by TA Moore
“Could it be my mother?” Joe asked. Maybe his mother had some sort of mental illness. Harry wasn’t a monster, but like Joe’s claustrophobia, he expected people would get better from their anxiety or depression if they tried.
Before he could speculate too far, Bea shook her head. “The owner was a widower with a young daughter,” she said. A quick flight through her files pulled out a photocopy of a newspaper article with a photo of a stocky, bearded man as he carried a little red-haired girl with bandaged hands out of a graveyard. Bea tapped the blurred faces with a well-manicured finger. “Keith Mantle and his daughter, Daisy. The stipend is still paid, actually. After Keith died, we were instructed to pay it directly into a new account that Daisy was given access to.”
“What was the connection between this man and Harry?” Joe asked.
Bea pursed her lips. “Well, nothing obvious,” she said. “But… his wife died in a car accident. The little girl was in the car with her at the time. It was apparently pretty horrific, although reports stated that there had been only one car involved in the accident. The papers interviewed a witness—a woman from London out for the night—and she said the woman was alive when the car started to burn. Awful. The payments started around six months after that. It sounds to me like a guilty conscience.”
“Dad doesn’t drive,” Joe said. “He’s got epilepsy. He never learned.”
“Maybe your mum, then?” Bea said. When he frowned at her, she spread her hands in apology. “Sorry, but it feels like a payoff to me, and one this generous? That’s a personal connection. Anyhow, here’s everything we have about it.”
She handed the file over, zipped up her bag, and gave him an inquisitive look. “If there’s nothing else?” she said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Joe riffled through the pages she’d given him. There were pictures of the house, a report from an insurance company, and nothing that proved anything.
“Nothing else,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Keep me in mind in future,” Bea said as she unfolded herself from the chair and glanced at her watch. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have half an hour to enjoy my lunch date….”
She looked around and bit her lip in distracted appreciation. Joe followed her gaze and Rosie had balanced cake plates precariously on top of two different-sized coffee cups as she wove through the tables. Her hair was in a scruffy ponytail, and she was in jeans and a shirt decorated with little birds. Each, Joe supposed, to their own.
There were probably people who didn’t think Cal was attractive.
NO. JOE watched Cal ruin the line of his trousers by putting his hands in his pockets. He’d been wrong. This had to be universal.
Cal smirked at him. “Hot as you hoped?”
Hotter. The dark blue was a soft contrast to Cal’s pale skin and tawny hair, and the tailoring showcased the heft of his shoulders and then tucked in to expose his narrow waist and lean hips. He still looked like bad news, but Joe would have been disappointed if they’d styled that out of him.
“You look,” Joe said as he pushed himself off the doorframe, “like we don’t have to leave for a while.”
He walked over and cupped his hand around the nape of his Cal’s neck to pull him into a kiss. His cropped hair was stubble-rough under his fingers, and the compliant tilt of Cal’s heavy muscled body toward him made Joe’s stomach twist with sharp pangs of lust. Stubble still grazed along his jaw, a golden scruff that scraped Joe’s lips and tasted like cologne.
Joe worked his hands under Cal’s jacket, his skin hot under the thin silk of the shirt, and he started to shove it off his shoulders. Before he got it down as far as the elbow, Cal bit his lower lip and shoved Joe backward.
“You made me get all dressed up,” Cal said as he shrugged the jacket back up over his shoulders. “Now you get to take me out. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
There was something expectant in the way he said that, like he figured Joe had. If it weren’t for that, Joe probably would have dragged him back over to the bed. Joe licked his lower lip where it still stung from Cal’s teeth.
“Next time,” he said as he gave Cal a last, appreciative once-over. “You can wear jeans to the party and keep that for when we get back.”
Cal snorted and rubbed his hand over his head. The tips of his ears had gone red. Joe would have never thought that Cal was insecure about how attractive he was, but apparently a compliment could still fluster him a bit.
“Are you blushing?” Joe teased. He put his knuckles under Cal’s chin, tilted his head back, and stroked his thumb over his lower lip. “You know I think you’re beautiful.”
Cal snorted and moved his head away. “You want to get laid.”
“I do. But it’s not hard to get you into bed,” Joe said. “It’s persuading you that I like you that I have trouble with.”
The ghost of a smile tugged at Cal’s mouth. “Maybe I want you to keep trying,” he said. “Now, you going to show me off to all your posh friends, or what?”
They took an Uber to Charing Cross. Joe claimed his usual spot behind the passenger seat. It hadn’t been that long, but it was already odd to look up and see a face in the rearview mirror that wasn’t Cal. There were compensations, though. Cal slid over the seat and slung a heavy, well-tailored arm over his shoulders.
“Would you be mad at her?” Cal asked. He watched the cars crawl by outside as the driver nudged and edged his way through the traffic. “If she’s not dead?”
There was a question. “Maybe. I suppose I should be.”
“You don’t have to be. Nobody can make you feel something.”
Joe had never considered that before.
The driver dropped them off at the venue, a huge bookstore lit up brightly even as the lights went down. Cal bumped Joe’s shoulder with his as they went inside. A trail of bright, summer florals and well-tailored suits led up the wide, glass-railed stairs, past stacked walls of brightly colored books and the occasional customer who peeked around a Sherlock Holmes cover to admire the fashion on their way past.
Bea met them at the top of the stairs. Her dress looked as though it had been poured onto her, liquid gold that dripped down from the point of her shoulder to her tanned knees. The perfect arch of her brows rose as she glanced from Joe to Cal.
“So that’s how it is,” she said.
Habit made Joe bristle, his hackles up with defensive paranoia. It took him a second to remember that he didn’t care anymore. Or, at least, that he aimed not to.
“Is Howson here?” Joe asked instead of a sharp denial.
Bea handed him two tickets and turned to glance across the crowd of bare shoulders and prosecco. Howson might be a well-heeled member of the board now, but twenty-seven years ago, he’d been on the streets with a collection bucket next to Cal’s mother. Before Bea could point him out, Rosie slid up next to her. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and she was in a simple dark green dress that made her eyes look nearly as black as Joe’s.
“Rosie,” Bea hooked her arm through Rosie’s. “You remember Mr. Bailey.”
The smile Rosie offered him was uncomfortable, but everything about her shouted that she’d rather be somewhere else.
“Yes,” she said. “I spilled wine on your shirt.”
“No hard feelings,” Joe said. He turned to include Cal in the introductions. “This is Cal Tate.”
Rosie gave them both a brisk nod of her head, squeezed Cal’s hand when he offered it, and then turned back to Bea. “I have to go. My boss isn’t feeling well. I have to drive her home.”
Disappointment dimmed Bea like someone had installed a switch. “Oh,” she said. “Couldn’t she take an Uber? I really wanted to spend some time with you.”
Rosie’s face shone as she looked up at Bea, but then she bit her lip and tamped it down.
“It is my job,” she pointed out. “And she’s always been so good to me. I have to go. Call me, though.”
Bea touched the side of her face. “D
efinitely.”
One last, shy smile pleated Rosie’s lips, and then she slipped away. Bea watched her go and shook her head.
“Oh, I like her,” she said, almost dismayed. “She’s lovely.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Howson?”
The tail of Bea’s dress swung out around her knees like a bell as she turned. “Over there,” she said. “By the window.”
She pointed across the room to a tall man who reminded Joe of nothing in particular…. He was a rather faded man in a well-cut suit that had probably been tailored to fit at some point.
“Thanks,” Joe said to Bea.
She dismissed it with a flip of her last ticket. “Good luck.”
The crowd wasn’t too bad yet. It parted to let Joe and Cal through on their way across the room. Once he realized they were aimed at him, Howson looked surprised. He drained his glass of whiskey and dusted sausage roll crumbs off his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”
Joe caught his hand when it was offered. It was warmer than he’d expected and stiff. He shook it carefully. “Joe,” he said. “We’ve not met, but I’m trying to get in touch with an old friend of yours.”
“Probably dead, then,” Howson said dryly. “At my age, most of them are. Or retired, which is much the same. The only difference is they complain more.”
“Abigail Bailey?” Joe said. “It was years ago, but she worked with your charity. I have a picture of you at a fund-raiser with her in—”
“Brighton,” Howson interrupted with a chuckle. “I remember that. Abby hates that photo. She says it gives her more chins than Jabba the Hutt.”
Says, not said. Joe’s chest felt hot and tight with the undefined smoke of something he couldn’t accurately describe. It could have been fear or anger, but it felt as though he couldn’t breathe. He swallowed the stickiness in his mouth. Cal put a hand on his back in mute support.
“That’s the one,” Joe said. “I’ve been trying to get in contact with her, but I’ve had no luck. By any chance, are you still in touch with her?”
Howson started to answer and then turned it into an awkward cough as he cleared his throat. He blinked and scratched the side of his nose.
“Actually, I’d rather not say,” he said. When Joe raised his eyebrows, Howson made a twitchy gesture with his clumsy hands. “A few years ago, Abby had some problems with a… stalker? I don’t know. It wasn’t romantic but odd. Since then she prefers to keep a low profile.”
Joe frowned. That was a coincidence. It didn’t mean it was related, but… still. Maybe he should have defended Kristen to Edward after all.
“It’s an inheritance,” Cal said. He held his hand out to Howson, ready for an introduction. “My father recently passed, and he knew Mrs. Bailey. He left a few… sentimental… items, but we’ve had no luck trying to track her down.”
“Well,” Howson said. “She’s not been Mrs. Bailey for, God, twenty years. She’s remarried and divorced since then. Um, sorry to hear about your father.”
Cal looked down at the floor and scratched the back of his head. He looked sad and uncomfortable with the fact. “He wasn’t a good guy,” he said. “I guess. But it seemed important to him that I do this.”
“If we could have a quick word?” Joe cut in smoothly. “Inform her about Cal’s father’s passing and see if she wants any of the things set aside for her? It’s nothing big, a few old gifts.”
Howson looked sympathetic to the implied star-crossed romance, but reluctant. “Honestly, I’m not comfortable with it. Abigail would not appreciate me—”
“Could you give her my number?” Cal asked. “If she wants to get in contact, she can.”
He held out a square of card with EVADE printed blunt and black across the front. It hung in the air while Howson stammered uncertainly until he finally gave in and took it.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “If you could excuse me, I do have to work tonight. Again, sorry for your loss.”
He tucked the card into his pocket and ducked away into the crowd. Joe watched him press hands and crane his neck to nod and smile for a few minutes. Then he glanced at Cal. “Follow him?”
“And hope he doesn’t need a piss.”
Joe snorted out a surprised laugh as the down-to-earth comment punctured the knot of tension in his chest. It felt easier without it. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and followed Howson’s stooped, cashmere-clad shoulders.
It turned out that Howson didn’t need the toilet after all. Joe caught up with him by one of the internal glass walls that looked down through the floors of books. He’d handed Cal’s business card to a well-dressed woman with auburn hair and a pair of Coke-bottle glasses balanced on her nose. There was something of the girl she’d been twenty years ago in her face, but Joe thought he could have walked past her at the bar and never guessed who she was. She looked confused as she turned the white rectangle over in her fingers.
“Sorry,” Joe said as he joined them. “I don’t believe you actually know Cal’s father. That was a trick, I’m afraid. I needed to speak to you.”
Even from inside his own head he could hear Harry in his voice, in the coolly flip apology. He didn’t want that, but at least he understood it. If he wasn’t cold, he wasn’t actually sure what to be. A few minutes ago, he hadn’t been sure what emotion to feel. Now he seemed to have them all at once.
Howson blustered and hmphed in annoyance, but after a moment, Abigail patted him on the arm, reassured him that it was fine, and sent him to find her assistant.
“Dermot has been a very good friend to me over the years,” she noted once he’d gone. “I don’t appreciate you making a fool of him.”
“That wasn’t my intent. I needed to speak to you.”
Abigail laced her fingers together in front of her stomach and twitched her eyebrows toward her hairline. “Well, now you have the chance.”
He couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat as fear squeezed it shut. His whole life he’d thought that he didn’t have emotional attachment to the idea of a mother, but maybe he did… or wanted to. He needed to the next few moments to play out right.
“This is Cal Tate, my….” Joe hesitated as he flipped through the options and tried to pick one. He could feel Cal behind him, unsurprised at Joe’s fumble. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to call Cal something, but what? Boyfriend? Lover? Maybe Cal didn’t want anything that… committed. He settled on, “Date. I’m Joseph Bailey. Your son.”
Surprise softened Abigail’s face, and Joe braced himself for her reaction.
“You look like your father,” she said with a small smile. It faded into a solemn, not-quite-apologetic expression. “But, Joseph, I’m not your mother. I never had a child.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE SOUND of the fund-raiser opposite filtered through the long, clean glass walls of the bookshop cafe in a white-noise mix of earnest conversation and elevator music. Cal stood at the counter and stared through the plastic at plates of sugar-glittered pastries, waves of lemon fondant, and a small pile of chocolate-covered marshmallow top hats.
Behind the counter the barista stifled a yawn and clicked her tongs impatiently. “What do you want, sir?”
Cal didn’t know. What sort of cake did people have when they’d had an expected kicking? He knew they didn’t have jammie dodgers, his grandad’s choice of biscuit for hard conversations.
“Three doughnuts,” he said after a second.
“Jam, lemon, or chocolate?” she said blandly, her tongs poised over the tray.
“One of each,” Cal said with a glare. It didn’t have much impact. She piled the doughnuts up on a plate and turned to finish the drinks.
Abigail drank chamomile tea. The cafe didn’t have any, so she’d get lemon and honey instead. If she didn’t want to drink it, she could sit and sniff it. Once the drinks were finished and awkwardly fitted onto the tray, Cal swiped his card and picked them up.
He walke
d in at the middle of Abigail’s explanation. She stumbled to a stop as Cal handed over the coffee and sweets.
“Thank you,” she said as she nudged the plate away. “But I’m not hungry. I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me earlier.”
She touched her stomach and pulled a small face.
“My dad always said you were my mother,” Joe said. “Why lie?”
Abigail sighed and took her glasses off. She pulled the sleeve of her dress down and fastidiously polished the lens. Without them her face looked oddly unfinished, her eyes smaller than they looked through the frames.
“I couldn’t tell you,” she said. “Maybe he thought it would save on explanations. He used to tell a lot of stories that way—edit out the parts that distracted from what he wanted you to realize. In the end, though, that’s something you have to ask him. I’ve not spoken to Harry in nearly thirty years.”
Cal sat down next to Joe, close enough that their knees touched. “He also said you were dead.”
“Even fewer explanations,” Abigail said with a small, wry smile. She seemed less annoyed to have been relegated to the grave than Cal would have been. Then her mouth twitched and she gave Joe a guilty look. “Or maybe he meant your real mother. She died.”
She waited for a reaction. Joe didn’t give her one. He looked composed and his hands were steady as he lifted his coffee off the table. It wasn’t real. There was a muscle that twitched below the hinge of Joe’s jaw, and the leg pressed against Cal’s under the table was clenched as though Joe was ready to run. Cal could tell that, but from the flash of judgment that passed over Abigail’s face, she couldn’t.
