Fifteen
Dane had to deal with a call from Detective Kage first thing the following morning, which meant that right after that, I got to have an excruciating conversation with my boss about not frequenting places where others might see me and report back to nefarious characters.
“Nefarious what?”
“Do not test me,” he advised sharply, staring holes through me.
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Did you know that if you do not heed the detective on your case, you can be placed into protective custody against your will?”
“Is that what they told you? Because my understanding is that can only happen for very specific reasons that don’t pertain to me.”
“If you’re a danger to yourself or others—”
“I think that’s if they’re trying to commit you to the looney bin,” I pointed out.
The look I got was not good.
I groaned loudly. “Come on, lighten up. All I’m saying is it’s gotta be super bad for them to put me under lock and key.”
“But you were in immediate life-threatening danger last night.”
“And look how well that turned out,” I advised him cheerfully.
He was back to staring holes through me.
“Please don’t worry about me.”
“How can I help that?”
“I promise you, I’ll be more careful.”
“Don’t promise me, promise Detective Kage.”
It would be a cold day in hell.
“Get on the phone, Jory.”
I called Detective Kairov instead and spoke to him briefly, assuring him that all was well. Everything was good after that.
I had just gotten back from lunch with my friend Tran, who worked on the fourth floor in the same building as me, when I realized there was a man standing beside my desk. Since there were no scheduled appointments, I was confused.
“Hello?”
The man strode forward and thrust out his hand. “Hello there, son. Truman Ward here for my one o’clock with your boss, Mr. Harcourt.”
Being Dane Harcourt’s assistant and actually being good at my job, I knew that the smiling man was not in the right place on the right day.
I squinted at him. “I believe you’re a week early, sir.
” I smiled slowly, shaking the offered hand.
“You’re scheduled for the first Wednesday in December, not the day before Thanksgiving. ”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Crap, was that what my secretary was trying to tell me this morning before I left?”
“Monica?” I dredged the name from my memory.
“Yes.” His face brightened. “That’s right.”
“Yeah, we talked yesterday,” I informed him. “It’s next Wednesday, December first, at this same time.”
“Well, hell,” he grunted, taking a seat in the chair closest to my desk. “That ain’t gonna work—I’ll be in DC. Could ya give the big man a call and see if maybe he might spare some time today? I just have a few things to talk to him about, some changes my wife wants to make to the house.”
Dane Harcourt hated making changes, but I didn’t say that.
Instead I nodded and got my boss on the phone.
He asked me if it was possible, and I said I could rearrange it for three but not before.
He gave me the go-ahead and hung up. Mr. Ward was very pleased, and while we waited, we talked. Or he talked and I listened.
He started in about his wife, because that was the reason he was there.
They’d been married forty years, and he was building her a new house in Highland Park to celebrate.
I asked all kinds of questions, and he showed me pictures of his family, which he told me all about.
He had two sons and a daughter; his oldest son was in business with him as a tax attorney/corporate lawyer, and his youngest son was going to be a plastic surgeon once he finished medical school.
His daughter was getting her master’s degree.
“Got more women crawling all over him than I’ve ever seen.” He chuckled. “But he’s just playing the field, waiting for the right one to come along.”
I nodded, then asked if the attorney was married.
“Engaged to a pediatrician. Sweetest little gal you ever met. We’re having her and her family over for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Got a huge spread—like, thirty people coming.”
“Must be nice.”
We talked about architecture and art and for some reason music, because he didn’t understand what was going on with what people were singing about “these days,” and I played him some jazz remixes on my MP3 player.
He got a big kick out of using the headphones and was impressed that I knew my world history.
He had been in Vietnam, doing three tours before coming home to finish up his law degree, at the same time becoming a certified public accountant.
I asked a million questions about the war and if he had been disappointed that neither of his sons had enlisted.
He nodded at me. “Very perceptive question, son.” But he didn’t answer, so I figured it was private.
He was intrigued by the assortment of pens on my desk, and I explained that each one had its own special function.
I took him with me to get my afternoon coffee, and on my way back, when I hesitated, he asked me what I was doing.
I explained about the scented oils that I was out of and needed to pick up.
I laughed when he offered to go along to the head shop with me.
Mr. Ward looking at bongs and candles and watching people smoke from a hookah was hysterical.
I let him smell the bergamot, sandalwood, and amber oil I wore, and he cocked his head back and forth, giving me a look like it was okay.
I couldn’t stop smiling. When we got back, Dane was there and thanked me for entertaining our guest. I nodded, and Mr. Ward draped an arm across my shoulders and said that he hadn’t had such a lovely afternoon in he couldn’t remember how long.
After work, Dane sent me to pick up wine for him to take to Thanksgiving dinner the following day at his friend Jude’s house.
He invited me along for the fifth time, and I turned him down for the last time.
I assured him that I would be fine. While not convinced, neither did he push me.
He knew me well enough to know the harder I was pressed, the harder I resisted.
On my way to the train, I got a call.
“Jory?”
“Yes?”
“Jory, this is Truman Ward from this afternoon.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “How’re you, sir?”
“I’m good, thank you. I wanted to call and see if maybe you would like to join my family for dinner tomorrow night, say around five?”
“Sir, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”
“Yes, I know,” he affirmed, like maybe I wasn’t that bright. “That’s why I’m calling.”
“But, sir, you’re having, like, thirty people you said and—”
“And one more won’t make a bit of difference. I have to say I so enjoyed meeting you and talking to you, and I would just love it if you showed up.”
“But—”
“It’s very casual, son, no suits or that kind of crap, just football and good food and family and friends. You’ll have a good time. Please say you’ll come.”
How could I say no to a new adventure? “Yessir.”
“Oh, excellent. I’m really pleased.”
“You’re kinda weird,” I assured him.
And he laughed harder before he gave me the address.
The train to Highland Park dropped me off on a platform in the middle of town.
I saw the deli Mr. Ward had told me to look for, so I took the right as I had been directed.
I passed the little shops and found that the crisp air, the leaves blowing around on the ground, and the gray sky were very soothing.
I loved being outside in the fall, the smell of fireplaces and that mix of cold, slight damp, and dirt making me feel good.
Like winter was coming, which I loved most of all.
The house was a huge four-story Georgian colonial with one of those crescent-shaped driveways done in red cobblestone.
There were flower beds on both sides of the porch that went from one end of the front of the house to the other.
The fall cornucopia wreath on the front door was very festive, if not a little over the top.
I used the knocker because I couldn’t find the doorbell, then waited.
I was ignored for a minute before the door opened. The guy who answered was talking to someone behind him and was still engaged in conversation, only turning to me after several seconds. When he did, I felt better. His smile was warm and seemed genuine.
“Oh.” He seemed taken aback. “Hi. Who’re you?”
I smiled wide. “I’m Jory.”
“You’re Jory?” He was staring at me, deep into my eyes. “My dad’s friend Jory?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh for crissakes, Colt, let him in.”
He stepped sideways, and I walked past him, turning to wait for him to close the door.
“Hi,” a woman said, stepping in close to me, offering her hand. “I’m Cretia Ward, Truman’s daughter.”
I shook her hand. “Jory Keyes.”
“Well, Jory.” She nodded, beaming at me. “You are so not what we were expecting.”
“No?”
“No.” She chuckled. “Give me your coat.”
I thought, because of what the house looked like and where I was, the Ward family would be in all the latest fashions.
I was pleasantly surprised to find Cretia in jeans, an oversized, off-the-shoulder pale pink sweater, and chunky high-heeled boots.
Her thick blonde hair was pulled up into a chignon and back from her face, making her blue eyes pop.
“You were thinkin’ I was gonna be taller?” I teased her, sliding my cashmere topcoat off my shoulders to hand to her.
Her smile was wide. “My father said ‘colleague from work.’ I was not expecting a runway model.”
I laughed and passed her the bottle of wine Dane had made me take when I told him where I was going.
“Oh, thank you. Let’s go give it to my mom.”
“Wait.”
We both turned to the guy who had his hand out for me to take, in corduroys and a flannel shirt, the epitome of casual.
“I didn’t meet you.”
I smiled warmly and took the offered hand, covering it with my other. “Jory.”
“Colton.” He nodded, and his eyes didn’t leave mine.
“Pleasure.”
“You too, Jory.”
I took a breath and let Cretia grab my hand and pull me after her.