“Don’t hit me with the nachos,” Luis wailed. “Not my nachos, Sid!” But he was grinning and dodging for the chips while Sid tried to land another swat.
“You see what I have to put up with, Mr. Knightley. Insubordination, disrespect, attitude. Nacho hogging.”
Luis swiped the bag back and darted for the door, yelling over his shoulder, “Mine at last! Fly, my pretties! Fly!”
Mac set down the groceries he’d been holding, unable to suppress a smile. “He’s a Wizard of Oz fan?”
“Old movies, old cartoons.” Sid shrugged out of her jacket, hung it on a chair, and began peering into the bags on the counter. “Vintage TV was one thing he and Tony had in common.” She stowed her plunder in the fridge: yogurt, a big brick of orange cheddar, a tub of sour cream, butter, a brand of ice cream Mac considered worth his own notice.
“You like your dairy.”
“Love it.” Her tone was flat as she kept stowing the goods.
“I’m sorry if bringing up your late brother is awkward.”
She turned then, her expression puzzled. “Not bringing him up feels awkward, like he’s not only dead but also somehow disgraced, though bringing him up doesn’t help. I’m sorry.” She turned her back to Mac again and began rummaging in the second bag. “You’ll probably want to be going, now that you’ve brought Luis the what-do-you-call-’ems. And my thanks. I’m sure they’ll be much appreciated.”
Maybe it was her tone of voice, casual and offhand; maybe it was the way she tossed things into the cupboard, or the line of her spine under that silk blouse.
Mac crossed the kitchen to stand immediately behind her. “It’s OK to cry, Sid.”
She pokered right up, her back to his chest, a jar of raspberry jam in her hand.
“No, Mr. Knightley, it is not.” She set the jar on the counter quite firmly, and kept her hand around it. “Not when I have a house to set to rights, groceries to put away, and a child to raise. Crying is for when you have nothing left to do and nobody to do it for. I’ve cried enough.”
Have not.
What she wanted was an argument, a fight, a rousing battle to keep her together. Mac could understand better than she’d ever know, but he could not oblige.
“My dad died when I was little more than a kid myself, Sid. I can still, right this minute, feel the lump in my throat that took the better part of five years to ease. Just when I thought maybe I was regaining my balance, my mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.”
Some of the starch went out of her. Her shoulders dropped, and she braced herself on the counter. Mac didn’t step away.
“Luis doesn’t know what to do with me when I mope.”
She didn’t know what to do with herself.
“When you grieve.” Mac reached around her and put the jam up on the shelf next to a jar of apricot preserves. “It’s called grieving, Sid.”
She nodded, and only then did Mac move off, going to another grocery bag. “What was he like, your brother?”
“Tony was the best.” She didn’t march up to Mac and chase him off her groceries, so he put frozen vegetables into the freezer. Snow peas—she was a snow peas kind of lady. Knowing that about her pleased him.
“My brothers are the best too,” he said. “Though sometimes they require pointed guidance.”
“Tony didn’t.” She stared at a jar of guacamole dip. “He was the kind of guy anybody could talk to. That came in handy in his line of work.”
“What did he do?” Snow peas and a cruciferous medley. Mac approved of both.
“He ran his own video production company. I was the second in command, the one who stepped and fetched and caught up all the loose ends. My title was head of HR, but I had my fingers into everything. We were quite successful, while Tony was well.”
“He was ill?”
Mac purposely didn’t look up from the grocery bag he’d nearly emptied. Going through Sid’s provisions like this, putting them away with her was intimate. Almost as intimate as listening to her reluctant admissions of grief.
“Tony was ill.” She sat at the table, her chin resting on her stacked fists. “I could tell you it was lymphoma, but it was AIDS. Damned, rotten, stupid AIDS. He always promised he was careful, but he was a guy. That was talk to placate the womenfolk, or maybe he only started being careful when I came to live with him.”
Mac opened the guacamole dip, set it in front of her, found the backup bag of nachos, and put that at her elbow.
“You haven’t had lunch yet. Eat.”
She gave him a measuring look, then tore open the chips. “My brother died of AIDS. You may now start compulsively washing your hands or something.”
Mac turned a chair around and straddled it. “It’s an illness, not a curse from the angry gods of right-wing morality. What do you want to drink?”
She studied her chip now, one sporting a little dab of guacamole on a corner. “It’s hard for me when people are nice, Mr. Knightley.”
“Mac,” he said, reaching into the bag. “It’s hard for you when they’re not nice, too, would be my guess. Stubborn people deal better with a little traction, a dash of sand in the gears.”
She peered up at him through sad, shiny eyes. “You are an unlikely philosopher.”
“I’m stubborn too.” Mac patted Sid’s hand and rose, going to the fridge. “I’m putting together a sandwich, and you’re eating it.” He set fixings on the counter: turkey, Swiss cheese, bread, mustard, a tomato, mayo, butter…
“What is it with men and food?” Sid bit off the corner of the nacho and considered the uneaten portion.
“It’s life and food. The two are related, and you’re alive, which is nothing to be ashamed of. What happened to the production company?”
“Tony’s spouse, Thorvald, inherited Tony’s share, though without Tony, it’s just a lot of equipment, a leased studio, and a few contracts.”
“You really know a guy named Thorvald?”
“He’d like you,” Sid said, eyeing Mac as he fished a knife out of the silverware drawer. “He was a tramp, and I’ve wondered if he didn’t kill Tony indirectly.”
“AIDS killed Tony, and you are only torturing yourself by trying to read more into it than that. Mayonnaise or mustard?”
“Just mustard. How long ago did your dad die?”
“I was out of high school. Mom died about twelve years ago, but I still stumble, sometimes.”
“Stumble?”
“She loved this…life. Loved each little crocus, each daffodil, each robin. She loved the way the light was so clear the sunset before the first frost. She loved the first snow. She simply loved, and when Dad died, she folded in on herself. I’ll be walking along and identify a particular birdsong, and I think ‘I’ll tell Mom.’ But it’s a decade later, and I won’t tell Mom ever again. I stumble.”
“I stumble to my knees.” Sid dipped a second nacho into the guacamole. “The people who ought to be tidying up Tony’s estate don’t seem to care whether we live or die while they twiddle their thumbs at an obscene hourly rate. I want the paperwork, the bullshit, to be over, you know?”
Mac passed her a turkey and Swiss on rye. “Probate is a detailed process, done right. How about milk with that?”
Sid crunched her nacho. “Moo juice is fine by me. Do you know about probate from your parents’ deaths?”
“Mostly.” Mac busied himself putting away the sandwich fixings. Trust and estate—stiffs and gifts—wasn’t his legal area, but he owned part of a law practice that had a T&E department.
“I purely hate lawyers, Mr. Knightley. Hate them with a cold-blooded, unrelenting passion.”
“A lot of people feel that way.” Until they were arrested, or were served with divorce papers, or found themselves permanently disabled by some incompetent doctor. “There have been lawyers in my family since forever, and th
ey can be useful people to have on your side.”
“That’s just it.” Sid picked up her sandwich in two hands, rocking her hips from side to side in the chair, as if settling in for a tug of war. “The lawyers are never on your side. They may take your money, but they’re on their own side, ultimately.”
Now was not the time to argue—or to tell Sid he was a lawyer. “They can’t break the law to please a client.”
“And yet they drag their feet, prevaricate, don’t return phone calls, all the while charging an hourly rate that would bankrupt The Donald in nothing flat.”
Some lawyers did that, though it was hard to get away with in a small town. Word traveled quickly.
“You having trouble with a particular lawyer?”
“The lawyers handling Tony’s estate, for starters. Seems they can pay the rent on the studio and give Thor free rein with the business decisions, but with Tony’s personal assets, they are as tightfisted as my Scottish granny.”
“Who are they?”
Sid gave Mac the name of the firm.
“Over in Baltimore?”
“With offices in DC and Boston. This is a good sandwich.”
Which brought up another touchy subject: “When was the last time you sat down to eat something with protein in it, Sidonie?”
“Pancakes have eggs in them, so this morning.”
And she thought lawyers were bad. “You going to let Luis get away with having nachos for lunch?”
“I didn’t see you chasing after him to retrieve the contraband.” She took another bite of her sandwich, chewing like a squirrel. “He’s fast, and getting bigger by the day.”
“Boys will do that, but we’re discussing proper nutrition.” Mac opened a few cupboards, found what he was looking for, and turned a burner on. “You don’t have much here in the way of fresh produce, Sid. Veggies are good for growing boys.”
And grieving ladies. Mac kept that thought to himself.
“You have a point,” Sid conceded. “But somebody would have to cook the fresh veggies.”
“You cook the frozen ones,” he said, pouring milk into a saucepan. “Fresh ones aren’t that different. Do I take it that some of your financial worries would be alleviated if Tony’s estate were disbursed?”
Sid glared at the remaining two-thirds of her sandwich, which was answer enough.
“Tony was a fricking financial genius. He bought this farm on a whim, to flip it in a few years, or so he said. Tony could spot a deal.” She chewed more slowly. “Yes, I am shamelessly sitting on my rosy ass, at least for now, when I ought to be out finding work. Except I want to be here for Luis, and we just moved here, and there isn’t much call for a video production infield utility gofer out here in God’s country.”
“File for unemployment. It’s income, and if you worked, you earned it.”
“I worked up until a year ago, when Tony started having bad spells. I’m not sure I still qualify for unemployment. What are you doing there, Knightley? Making free with my comestibles?”
“Here.” Mac put a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her. “You said you’d drink milk. This is milk.”
“You made me hot chocolate?”
“It’s comfort food and good for you.”
Sid’s brows knitted, and she traced a finger around the rim of the mug. “I don’t have any of the mix. How did you do this?”
“You have bitter cocoa, sugar, vanilla, salt, and milk.”
Sid took a sip, then a second sip. “Yours is better than the instant kind. More chocolate.” She swiped at her top lip with her tongue.
“You want another sandwich?” Or maybe Mac would scrub the cobblestones Luis had already wrecked his knees scrubbing.
“I want you to sit and stop pillaging in my kitchen. How did you learn to make this?”
“My mother believed her sons should know their way around the kitchen, particularly when she had no daughters to assist her. You done with the nachos?”
“Knightley, sit.”
Mac sat, which was a bad idea. He had a front-row seat when Sid once again licked that little chocolate-milk mustache off her lips.
“Who’s your lawyer?” he asked, needing to see her dander up again. Sid hated lawyers, which he tried to regard as a good thing.
“I don’t have a lawyer, nor do I want one.”
She was enjoying the hot chocolate, though. Mac couldn’t help but notice that.
“You should have one, because the estate lawyers don’t represent you. They don’t have your best interests at heart. They won’t hop to it just because you say so.” They’d go merrily billing away, in fact, not exactly milking the estate, but doing a thorough job of administering it.
Sid saluted with her mug. “That is the damned truth. How do I afford a lawyer when the estate people won’t turn loose of the first nickel? What you call your basic conundrum, there.”
“It’s your lawyer’s job to get the nickels turned loose,” Mac said, “particularly if Tony set up some sort of trust with you as beneficiary.”
“Weese got the trust from a life insurance policy. I get a wad of cash, I think.”
She thought. Six months into probate, and she hadn’t seen a preliminary accounting, nor apparently even had a peek at the will or the trust documents.
Not good.
“How about I have my lawyer make a few calls?” Mac asked, putting the lid back on the guacamole dip.
“No thank you. Lawyers who make calls are lawyers who send out bills. Did you make any more of this stuff?” She nodded at her mug.
Sid would let him fix her another hot chocolate, but not arrange free legal help. Usually, people were pestering Mac to take their cases, to “look over” the charging documents, or “talk to the cops” for them. His clients often wanted something for nothing and were happy to get it.
“I can make you more, Sidonie.”
“How about you show me how?”
Mac did, standing next to Sid at the stove, leaving her to stir the milk with the wooden spoon while he put away the nachos and dip and wiped off the table.
“What do you suppose Luis is up to?” he asked when she’d poured the hot chocolate into two mugs.
“Damned if I know. He’s in love with those horses, though, and that’s going to be a problem.”
“How?”
“We cannot afford them.”
A money problem, Mac could solve. A problem with Sid’s pride, only Sid could solve.
“What if the owner paid you to board them here,” Mac suggested. “Paid you what they’re costing you, plus something for their care?”
“That would be Luis’s idea of a prayer answered. He seems to spend more time out at that barn with each day.”
Whatever that quote was, about the outside of a horse being good for the inside of a man, it went double for kids, probably quadruple for foster kids.
“Have you seen what he’s done there?” Mac asked.
“I have not,” Sid said, passing him his hot chocolate. “I figure he’ll let me into the secret clubhouse when he wants me to see it.”
“Take a look. He’s working miracles. Now, about the horses.”
“And their imaginary owner, who has not, in the two weeks since we closed on this place, so much as picked up the phone to ask after his fair damsels. I asked the real estate agent to call the previous owner, but even his agent can’t find him. I don’t suppose you know who this paragon of pet-owning responsibility would be?”
Mac took a fortifying sip of his hot chocolate. “In a sense, I think that would be me.”
* * *
And here I was beginning to like him—or his hot chocolate.
“Mr. Knightley, I do not appreciate prevarication, mendacity, or manipulation,” Sid said. “Why would you leave your horses here, come on the scene
as if you knew nothing, and now offer me some sort of confession?”
“I can explain.”
The road to hell should be paved with those three words. “You can keep your explanations,” Sid said. “I cannot abide people who trade in falsehoods. Ask Luis—on your way out the door.”
Sid had also respected this guy, respected his generosity and competence, his willingness to deal with Luis—but when had her judgment regarding guys ever been trustworthy?
“You asked me a question, Sidonie, at least let me answer it.” Mac sat back in his chair, reminding Sid she couldn’t bodily toss him anywhere.
“So answer, then beat it. Take the mastodons with you.” At least Sid had his hot chocolate recipe to keep.
“I didn’t leave them here. I never had title to them, and if you can’t listen with an open mind, why should I bother? I can walk out that door, and there isn’t a judge or a jury on this earth that would hold me responsible for those horses. I hold myself responsible. Why don’t you run your ad on Craigslist, and explain to Luis why his horses ended up in a freezer headed for Belgium?”
MacKenzie Knightley wasn’t the kind of guy whose fuse burned down quickly and loudly. His arguments were soft, reasonable, and nasty.
“You said they were yours. Now they’re Luis’s?”
He had blue eyes, and they reflected a world of frustration. A guy this size, this frustrated, whom Sid didn’t know well at all, ought to be intimidating.
And he was, but not scary. MacKenzie Knightley was formidable, but she would have bet her leather bomber jacket he was honorable. Surely any guy who scolded her about protein and grief while he made her sandwiches and hot chocolate had to have some honor?
“My father bred that pair,” he said, staring at his mug. “They were the last pair out of his own mares, and he was looking very much forward to seeing what they could do. We broke them to drive, to the plow, and even to ride, and they were smart about it. Full of common sense, like the best ones are. I competed them at the state fair and did well.”
Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses) Page 8
