Jessalyn
“Well, aren’t you a darling? Richard! Justin’s new girlfriend brought us a cake.”
“Oh, no, I’m not his girlfriend. I’m just staying with him for a few weeks.”
“Between you and me, we didn’t like the last one much. Such a pretty girl, but she never smiled.”
“Really, I’m only a houseguest. Thank you so much for the dog food.”
An older man ambled into view, wearing slippers and a bemused expression.
“Richard, this is Jessica. She’s just moved in next door.”
“Uh, it’s Jessalyn.” Ridge hated when I corrected people, so mostly I used to hold my tongue, which was why our wedding cake had “Ridge & Jessica” written on it. “And I’m only staying there temporarily.”
Richard looked me up and down. “Are you a model too?”
Justin had been dating a model? That didn’t surprise me, but it did make me feel even more inadequate.
“No, I just cook things.”
“The cake looks delicious, doesn’t it, Richard?”
He put on the glasses that were hanging around his neck on a chain. “Is it chocolate?”
“Yes, a chocolate fudge cake.”
“Good, good. Last year, Marion made a chocolate cake with gravy mix. I wasn’t sure about that one.”
She nudged him so hard the glasses fell off. “Now, now, don’t be telling the poor girl about my cooking mistakes. So, how did you and Justin meet?”
What was I supposed to say to that? “My car broke down, and he helped out.”
It wasn’t a total lie. We’d waved goodbye to the Altima yesterday evening as his friend Jake towed it out of the driveway, and better to keep my answers vague than admit I’d been scammed out of over a thousand bucks and Justin had taken pity on me.
“Sounds like Justin. That one’s a keeper.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “Do you know him well? I thought he’d only moved here recently?”
“Justin’s been doing our property maintenance for years, ever since he was engaged to… What was her name, Richard? The other redhead.”
“They’re all redheads,” he muttered. “Rebecca?”
A shiver ran through me, but not of dread. No, this was more…anticipation. Justin liked redheads?
“No, the first one.”
“Eliza?”
“Yes, Eliza. Always came across as worried about something. I wasn’t surprised when she left him over that Blackstone affair.”
“Blackstone affair?” I asked.
Richard sighed. “Don’t be bringing that up again. The past is the past.”
“That poor girl, stabbed in her sleep by a devil worshipper.”
“Do you mean Justin’s former roommate?”
“A terrible thing, it was.”
“He said the landlord was responsible,” I ventured, hoping we were talking about the same thing. Justin hadn’t mentioned anything about devil worship.
“Yes, and he lived there too. Imagine sharing a home with that kind of evil and not even knowing it.”
“I met him once,” Richard supplied. “Levi Sykes. Went to drop off a cheque for young Justin, and he answered the door. Seemed like quite a normal fellow.”
“Richard! Anyhow, those lawyers of his tried to say poor Justin was involved. Lawyers are the scum of the earth.”
On that point, I could certainly agree. “They really are terrible.”
“But Justin’s one of those rare gems. When we decided to downsize, we knew we wanted to move into one of his houses. He doesn’t cut corners, you see. Everything’s built to last.”
Downsize? What had they downsized from? A castle?
“He does seem nice. Thank you again for the dog food.”
A phone rang from deep within the house, and Marion startled. “That’ll be Bunny. We’re supposed to be talking about the church’s Easter supper. I don’t suppose I could convince you to bake another cake?”
“Uh, sure I can.”
She grasped both of my hands in hers. “Lovely, lovely. I’m so relieved to have met you.”
Relieved? That was an odd word, I mused as I hurried back along the driveway. But the neighbours seemed nice, at least. Our neighbours in Maine had mostly avoided us, especially after Ridge threatened to sue one of them for trespass after he accidentally mowed three feet of our lawn.
I headed home, determined to enjoy my time here for as long as it lasted.
A Sprinkle of Happiness (and a pinch of reality).
That was the name of my new blog, or it would be if I found the courage to publish it.
Last night over dinner—I’d made a lasagne with garlic bread and a green salad—Justin said I was welcome to use his kitchen any time if it meant he’d get more food like that.
So it seemed I was trading cooking skills for rent, and I was A-okay with that.
But when I asked about the local area and whether he knew of any restaurants that might be looking for waitstaff, he’d suggested prioritising my passion rather than settling for the first job I could find. I’d almost sobbed into my pasta.
The thought of having the freedom to connect with people again, to speak from my heart and cook the dishes I loved…
If I could encourage even half of my old subscribers over to a channel, I might be able to support myself, but it would take time.
I’d have to start over with a new merchandise line.
With branding. And then there was the cookbook I was supposed to be producing, but I didn’t know how to get in touch with the publisher because Ridge had handled that.
Such a mess.
And speaking of mess, there was a more pressing issue.
With all the drama, I’d forgotten to buy sanitary products yesterday, and I’d used most of the stash from my purse already.
Justin hadn’t asked questions when I’d begged for another ride to the grocery store, just said he’d swing by between meetings and take me.
I’d have to make him an amazing dessert this evening.
Maybe Key lime pie, or a raspberry pavlova, or…
or a chocolate-covered strawberry cheesecake.
Yes, that would be perfect. I’d need to pick up some strawberries, though.
My phone rang, and it was Justin.
“I hate to do this to you, but I’ve been caught up at work.”
My heart plummeted. The words were entirely too familiar—I’d heard them at least three times a week for the past five years, minus the semi-apology at the beginning.
“I understand.”
“I left the BMW in the garage. The key’s in the console table in the hallway, and if you need money, there’s a hundred bucks in an old sunglasses case under the passenger seat.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said automatically.
“Yeah, I do. I’m the one who’s rescheduling at the last minute.”
“Will you be home for dinner?”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll make something that’s easy to reheat. Is there anything else I can do to help?”
There was a long pause. “Actually, there might be.”
“Really?”
More than once, Ridge had told me that as a woman, my place was in the kitchen, and I should leave the business matters to him.
“My PA didn’t show up for work today, and she isn’t answering the phone. I need to go over to her place to check that she’s okay. But if it’s some kind of woman stuff…”
“You want me to come with you?”
“Only if you have the time.”
“For the past hour, I’ve been sitting here staring at the beginnings of a new blog and wondering whether I dare to press ‘publish.’ Of course I have the time. It’ll be a welcome distraction.”
“Just push the button, Jessie. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Jessie. For most of my twenties, I’d been Jessalyn. Ridge had insisted on using my full name because he said it was classier, and he’d also insisted that only kids would call themselves Jessie. Or Jess. Jess was almost as bad.
But I liked the name Jessie. Mom had called me that, and so did Saylor.
Not only had Justin given me a nickname—was it childish?—but he’d also encouraged me to publish my blog. Just push the button. He said it as if I were worrying over nothing, as if choosing a path filled with uncertainty over a forty-hour-per-week waitressing job made perfect sense.
He said it as if he believed I could do it.
Ridge had laughed at my blog before it started making money.
Then suddenly, it was a “great business opportunity.” He couldn’t find me from a blog, could he?
I might have escaped him physically, but the wound was still fresh, and so many times over the past few days, I’d caught myself thinking “Ridge won’t approve” or “Ridge will be angry.”
I gritted my teeth and pushed the darn button, and when Justin pulled up outside in the truck, I was standing by the front door waiting for him.
“Still no answer?” I asked.
“I’ve left three voicemails, sent two text messages, and even tried emailing. I know Amie has a roommate who works at the Waffle Factory, but I don’t have her number.”
“So we’re going to go to your PA’s apartment, and if she isn’t there, we’re going to the Waffle Factory?”
“That’s the plan. We’ll take the other car—it’s more comfortable.”
“Could we maybe stop at a gas station? I’ll be quick, I swear. It’s just that I’ve run out of something, and it’s that time of the month, and if I could manage without, I would, and…”
“You don’t have to explain. There’s a convenience store beside Amie’s apartment, and check my bathroom vanity later. My ex left boxes of tampons in there, but I understand they come in different types, so they might be no good to you.”
This was a week of many firsts, such as sharing a house with a man who didn’t question my need to use more than three tampons in a twenty-four-hour period. Ridge had remained perpetually baffled by female biology, even though I’d tried explaining many, many times.
I climbed into the passenger side of the BMW, and a little while later, Justin parked in a visitor space outside a neatly kept three-storey building and looked around.
“I don’t see Amie’s car here. She usually parks out front.”
“Is that good news or bad news?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
Even Justin’s cursing was refreshing. Ridge couldn’t abide foul language, as if calling me a drama queen or a nag or an attention seeker as he slapped me was somehow better than calling me a stupid bitch.
“You mentioned a roommate, but does she have a boyfriend? Could she be working through a breakup?”
“An on-again, off-again jackass named Brett. Last I heard, they were off again, but…”