mean, obviously, the world’s been waiting for that book. I’m thinking huge initial print run—”
“The intended audience would be other academics, you cretin. I didn’t say it would be a page-turner.”
“No, no, don’t undersell yourself. That’s got bestseller written all over it.”
I threw a tea towel at him. “You are such an obnoxious ass.”
He grinned, hopped off the counter, and wrapped me in a fierce hug. Then, without prompting, he grabbed a wad of paper towels and kneeled to polish the marks off the cabinet door.
I was watching him in amusement when the doorbell rang.
? ? ?
TONY AND WILL Zartman got on like a house on fire.
This irritated but did not surprise me.
I perched on the end of the sofa, sipping white wine, while my brother and Will clinked beers and conversed in a language as impenetrable to me as Swahili.
“I can’t help thinking the DH situation is going to screw the Sox,” said Tony, his eyes glued to the television screen. “Because if they want to use Ortiz, they’ll have to take Napoli out of the lineup.”
“That’ll hurt,” Will agreed. “And getting Allen Craig back, that could be huge for the Cards.”
“I don’t know, do you really think he’s their best clutch?”
“Are you kidding? Craig on a good day—”
“What’s the DH situation?” I cut in. If I was going to have to sit through this, I was damn well going to participate.
“Designated hitter,” said Will, patting my leg.
“And what’s that?”
“What’s what? A designated hitter?” His expression suggested this was the equivalent of asking what was a sandwich. Or what was the sky. As in, a concept so basic he’d never had to explain it before.