18. In Which Juniper Does Not Call Anyone Papa
IN WHICH JUNIPER DOES NOT CALL ANYONE PAPA
I n preparation for our meeting with Tonya von Meller, Aiden transforms from dark academia professor into Dapper Dan.
And while dark academia professor is who I’d much prefer to live with, I can’t deny that Dan has his own kind of charm.
Who knew that Aiden in pastel would be so worth seeing?
I have to fight off heart palpitations when he puts his hand behind my headrest and turns in the driver’s seat to back out of the driveway.
My eyes follow the curve of his arm, the lazy way it rests over the steering wheel, and finally he throws me a look.
“Cut it out, Juniper,” he says. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Good crazy or bad crazy?” I say, since I can’t very well deny I’ve been staring.
His head whips toward me, though, his foot coming down hard on the brake—like a maniac. The entire car shudders and jerks. “What did you say?” he says with his wide eyes on me.
“Whoa.” I give the dashboard a few gentle pats to make sure it doesn’t get mad at us.
He might think cars are inanimate creatures, but I have stories that prove otherwise.
Sunshine in particular is a vengeful lady; it’s a good thing we’re taking Aiden’s car instead.
“Drive like a normal person, please. We have someplace to be.”
He sighs, and even though he doesn’t give any indication he’s getting a headache, I bet one will show up soon enough. He always seems to get headaches around me, especially when he’s sighing like that.
“Here’s the GPS,” I say, propping my phone up against the dash. Then I look down at my outfit, making sure everything looks fine, smoothing out a few stray wrinkles with my hands.
These clothes make me feel like a sexy lawyer or something. I kind of like it. It’s not my normal, but there’s just something about a power suit. And this one is elegant and sexy, but it means business too, with the blazer and the fit of the pants and the closed-toe pumps.
“All right,” I say as I run through all the details in my mind, trying not to leave anything out. “Your name is Bentley?—”
“ Bentley ?”
“Shh. I needed something fancy. And my name is Victoria. We’re deeply in love—get rid of that facial expression—and we’ve got some questions about starting our daughter in the pageant life. Sound good?”
He just grumbles under his breath, which I’m going to take to mean yes.
“Our main purpose today is to learn more about how the killer is making Tonya believe Sandy is still alive. I’m also curious what Tonya thinks is going on, like if she’s suspicious at all. If we can nudge her in the direction of reporting Sandy missing, that would be ideal.”
“Wow,” Aiden says dryly as he slows to a stop at a red light. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Of course I have. We’re getting one shot at this, and it probably won’t happen again.” I slide my hands under my thighs as my knees bounce. “I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”
“A little,” he says, easing down on the gas when the light turns green again. “My main concern is making sure we stay under the radar, though. I don’t want to go barging in and make a big scene today.”
“Me either,” I assure him. “There will be no big scenes.”
We spend the rest of the drive lost in our own thoughts, emerging only when Aiden pulls to a stop in front of a large gate and rolls his window down.
Wait a minute.
“You didn’t tell me we were going to the Heights.” Aiden gives me a disapproving look.
“I didn’t know,” I say honestly, my eyes wide as I look around. “She must work out of her home. Wow, these houses are huge. Oh, hang on—she gave me a code.”
“And that didn’t tip you off?”
“Lots of places require codes,” I say. “Type this in: three, five, five”—I wait a second for him to punch the numbers in—“eight, three, three . ”
The little box beeps, and the gate in front of us lurches open. This must be the visitor’s entrance. We pull into the Heights, and my eyes bug out of my head the whole time. “Wow,” I say again.
Aiden grunts from the passenger seat.
“You’re such a snob,” I say, shaking my head and smiling a little. “People are allowed to have nice houses. You can’t judge them for that any more than they could judge me for growing up dirt poor.”
He sighs—and surprise, surprise, he’s rubbing his temples again, one hand kneading little circles while the other rests on the steering wheel.
“It’s not the size of the houses that bothers me,” he admits.
“It’s just frustrating that in a town with this much wealth there are places and people struggling to hang on. ”
I nod. “I understand that. But what to do about it isn’t so easy to determine.”
“No,” he says, “it’s not. And I know that. It still frustrates me, though.” His mouth presses into a grim line.
“That’s fair,” I say with a shrug. Then I frown. “Did you know Sandy was from the Heights?”
“No,” Aiden says. “But this is where Lionel Astor lives. Coincidence?”
“I mean, maybe?” I say, but somewhere behind the waistband of the fancy-pants fitted trousers I’m wearing, my gut churns uncomfortably.
Aiden eases us down the street slowly, and I crane my neck to get a better look at every house we pass. Most of them are what I would call stately, with pristinely kept lawns and unnecessarily long driveways. There are a couple that even have fountains in front.
It leaves me once again feeling grateful that we didn’t bring Sunshine instead of Aiden’s sensible little Toyota Camry. Sunshine might be a pearl to the swine of the Heights. Her personality is her best feature, but not everyone can appreciate her quirks.
The GPS leads us around a bend. We seem to be climbing gradually upward, and from the dusty recesses of my mind I pull out the information that the Heights is built on a hill, with the most expensive homes at the very top.
Not sure why I know that—it must be something I remember from growing up here.
Thirty seconds later, as we pull up in front of a large, white home with columns and emerald green shutters on the windows, the phone announces we’ve arrived.
There’s a mother-in-law cottage just visible behind the house, and I point .
“There,” I say. “She said it’s the smaller building. It must be there.”
The mother-in-law add-on, like the main house, has white siding and emerald shutters.
It’s smaller, of course, but still a decent size.
I tuck my hair behind my ear in an attempt to make it look neater; it was fine before we got here, but now it’s been subjected to the wind.
I pull the blazer tighter around me, too, grateful for the extra layer, especially since the silky top underneath has no warming properties to speak of.
We trail up the sidewalk to the little building, me leading the way, Aiden following closely behind. I feel better knowing he’s with me.
When we reach the front door, I knock three times—brisk, efficient raps of my fist. Then, quickly, before anyone can answer, I grab Aiden’s hand in mine, twining our fingers together.
And look. I expected him to fight it, expected him to glare at me or make a fuss.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say a single word.
He doesn’t even look at me. He just holds my hand as though it was already on his agenda for the day, his thumb trailing lightly over my knuckles, his grip steady and firm.
He watches the door, waiting for it to open, and I watch him, trying to piece together all the things I know about him.
I have this theory—I’ve always had this theory—about Aiden.
My theory is that he’s a prickly, grumpy, miser of a man.
But I think that if you break through all those outer shells, if you get down to the tender underbelly, he’s the kind of man that follows his lover around the kitchen as she cooks, his arms wrapped around her from behind the whole time.
I think he’s the kind of man that doesn’t let go once he’s grabbed on.
And a splash of realization paints the inner walls of my mind—a realization that rearranges my organs to make room for this new truth: I want to be the woman he follows around the kitchen. I want to be the woman he grabs onto and doesn’t let go.
“Hey,” I whisper, my eyes still on the door. “Remind me later that I want to talk to you about something, okay?”
In my peripheral vision I see him look at me, see him nod. And then, like I’m still doing, he turns his gaze back to the door and waits.
Tonya von Meller answers thirty seconds later, opening the door wide and disappearing behind it to let us in.
“Welcome,” says her voice from behind the door. “Please come in.”
You don’t need to tell me twice. It’s chilly out here.
The office is spacious and brightly lit, natural light pouring in through the large windows. It’s decked out in sumptuous furnishings—velvet chairs and couches, a crystal chandelier, and a large desk with what looks like a marble top.
Probably not real marble, though, right?
Tonya ushers us further in, smiling through very white teeth, and I take a second to look her over.
She’s maybe in her fifties, bottle blonde but elegant.
I think I expected obvious signs of plastic surgery, but there aren’t any—no too-smooth foreheads or puffy lips or swollen cheekbones.
She’s lovely, but she also seems to be allowing herself to age. I respect that.
I wonder if I’m going to find anything else about this woman that’s respectable.
“Have a seat,” she says as she leads us to the sitting area.
I settle on one of the sofas, and Aiden seats himself next to me like the dutiful husband he’s pretending to be. We’re still holding hands, but I pull mine away from his now, resisting the urge to flex my fingers a few times like Mr. Darcy in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice adaptation.
“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” I say, scooching my bum back on the velvet couch. It’s hard as a rock, this sofa, like I’m sitting on a slab of fuzz-covered stone. What’s the point of a couch if you couldn’t sneak a nap on it?