Chapter 19
By the time I was released from the hospital on Saturday morning, a whirlwind clean-up had hit Witte House.
Ben had enlisted the help of a law school classmate to wrestle with insurance since the company didn’t want to pay on an arson-based fire but in the meantime had gotten the contractors to start repairing the damage to the floors and the pocket door.
The divan had been sent out to be reupholstered but the rugs and curtains were a total loss.
“It’s not that bad,” Ben said when I expressed outrage at that. “Mom always hated those curtains anyway.”
I smiled faintly. “Well. A good redecorating is always therapeutic.”
He just nodded, eyeing the temporary drapes—a pair dragged out of the basement storage and a virulent mauve that could only have been Margie’s doing—up in the sitting room. “I suppose.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to head back tonight?”
Ben smiled, a faint twitch of his lips but for him that might as well have been a grin. “I don’t have any meetings scheduled until Monday after next. I’m good. Using up my PTO for the year.”
“If you’re sure,” I said, barely managing to hold back the monster of a yawn that’d been struggling to escape for the past few minutes. “I was thinking I’ll try to get hold of Paul Santos again. He hasn’t answered any of my emails and—”
“And,” he cut me off, “if he’s ignoring you, it’s probably a good reason.”
“But Anmorata—”
“One crisis at a time, please,” he groaned. “At least wait until Monday before you start this one.”
Hmph.
“Come on. Sit down. You’re recovering from surgery, you have decent painkillers on board, and you need the rest, Damien. Humor me.”
I grudgingly let him get me settled on the sofa in the front parlor, a small room that lacked the comfy vibes of the sitting room but had the benefit of not smelling like smoke and burned carpet.
“One of Max’s movies is on,” I said, grabbing the remote from the side table.
“Want to watch it with me so I can give him shit about it later?”
“You need my help for that?”
“No, I could watch it on my own but it’s more fun to make fun of baby Max with a friend.” I patted the sofa cushion beside me. Charlemagne took that as his cue and jumped up, curling into a kitty comma and propping his chin on his paws. He sent Ben a defiant glare that said I dare you.
Ben’s lip twitch was more obvious this time. “I’ll take the recliner.”
A tiny part of me was disappointed, but a larger part was just exhausted.
My fresh cast itched like hell and my arm throbbed.
The singed patch of my hair didn’t hurt but it felt wrong.
The scalp beneath was little sore, like a mild sunburn, and my discomfort was more from the knowledge it looked weird than any actual damage.
But still! Gingerly, I reached up to touch the stubbly, tender spot, my lips twisting into a pout.
“It looks fine,” Ben said quietly. “You can’t even tell really, not when you brush your hair like that.”
“Really?” I started to reach for the spot again, caught myself, and shoved my hand under my thigh. “I was thinking I should just shave it all off and start over.”
“Wouldn’t that be a problem, getting roles?”
“Ah...maybe?”
Ben’s gaze was searching for a long moment or two, roving over my face, reading something there that made his own expression ease a bit. “It’d be a shame if you did. I like your hair.”
I tried to respond with something witty and urbane but all that came out was a squeaky Oh.
Ben disappeared into the kitchen while I brought up the movie on the big screen over the fireplace. When he returned, Ben had snacks and drinks as well as the bottle of painkillers I’d been hoping to avoid. “Those make me sleepy,” I complained.
“Take the hint,” he teased, handing one of the soft throw pillows to me. “Rest will help you feel better.”
“Swear to god, you and Max will get on great when he finally gets to come visit,” I sighed, giving in to the yawn.
My jaw popped and eyes watered, an embarrassingly loud groan of exhaustion escaping with my exhale.
“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered, eyes heavy as the movie started, my best friend’s face, albeit ten years younger, appearing on screen.
“He’s a huge believer in the healing power of naps. ”
“I like him already,” Ben said, voice low and quiet.
And I was out like a light, before the opening credits finished telling us all about the war-torn planet Max’s character, Prince Varden, was protecting from the hordes of... something blah blah.
When I woke hours later, the room was bathed in the glow of the t.v., the lamps off and curtains pulled. Ben snored softly in the recliner while Charlemagne curled on my chest, opening one eye to glare me into submission.
Muffin pressed his cold nose to my cheek. “I’m fine,” I promised, voice rough and soft. “Go back to sleep.”
Somewhere in the dark, Tony’s tags jangled and his little feet pattered on the floor in his perpetual search for a chew bone.
I closed my eyes and drifted a bit, the weight of the cast on my arm and the dull throb in my ribs background radiation to my exhaustion. But, like it always does, my brain had to be a bit of a bastard and start what if-ing me to wakefulness.
Flailing as quietly as I could, I managed to get my phone off the coffee table without dislodging Charlemagne. He’d been given the all clear from the vet in Malm’s Corner and sent on his way with Ben, who was assured they’d call as soon as the usual fosters they worked with had an opening.
So it looked like we had a cat.
Or I had a cat, since he was sleeping on my chest and not Ben’s.
Charlemagne glared at me when I opened my laptop, balancing it precariously on one upraised knee, the bright flash of light making us both squint.
Max had sent me a Russian novel length email, which all boiled down to Ben emailed Kathleen, are you okay, I’ll murder you myself if you’re not and Holy shit, another one?
I chuffed a small, humorless laugh at that. Fumbling a bit, I managed to reply.
I’m okay. Tired AF. Call you later?
His reply was nearly instant. Video call at 2 pm your time, dorkface. You’d better be there.
I smiled a tiny bit then. I’ll do my best.
The rest were messages from Rory, demanding I call as soon as I got the message, no matter the time.
The last one he’d sent had been around midday , and it was now just around five in the morning so I decided a little longer wouldn’t be so bad, especially given the time difference.
I’d have to bite the bullet and actually talk to my agent sooner rather than later—enough hiding.
It was only making things harder, the longer I went without any sort of direction in my life.
And then there was a spurt of messages from from my parents, all social media notifications for direct messages.
Bless my mom’s heart, she hated email almost as much as she hated answering the phone.
Mom: Damien, answer your phone.
Mom: Damien.
Mom: Damien Louis Murphy!
Mom: Damien, I just had to call Max to make sure you’re alive. What is going on down there?
Mom: Damien! Your father’s getting worried!
“Shit,” I sighed. It really had been too much to hope that the rumors hadn’t reached my mom, not since she had a Google alert for my name and more than one relative who loved the gossip pages.
To be fair, Mom didn’t follow the gossip about me herself, not since I’d become an adult and could hire my own lawyers if need be, but. .. well, she’s Mom. Moms worry.
And I’m her kid, which meant I liked to pretend she’d never find out when I was in dangerous spots.
Charlemagne gave my chin a nip and jumped down off my chest. I guess that was my cue to get up.
Trailed to the kitchen by a short parade of pets, I managed to get them fed and let the dogs out back for their morning constitutional before Ben wandered, bleary-eyed and scruffy, into the kitchen.
“What are you staring at?” he grumped, heading directly for the electric kettle.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with five o’clock shadow.” I kind of liked it, but I ducked my face away so he couldn’t see how my face colored at that thought.
He sniffed. “Because you’re usually not up when the rest of the world has to get ready for the day.”
“Just for that, I won’t make you breakfast.” I glanced back to see him hiding a smile, one of his real and rare ones.
My entire body felt warm at the sight, and I knew I’d be red as a beet so I stepped into the butler pantry and pretended choosing a breakfast cereal required quite a lot of decision making.
When I emerged, clutching a box of good old fashioned Cheerios, he was pouring out the water for tea. “I’m making gunpowder green tea. Since we’re both up way too early.”
Another damn knock on the door.
“And so are they,” I muttered. We both glanced at the oven clock, then at each other. “It’s barely six a.m. They can kick rocks till the sun’s up.”
The knocking came again, harder now. “Jesus,” Ben sighed. “I’ll deal with it. You pour the cereal.”
I nodded, but stood still and listened as he went to answer the door. At my side, Muffin gently nosed my hand, concerned. “I know,” I whispered. “This place is bananas.”
A few minutes later, Ben returned, looking intensely bemused. “Ah...”
“Ah? What ah?”
“We—you, really—have company.”
And I knew, before I saw her, that I was in trouble.
My mother, dark circles under her eyes and hair scraped back in a travel-messy ponytail, strode into the kitchen, scowl firmly in place.
“Damien Louis Murphy,” she said in a flat, dangerous tone.
“You do not ignore my calls and texts! Not when all of this,” she threw her arms up, “is going on!”
Ben edged back to lean against the counter. “Your dad is at the inn,” he offered. “I just told her they could stay here but...”
“But,” my mom snapped, “you do not get the pleasure of my company until you stop treating me like a mushroom, Damien!”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, wiggling the fingers of my good hand awkwardly. “Ben, this is my mom Heather Murphy. Mom, this is Ben Witte.”
“Sorry for bursting in like this,” she said, all smiles for Ben, “but I hadn’t heard from Damien in almost a month, there’s these stories about a murder, and I finally had to call Max and Max said he’d found another body and got attacked and Damien didn’t answer his phone or reply to messages on his socials—” she threw up her hands again. “Well, here we are.”
Ben’s smile was soft and genuine. “My mother would have done the same thing,” he assured her. “Um. Tea?”
She folded her arms and leveled me with a look. “That would be lovely, Ben, thank you.”
I nodded silently. When my mom raised one of her auburn brows, I gestured to the kitchen chairs. “Er, want to sit, Mom?”
“I want my baby to talk to me,” she huffed, but took up a seat the table. “Oh hello!”
And of course all of the animals loved her immediately. Muffin wormed close, shoving his giant head onto Mom’s lap as Tony did a little dance at her feet and Charlemagne jumped onto the empty chair next to her then onto her shoulders. “I’ve been busy,” I offered weakly.
“I’m sure. Your dad’s going to be here any minute so you better start talking otherwise you’ll have to put up with his questions too.”
I nodded again. “Um. Where do you want me to start?”
“Last May. When you left LA. You’ve been real closed-mouthed ever since.”