He smiled at the picture.
He beat her, lamb.
His smile died.
Fuck, that shit for brains photographer boss of hers had all that for f**king years.
Years.
And she still sat beside her grandmother’s casket alone.
So yes, to answer your question, I’m keeping the house.
She was keeping the house.
That meant they might get to keep her.
Jake just needed to see to making that happen.
He put the picture back in the drawer and returned the letters there. He closed it. He locked it. He slugged back the last of his beer, turned out the lights, went to his bedroom, undressed and hit the sack.
It was late and he needed some sleep.
Because tomorrow morning, for breakfast, he was meeting Josie.
Chapter Seven
Winded
My high-heeled boots thudded on the boardwalk as the heavy breeze blew my Alexander McQueen scarf behind me.
I spied Jake at the window to The Shack through my sunglasses that I was wearing even though the day was cold, gray and threatening rain.
I was lamenting my choice of the McQueen scarf. It was cream with hot pink skulls on it (one that was of his signature design) but it wasn’t exactly warm.
Still, it was fabulous and fabulous required sacrifice. I knew that from years of practicing fabulous.
Or trying to.
As if he sensed my approach, Jake turned, his non-sunglassed eyes did an obvious head to toe and his unfortunately attractive lips spread into a wide smile that exposed equally unfortunately attractive teeth.
He moved my way as I got close and I heard him call to the window, “Just yell when they’re done, Tom.”
“You got it!” was called back by the invisible Tom.
I stopped where Jake stopped, at the end of The Shack where there was a tall table with a variety of things on it.
“Good morning, Jake,” I greeted.
“Mornin’, Slick,” he greeted back, still smiling big.
But I blinked.
Slick.
I finally understood his use of the word “slick.”
Good God.
He’d given me a nickname.
And it was Slick!
I opened my mouth to protest this but he stuck a hand toward me and I saw he had two white paper cups.
“Coffee,” he pointed out the obvious.
Forced by politeness to express gratitude rather than express aversion to my nickname, I took it and said, “Thank you.”
“Shit’s here to put in it,” he motioned to the table. He then put his coffee on it and pulled off the white lid.
I eyed my selections and noted with no small amount of horror that they had powered creamer and no sweetener.
“Thought Fellini was dead,” Jake noted bizarrely, pouring a long stream of sugar from a silver-topped glass container into his coffee.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked.
He kept pouring for a bit then put the sugar down and turned to me. “Babe, you look like you’re walkin’ on the set of a Fellini movie.”
I blinked at him again before I asked, “You’ve seen a Fellini film?”
And he smiled big again. “No, but that doesn’t mean you don’t look like a broad from one of those old art house movies where the babes are all sex kitten bombshells dressed real good, wearing sunglasses with scarves flyin’ all over the place.”
I stared at him thinking this might be a compliment.
A very nice one.
Or, a very nice one Jake Spear style.
“Scarves, I’ll add, that don’t do shit when it’s fifty degrees but the wind chill makes it feel like forty,” he went on.
I kept staring at him.
“Josie? You awake?” he asked when this went on for some time.
“You use too much sugar in your coffee,” I blurted.
“Yeah,” he said, going back to his coffee that he was now stirring. “You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”
I found that interesting.
He looked at me, down to the table then at me again and asked, “You gonna set up your coffee?”
I hid my distaste as I looked at what was on offer to “set up my coffee” then I looked back at him and shook my head.
I usually took a splash of skim milk and a sweetener.
That morning, I’d drink it black.
“Right, let’s sit down,” Jake said and tossed his stirrer in the (filthy and encrusted with a variety of things, not all of them coffee) little white bin provided on the table.
He then started moving to the mélange of unappealing white plastic chairs with their equally unappealing white steel (liberally dusted with rust) tables that likely saw cleaning only through the salty air and sea breeze.
“Sit down?” I asked Jake’s back, following him. “Outside?”
He selected a table (there was a wide selection seeing as no one was there) and turned to me. “You got a problem with outside?”
“Not normally. Al fresco dining is usually quite lovely. But not when the wind chill factor is forty.”
“Al fresco dining,” he repeated.
“Dining outside,” I explained and this got another smile.
“Know what it is, Slick,” he stated. I opened my mouth to share how I felt about this nickname but he returned to his earlier subject before I could say a word. “You need a decent scarf.”
“This is a decent scarf,” I retorted. “It’s Alexander McQueen.”
“Maybe so but I’m not sure Alexander whoever’s been to Maine.”
I wasn’t either. Alas, he nor his genius was with us any longer so if he hadn’t, that would now be impossible.
This conversation was ridiculous and he wasn’t moving so I decided to seat myself. As I did, I longed for some antiseptic wipes (about a hundred of them, for the chair and the table). Since I didn’t have any, I settled in a chair and sipped the coffee.
After I did that, I stared at the cup mostly because I was surprised that it was robust and flavorful.
“Tom doesn’t f**k around with coffee,” Jake murmured and I turned my eyes to him.
“It appears this is so.”
He smiled at me again.
I gingerly set my coffee on the table and equally gingerly shrugged my handbag off my shoulder to join it.
“Your mornin’ been good?” he asked quietly.
I picked up my coffee and looked at him. “Thus far.”
“When do you go to your friends’ place?”
“After this,” I said before taking a sip.
His head cocked slightly to the side. “You sure you’re up for that? That’s a lot, what with all you’re already dealin’ with.”