by Zoe York
Healing being such a messy business and all. But this time she managed to keep the thought to herself.
“Home should be a pleasant, non-stressful place for him, and he’ll always be happy to come back to it, no matter what he’s been dealing with.”
The whole thing sounded like a recipe for denial of reality to Piper, but she was past the point where she tried to get her mom to see another viewpoint. She’d just be wasting her breath. “Well, thank you for the advice. I’m sure the rest of the album will be interesting reading.”
She dug back in the purse. “I also wanted to bring you this. It’s a collection of all our family recipes, including all the ones from Nanna and Grandma Sylvia.”
Now this Piper could show genuine pleasure over. She pounced on the box in excitement. “Does this include Nanna’s recipe for Beef Concern?”
“It does.”
Piper had been trying to duplicate the casserole for years, but her grandmother had held on to some secret ingredient. Getting the full recipe was a rite of passage in her family. “Thank you!” Piper hugged her.
Her mother’s pleased expression shifted to mild exasperation as she pulled back and looked into Piper’s face. “Heavens. Did you put on any makeup this morning?”
And we’re back to the norm. “That was quite a few hours ago, Mom.”
Twyla stepped back and picked up her purse. “You ought to freshen up before Myles gets home. And maybe put on something other than your scrubs. You smell like antiseptic.”
Piper sighed. She didn’t have the energy for this fight today. “Yes, ma’am.”
Once her mother was safely out the door, Piper opened the recipe box and began flipping through, looking for the one she wanted. Plucking it out, she skimmed over the ingredient list. Miracle of miracles, they actually had everything on hand, so she set about pulling the casserole together for supper. Not because she thought Myles was Ward Cleaver but because she’d had a crap day and she wanted comfort food. Once it was safely in the oven, she did go shower and change—for herself, not because she thought Myles cared—then summoned some determination to empty a few more boxes.
“Piper?”
“Back here!” she called. She’d just finished up putting the last of her paperbacks onto the bookcase they’d moved into the guest room when he stuck his head through the door.
“Something smells amazing, other than you.” He tugged her up off the floor and into a warm kiss that untangled some of the knots of stress from the day.
“It’s Beef Concern.”
Myles made a comical face. “Should I be concerned?”
“It’s just called Beef Concern. I don’t know why. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I guess because it’s the casserole she makes whenever she’s concerned about somebody.”
“Are you concerned about somebody?”
She started to mention the seemingly endless string of non-compliant patients, who’d decided to take attitude and blame their lack of responsibility on her, which had left her waspish and hangry. But then she stopped herself. “I just wanted some comfort food and I figured you’d appreciate a meal that wasn’t take out after all the hours you’d been putting in.”
He beamed at her. “You are the sweetest thing. I’ve been looking forward to coming home to this smile all day.” He kissed her again, but Piper’s mind was circling back to her mother’s questionable advice.
“How long until dinner?” Myles wanted to know.
“Maybe another twenty minutes. I was going to unpack a few more boxes.”
“Well you could do that,” he conceded. “Or we could put that time to other use.”
As it was exactly what she’d wanted when she got home, Piper wasn’t about to say no to that. “That, Mr. Stewart, is an excellent idea.”
Chapter 12
“OMAR SENT PO-BOYS.”
Myles pulled his brain out of the inDesign template as Simone set a bag of takeout on the edge of his desk. The scent of grease and spice wafting from the containers had his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling. A clear reminder that he hadn’t had more than a pack of crackers from his drawer for lunch.
“I figured you weren’t leaving any time soon, so I’d better put food in front of you before you keeled over.”
He took off his reading glasses and tossed them next to his keyboard. Stubble rasped against his palms as he rubbed both hands over his face. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six.”
He hadn’t even noticed when the rest of his staff left the office. “I need to call Piper and tell her not to wait dinner on me.”
“Her car was still at the clinic when I drove by.”
Well, that was something. At least she wasn’t waiting on him. Had he been home anywhere approaching a reasonable hour at any point in the last two weeks? Barely. He’d been so damned busy with the paper, there’d hardly been opportunity to do more than sleep in the same bed. Something had to give, and he sure as hell didn’t want it to be his nascent marriage.
“Just as well you came back. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Simone braced herself. “It something going wrong with your access to the trust?”
“What? No. Everything’s fine there. I should be granted access in a few days.” Thank God. He needed that burden off his shoulders. “No, I wanted to talk about some of the issues that came up running things while I was gone. You’ll need to make some changes in how you handle things if you’re to take on more responsibility around here.”
“Myles, with respect, you’re a good friend, and I love you. But I don’t want more responsibility around here.”
“What?” Oh, dear Lord. Was she quitting?
“If your honeymoon taught me anything, it’s that I’m a reporter, not an editor. I never had that desire to mold and create a publication like you did. At least not the same way. I took this job in part because I wanted to get a chance to explore a different kind of journalism than I got in the city. But I also took it because it would be less demanding in a lot of ways and would give me the chance to actually have a life.”
Ironic, since his position here meant he had less of one.
Because he needed something to do with his hands, Myles unwrapped one of the po-boys and bit in. Fried shrimp. The breading was light and crunchy, the spice and salt a glorious counterpoint to the crisp lettuce and creamy mayo. God bless Omar. “And would that life be including seeing Omar Buckley on a more personal basis?”
“It would. As you well know, since you’re not blind. But he’s only part of it. I’m writing.”
“Well, yes, of course you’re writing. You handed in two stories this morning. The markups are in your email.”
“No, I mean really writing. Fiction.” Her eyes shone with excitement.
Despite the fatigue, Myles felt his interest pique. “Yeah? What genre?”
“Romantic suspense at the moment. Though I’ve got several other things kicking around in my brain.”
“I didn’t know you had aspirations in that direction.”
Simone laughed, her rich voice like a bubble of caramel. “Neither did I. But I love it. Really love it, the way you love running this paper. And I don’t want to take on anything that’s going to interfere with pursuing that. I certainly don’t mind helping out, when necessary. I know a paper like this means a lot of cross-training and interchangeability, but this isn’t about having a sub so you can go on a proper honeymoon. You’re really wanting someone to take over a lot of the responsibility for the paper on a more permanent basis.”
“You’re not wrong. I want an assistant editor.”
“It won’t be me.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Well, shit.”
“Is that a deal breaker for my position here?”
“Of course not. If it were, I’d have brought all of it up when I hired you in the first place. But I’ve got to figure something out. I can’t keep working like this.”
“Won’t things settle d
own once you pay off your investor?”
“I’m afraid we’re a long way from settling down, period. For good reasons. The paper’s having a growth spurt, and that’s great. But I need more help to manage it. I could outsource some of it, but that would defeat the purpose of what I’m doing here. I want to keep my business here in the community, as much as possible. To do that, I need a proper assistant editor. You were the closest to qualified of all the staff to do what I want, and if you don’t want it, I have to find someone else.”
“Is there anybody locally who might suit?”
“No one with the necessary experience, even if there might be interest. And I’m inclined to be choosy in who I bring in from the outside. Not everyone would appreciate a community like Wishful.”
Simone considered as she worked her way through her own po-boy. “You need a Clark Kent.”
“How’s that?”
“A reporter with small town roots, who went off to the big city like we did and is ready for a change.”
The wheels in Myles’ head began to turn. “No...not a Clark Kent. A Vanessa Clark.”
“Who?”
“Vanessa Clark. She’s a reporter I worked with at The Times in Seattle. Originally from a little town in Nebraska. A real hot shot. Bright, capable, with a definite eye for climbing the ladder. She left about the same time I did for Philly. I wonder where she landed…”
“What makes you think she’d be a good fit?”
“Because she was just as disgusted with the corporate politics as I was, and she was interested in moving to a smaller paper.”
Shoving his food away, Myles grabbed his keyboard and pulled up Facebook. It took a few minutes to sort through the results, but he finally tracked down his former colleague—now Vanessa Clark-Ellis—in Baltimore.
“Let’s see. Got married three years ago. And...apparently, had a baby a few months ago. Working at the Baltimore Sun now. Definitely not the smaller paper she talked about.”
“What’s she working on?”
He clicked over to the Sun’s website and searched out her work. “Some political stuff most recently, with a gap when she was probably on maternity leave. Looks like the crime beat before that.”
“Not exactly the kind of thing you want to mess with if you’ve got a little one,” Simone observed.
“It’s probably a long shot since she’s married, but worth a phone call, at least.”
“What’s the husband do?”
“Wife.” He shifted the monitor to point out the Facebook cover photo showing two smiling brides, then clicked a few more links. “Looks like she’s some kind of artist. Metalwork. Sculpture. That kind of thing.”
“The Chadwick is always looking for new exhibits...”
Myles grinned at her, liking that she was thinking along the same lines as he was. “So they are.”
Simone balled up her wrapper and made a three pointer into the trash. “Well, good luck. I leave you to your sleuthing now that I’m confident you aren’t going to pass out of starvation at your desk.”
“Thanks for dinner, Sim.”
“See you tomorrow.”
He was already eyeballs deep in a plan by the time she walked out the door.
“Dear God, it’s worse than last year,” Shelby groaned. “When will someone manage to find a way to vaccinate for the stomach flu?”
“Sadly, it doesn’t work that way,” Miranda said.
“Please tell me we’re done with everything,” Piper begged. “I don’t want to think about how many bodily fluids I cleaned up today. I just want to go home, have a bath, and face plant straight into bed. Maybe with a brief detour for food, if Myles put on dinner.” Not that he’d been home early enough for that at any point, but surely the Universe would see fit to grant her a miracle after such a shitty day. It was only fair.
“I’m pretty sure we’ve disinfected every centimeter of the building,” Keisha replied.
“Good call on the hydrogen peroxide wipes and spray,” Miranda added. “Maybe it’ll help keep us from getting it.”
“Hope springs eternal,” Piper muttered. “See y’all tomorrow.”
She drove home on autopilot, head feeling swimmy from exhaustion. Myles’ car wasn’t in the garage. Of course. Why should she have expected otherwise? That likely meant there wouldn’t be dinner. Given the fresh roiling in her stomach, she needed to put something in it.
The fridge was embarrassingly bare. Two lonely eggs, some spinach past its prime, a half package of lunch meat that smelled off, and coffee creamer. The pantry wasn’t much better for ready-made fare. Cereal was about the only option. There wasn’t even canned soup.
Sighing, she called Myles.
“Stewart.” It was his editor-in-chief voice, which meant he was deep in work mode.
“Hey, it’s me.”
There was a pause, during which Piper heard the clatter of a keyboard. “Hey you. What time is—oh crap. I meant to call you an hour ago to say I’d be late.”
“I just got home myself. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” She could hear the whine in her own voice and couldn’t muster enough give-a-damn to stop it.
“What happened?”
“Stomach flu epidemic. You don’t want to hear the gory details. Just be sure to wash your hands after touching anything in public.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lapsed into a silence that she’d learned meant his brain was already half back on his work. Given how much he loved his job and how hard he worked, Piper was working on not being offended by that. But just now it was kinda hard.
“I didn’t actually call to gripe about my day. I wanted to beg you to pick up take out on your way home.”
“Oh. Maybe you should call for Chinese. I’m not sure you want to wait on me.”
“You’re going to be a while, then?”
“Working on something that could be huge for the paper.”
She held in a sigh, missing the guy who’d juggled everything in his schedule to spend every spare moment with her before they got married. “Okay. I’m pretty wiped. I may be asleep by the time you get home.”
“Yeah, don’t wait up on my account. You sound half dead on your feet. If I don’t make it home before you crash, I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Piper swallowed down her disappointment. She’d wanted some comfort and support tonight. It had been a blanket fort and foot rub worthy kind of day. She waited to speak until she could keep her tone even. “Be careful on your way home.”
“I will. Promise. Night, Piper.”
The dial tone interrupted her goodnight.
Great. No food. No husband. A lousy end to a craptastic day.
As she ran a hot bath, she didn’t have the energy for her usual optimism. This sucked big donkey balls. Since they’d come home from their honeymoon, he’d worked longer and longer hours, becoming more and more consumed at the paper. Other than the fact that they managed to share a bed for a few hours a night, the last week hadn’t felt much different than those three months of hiatus.
Was this what his normal life was? Piper realized she had no idea. During their months of working on the show, they hadn’t talked much about his business. She really had no idea what he’d had to do in order to make time for the show. As well as she understood him on some fronts, there was a great deal she didn’t know about the man she’d married.
Was this what would’ve happened to their relationship if it had gone the normal course of dating instead of them diving headlong into marriage? Her being gradually pushed to the side in the name of his work? Zing or no zing, she wouldn’t have put up with this from a boyfriend for very long. She wasn’t some needy, codependent wuss, but she expected to do more than share the same address and semi-regular orgasms with her husband.
Stripping out of her scrubs, Piper slid into the water, hissing as the heat burned her toes.
Surely things would settle down once access to the trust went through and his investor was paid of
f. This pace he was setting for himself wasn’t sustainable for any kind of life.
As the heat soaked into her aching muscles, a horrible thought popped into her brain.
What if he was deliberately taking on all these long hours because he’d realized he didn’t actually want to be married to her? Had the bloom worn off so soon? Had he been disappointed to find out that she wasn’t crazy, fun-loving, optimistic Piper all the time? Surely he’d realized before he walked down the aisle that there was more to her. Hadn’t he?
But then how would he have known? When had he ever seen any other side of her? They hadn’t spent enough time together for him to know what she was like under other circumstances. He might understand the heart of her, but what if the everyday reality was a disappointment? Had they failed in their marriage before their first month was even up?
Feeling suddenly overheated and queasy, Piper boosted herself out of the bath.
I’m exhausted and not in the right frame of mind. I’ll just go on to bed, get a good night’s sleep, and when I’m calmer and more rational, we’ll talk about it like sane adults.
But having a plan of action did nothing to quell the rising nausea. She bolted for the toilet, barely making it before her stomach revolted. Little remained of her lunch, but she continued to heave, stomach cramping and twisting, wringing out every last drop of bile and acid, until, at last, she lay panting on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold tile.
Looked like her luck, along with their honeymoon period, had finally run out.
Chapter 13
MYLES FELT HIS BLOOD sing. He hadn't had cause to pull out his investigative reporter skills since he moved back to Mississippi—uncovering Piper's matchmaking scheme during the play notwithstanding. He'd just sussed out everything he could possibly need to know about Vanessa Clark's current circumstances. The combination of her new daughter and noted discontent with her role at The Baltimore Sun, along with those small-town roots, meant he had a shot at wooing her to Wishful. He'd used the same methods on Simone, though that process had been easier because they'd still kept in touch.
