How do this many grown adults manage in life when we're carrying on like children?
Shoot, even Alice called her bestie tonight to clear the air. She's more mature than I was at that age. Maybe still am.
Instead of driving to my apartment, I go to the one person who has to listen to me. The one person I have to speak to now and get back on track with before it's too late.
* * *
Julian's building is on the corner of Monroe Boulevard and Broadway. It's a two-story building with an open terrace in the center. There are four sections, each with its own door, foyer, mailboxes, and set of stairs. His apartment is 2B, which is accessed through the back left unit. I push open the dark green painted door and take the stairs. The hallway smells like fresh bread and roasted chicken. Every time I visit, someone is cooking a delicious meal.
I stand in front of his door and raise my fisted hand. I know he's home because I parked in the spot adjacent to his black SUV. I take a deep breath, mentally tell my nerves to calm down, and knock. What's the worst that can happen? He slams the door in my face, and we never speak again?
The door opens, and he blinks twice. Then his eyes widen, and he searches my face before looking up and down my body. "Are you okay?"
I almost laugh. Does he think I'm here because I'm physically injured?
"Yes, I'm fine. Look, I just need to get something off my chest. I only need you to listen."
He slowly nods. Maybe he's afraid of what I'm going to say as much as I am that he'll reject me.
"I love you." That wasn't hard. It also wasn't news. He knows this.
He smiles, and I'm momentarily dazzled by the dimple that appears and the light in his icy gray eyes.
"Yes, we're not officially dating, but my love hasn't changed. I want to be with you. I'm sorry I haven't put this…" I lower my voice so his neighbors don't hear. He may live near a Brenda and Mindy too.
"This fixer thing straight in my head yet, but I need you to understand that that is the only reason we're not together. I mean, you have a say in us of course."
His smile doesn't falter as he wiggles his brows.
That's a good sign.
"But our relationship has nothing to do with Kevin. The night in the cooler, he apologized for all the hateful ways he's treated me over the years. So yeah, I don't hate him anymore, but I still don't trust him. We called a truce."
Now his smile lowers but doesn't completely fade. He looks more content than happy, and I hope the changed expression is because his muscles need to relax and not that he thinks a truce is bad.
"And you know I invited him to Sunday dinner yesterday. Because he needed a friend. That's all. I felt for him. No, I don't want to become his friend, but his wife just died and maybe I feel sad. But that has nothing to do with us. Okay? I mean, not okay that you agree but that you understand what I said?"
He nods.
"And I hope you know that you're welcome to come by for Sunday dinner sometimes too. It's been months since the last time, and Ma would love having you there. Me too."
He nods again.
Whew. I'm so relieved I got that off my chest, but I'm still nervous about how he'll respond. I don't want to jinx my positive feelings and want to walk away with my head held high.
"Good," I say and turn and leave.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There's a gentle, warm breeze as I cross Park Place the next morning, walking to the office. It ruffles my curls and is a pleasant deviation from hot and sticky, but it doesn't do much to alter my mood. I stand at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and I'm not sure if I hope to get to work before Julian or after. Nervousness has taken over, and my insides feel jittery. What if he thought about all I said last night and is now angry or upset and wants to break up officially?
There's a lull in traffic, and I dash across the street and see that there are no lights on in the corner space. I let out a small sigh and unlock the door. There's the possibility that he won't even show up today. I flick on the overhead lights and go to the back corner, where we have a coffee station, to start a pot.
By the time it's done, I'm settled at my desk with nothing to do. While I love working here, the boredom level blows. I should probably bring something with me. There are only so many hours a person can play Candy Crush, but that seems rude if a client walks in. It doesn't set the right image if I'm sitting here playing The Sims or putting together a jigsaw puzzle.
I'm debating if Candy Crush is on this morning's itinerary when the door opens, and Julian steps inside. My heart leaps into my throat. Metaphorically of course, although it is getting harder to breathe, so maybe my biology is different from everyone else's.
He looks taller than usual. Is that possible? There's a soft smile on his handsome face, which doesn't do much for the sudden, erratic thumping of my heart. Does it mean we're still cool, or did he think of a funny way to let me down easy?
The door shuts behind him, and he holds up a large brown paper bag with the green swirly font of my favorite diner. I'm pretty sure my eyes light up, because his grin grows, but my heart hasn't settled back into its cavity completely. Maybe this is a goodbye breakfast?
Okay, Gi, get a grip. The man isn't going to feed you before ditching you. He has more class than that.
"Morning. I figured we could share a meal before…"
Before you never see me again? Before you tell me adios? Before—
"I have to go into the other office. There's a mandatory staff meeting, and I can't get out of it," he says and sets down the bag by the coffeemaker.
That's it? He has to go to his other job?
I let out a shaky breath, and suddenly all of my organs are in their proper spots. "It smells great!"
When he glances back at me, I'm grinning. Hard. I may even be showing molars.
And just like that my appetite soars and I'm looking forward to today. Although if someone asks me if my new attitude is because I think Julian and I are in a good place again or because he's walking toward me with a white Styrofoam container, I'm not sure I can answer that.
He places it on my desk. "Your favorite, of course."
I pop the lid, and swirls of salty, buttery smoke rises into my nose. Scrambled eggs, sausage links, and chocolate chip pancakes. It's not special, just plain ole good.
He pours himself a cup of coffee and sets it and his container on my desk as well. Then he grabs his chair, rolls it over, and sits across from me. It's not ideal with my desk lamp and a tray for files crowding us, but it's still cozy.
"We should talk," he says. "But do you mind if we wait until I have more time? I don't want to rush through a conversation and then have to run out to this meeting."
I shake my head. "No, I don't mind."
"And you're okay spending the day here alone?" he asks.
I laugh, as if I don't do just that most days. "I'll be fine."
"These are so good." He points his fork at his eggs. He got toast instead of pancakes and a double order of bacon. Normally I eat whatever I can find for the first meal of the day, and he's all about juices and oatmeal, but once in a while he splurges and goes full fat.
I stab a sausage link and take a bite. It snaps in my mouth, and the juice coats the tip of my tongue. I'm glad this coffee is full of caffeine because otherwise I'd want a mid-morning nap after this meal.
"You're quiet," he says.
I swallow and realize I'm still nervous. "Sorry. I just wasn't sure how you'd react to all I said last night, and I guess I'm concerned."
He reaches across the space between us and squeezes my hand. His palm is rough and warm. I like that he looks like a business executive in tailored clothes that didn't come off a rack at Walmart or Old Navy, but he still uses his hands and works up a sweat at work. Of course, that may involve lugging dead bodies around, but a workout is a workout. Right?
I inwardly wince at my thoughts and clear my mind to focus on the man before me.
"We definitely need to ta
lk, but we're good." His smile is electric, and it definitely sends pulses to my heart.
I relax and let out a soft giggle. "Good."
We dig into our food and stick to neutral subjects, like the weather, the deli, and how he thinks the plant in front of the windows should be pulled back some so that it's not getting the full force of the afternoon sun.
It's not a riveting conversation, but that's okay. I like that we can sit and talk about nothing and still feel comfortable.
When we're done eating, Julian tosses out our containers and heads to the door.
"I'll text you when I get a moment. Feel free to leave as early as you want," he says and winks before stepping outside.
With a full belly and a warm heart, I smile and sink into my seat. Sometimes life is grand.
My cell rings, and I recognize the number to be Tanya's. I hope this gooey feeling isn't about to go away.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Gianna. It's Tanya," she says in a loud, chipper voice.
I nod as she goes on.
"So Mom and I have an appointment at the nail salon."
Seriously? That feels a bit soon.
"I figured it may lift her spirits," she whispers and then goes back to her outside voice. "And we're wondering if you want to come along. I told them three just in case you said yes."
Oh, so this is supposed to be something that takes Mrs. Porter's mind off her daughter's death. Yeah, I don't think a manicure can do that, but I'm willing to help try.
"Sure. I can meet you."
"Great. Mom, Gianna is going to meet us there." Then back to whispering, Tanya says, "Thank you. She's always in a better mood when she sees you or her friends. I appreciate this."
Aww, how sweet.
"It's my pleasure. Just tell me where and when."
"Um, in an hour at that salon Hairtology on Park Place, not far from Lindy's Bar. I don't know the exact address."
"It's fine. I'll find it and see you two in an hour."
I am so glad my time at work is flexible.
* * *
Izzie and I have had drinks at Lindy's Bar quite a few times over the years, so I know where it is located. Finding Hairtology is easy. It's three storefronts from the bar, and I park in the empty lot, even if it says Bar Patrons Only. Hopefully, my car will still be there when we're done.
I step inside the cool lobby, and Tanya and Mrs. Porter are already waiting. The older woman sees me, and like Tanya said, her face lights up. She's looking fresh in a yellow sundress and nude-colored sandals. Her hair is back and up, and her eyes aren't as bloodshot as they have been.
She stands up and opens her arms for a hug.
I am more than happy to oblige. After greeting Tanya with a quicker hug, we turn to the woman behind the desk.
Hairtology is all white and chrome, and the receptionist has her light brown hair twisted up into a bow. Not with a bow. Her hair is shaped into a giant bow on the back of her head. It must be super long when let down. Her smile is strained, but she comes across as friendly enough.
She leads us into a main room, where there are six hairdresser chairs, and then under a side archway leading to a short row of seats that offer access to hands and feet.
The three of us settle in, with Mrs. Porter in the middle.
"This is exciting," she says.
I'm thinking about whether I want a regular manicure in some shocking summer color or if I want to get fake tips added when Hilary appears before me. I gasp, and Mrs. Porter frowns my way.
"Are you okay, dear?" she asks.
"Yes, I just can't decide on all of the fabulous nail colors."
She grins and pats my hand. "It is fun."
I bug my eyes out in Hilary's direction. My way to ask if she wants something, but she doesn't understand my secret ghost code. She isn't even looking at me. She's staring at her mother.
"Sometimes Hilary and I would do things like this," Mrs. Porter says.
I hold my breath and wait for her to start crying, but she only looks sad for a moment and then pats Tanya's hand.
"I am very grateful to have a new daughter in my life and an old friend." She glances to me.
Hilary looks hurt and betrayed, and then she disappears. I don't blame her. That had to hurt. Not that Mrs. Porter meant anything by it. She's probably trying to think to the future, in order to not spend her days sobbing all the time.
She chuckles. "Not that you're old, Gianna."
It takes me a second to recall what she said and smile. My thoughts are still with Hilary.
Two nail aestheticians arrive, and we tell them to do Mrs. Porter and Tanya first. I can wait. Mrs. Porter picks out a summery yellow to match her dress, and I become silent while I watch the women work.
Tanya decides on red, and when it's my turn, I choose a blue that reminds me of the ocean.
The nail aesthetician submerges my fingertips in a cool, lavender-scented bath as Tanya checks her phone.
"I need to run to a quick errand before this shop closes. Do you mind if I disappear for only a few minutes?" she asks.
Mrs. Porter frowns. "I don't want to leave Gianna alone."
Tanya widens her eyes. "Oh no, you can stay. I'll be right back."
Mrs. Porter looks relieved.
"If you get busy, I can always drop her off at home when we're done," I say.
Tanya looks uncomfortable, like maybe she shouldn't have mentioned it because it wasn't a part of today's plans.
"Or we can all meet someplace after," I suggest. "Like for ice cream on the boardwalk."
Mrs. Porter's face lights up. "Oh, I haven't strolled along the boardwalk eating ice cream in forever."
Tanya grins. "That sounds great. I'll text you when I'm on my way back."
She takes off, and the nail aesthetician dries off my fingers. The second one has left the area.
Mrs. Porter is admiring the three small gold studs she had added to her ring finger at the last minute.
"It looks great," I say.
She nods and keeps staring.
The nail aesthetician needs to get up for a minute, and I take the time to do a bit of snooping.
"Mrs. Porter, did Hilary have any close friends?"
She looks up, startled for a second, and then shakes her head. I hate to bring up anything that may make her sad, but this is important. I've been so focused on Kevin or Michael killing her that I hadn't considered if Hilary had other people in her life.
"No. She sometimes did things with her co-workers, like birthday parties at the office or drinks after work, but those occasions were rare and always in groups. Never one-on-one."
I nod along and hope it sounds casual enough that she doesn't get suspicious and ask me why I want to know.
"Her routine was pretty average. She worked Monday through Friday, had lunch at her desk, stopped at the convenience store by her apartment on the way home and picked up the same items every time—a lottery ticket and two Snapples. She'd stop by, and we'd share a drink before she went home and cooked dinner."
Yes, she mentioned this before.
"Some evenings she'd go do Pilates or a swim at the Y. Sometimes I'd tag along to the pool. I enjoy swimming. And then she'd go home and watch TV or read before bed."
Not once did Mrs. Porter mention Hilary spending time with Kevin. They really didn't have a traditional marriage, did they?
"Why the lottery ticket?" I ask.
Mrs. Porter chuckles. "She would say that consistency pays off. If she kept doing it, she'd one day win big."
I smile at the idea, even if I'm not a gambler.
"In the last few months, she started getting me one too. It started as a joke. I gave her a dollar one day and said I wanted to win millions with a buck. She brought by the ticket the next day. I didn't win anything, of course, but I gave her another dollar. We repeated it every day until she didn't come back." A wave of sadness hits her face hard.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry to bring this up."
"No,
dear, I'm fine." She gives a tight smile, and I'm not sure I believe her.
The nail aesthetician returns, and Mrs. Porter holds back any tears she may be feeling.
I do the same. It's all so darn sad.
Why didn't Hilary go to her mother's that last afternoon? I need to ask her, but will she tell me? Would Kevin know? I'm just not sure if he'll be honest either. Ever since my last conversation with Hilary, I don't know if I can trust him after all.
* * *
I'm back in the office, settled at my desk, and staring at my pretty, new manicure. Ice cream was great, even if we had to eat it quickly because of the heat melting it. This morning's breeze was still present, so walking along the boardwalk was nice. Late morning meant it wasn't sardine-packed and we could stroll side-by-side.
Mrs. Porter still seemed happy when we parted and they returned to Freeport. She gave me a fierce hug and told me to visit her again. I promised I would and came back to work.
Now I'm just sitting and thinking. I could've gone home, but my apartment isn't more entertaining than the office, and I want to mull over what I know concerning getting locked in the cooler. Mrs. Porter helped more than I thought she would. Telling me about Hilary's daily routine showed me that there was no one else in her life. Which means my suspect list hasn't grown.
I grab a notepad from a desk drawer, a black ballpoint pen from a cup holder by the lamp, and start writing. Hilary's name goes at the top and then the suspects listed beneath. Kevin and Michael.
Hilary accuses Kevin of her murder. Kevin doesn't have an alibi and swears he didn't do it. What if the apology was just to throw me off? Could he have maneuvered that spoon into the door before it shut? No, it doesn't work that way. Besides, he was holding a pan of lasagna when it closed. Unless he's suddenly telekinetic, I don't think Kevin was involved. This doesn't mean he didn't kill his wife though.
Michael doesn't have an alibi either, and both men were angry with Hilary.
None of this really tells me anything new.
Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Page 18
