45
T he snow sparkles in the early morning sunlight as I bring in the mail. After over a week’s snowfall, the icy coating is still pristine most everywhere you look, and in the distance, frost-heavy branches dip toward the Fox River where the shallows sport a crisp layer of ice. December has started off dressed in its wintriest shroud.
Leo and I are both doing inventory this morning—I am well on my way to digitizing Happy Paws—but we’re meeting up for lunch later after my long overdue dentist appointment. I can’t wait to tell him about my conversation with Harvey. For the first time in a while, that trapped feeling that’s lurked in the background for so long has subsided.
I hum to myself as I make coffee and fill up the dogs’ bowls. Then I sit down to do my social media posts for the week. I upload one of Boris in a Santa hat captioned Getting in the spirit of the season and click post. Maybe Leo had a point about there being benefits to competition after all. I have come a pretty long way.
Dr. Bartelli’s office is running behind, so by the time I have my sugar-free sucker in hand, I’m nearly late for my lunch date. I walk into the café, breathing heavily, and look around, but it seems like I have nothing to worry about. I still beat Leo here. If I can only keep up this winning streak for the show in a few days, that would be splendid!
I find a table in the back that’s tucked into a small alcove decorated with watercolor paintings by local artists. The place has multiple little nooks like this one, each with its own mismatched furniture and decor. It smells like coffee beans and old wood. Want me to order? I text him. Five minutes pass and no response.
At first, I shrug it off. He’s probably running late and is hurrying across the street right now, soon to pull open the door. I stare at it intently. Any minute now its bell will jingle and announce Leo’s arrival.
I surf my phone mindlessly until, finally, I hear the bell and look up. It’s not him.
Where is he? We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago.
I get a sandwich and a cup of soup, thinking he’ll for sure show up by the time my food is ready, but again I’m wrong, and now I’m starting to worry. What if something happened or…? No, it wouldn’t be like him to forget.
I have a few bites of my food and then I dial his number. Several rings go through. Four. Five.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and quick. “I’m so sorry.”
Relief courses through me. “Where are you? We said noon, right?”
“Yeah, I’m…” He pauses. “I’ve been, uh, waiting for a delivery at the store for an hour now.”
The relief is replaced by something more caustic. “And you couldn’t call me? I’ve been at the café for thirty minutes already.”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry. I was on the phone with shipping and time slipped by.”
I think he’s going to keep talking, fix it, but he doesn’t. Something is off. Why is his voice so hushed? “Well, are you coming now? You’re not the only one with things to do.”
A beat passes. Two. “I wish I could, but I’m still waiting for the guy to, uh, show up. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Tonight?”
I take a deep breath. My options are to pick another fight or roll with it. One of the two will suck more, and I have no reason to think he’s avoiding me. “Fine. You’re sure there’s nothing else going on?”
“A slip of the mind, that’s all.” He clears his throat. “So, I’ll see you tonight?”
“Tonight. You cook. It’s the least you can do.”
“Definitely.” He sounds relieved.
I hang up, the pang of having been stood up still echoing inside me. Things happen, I tell myself. These are busy times. On my way out, I order another sandwich for takeout. He has to eat one way or another.
I know I’ve been lied to as soon as I find Jaz alone inside Canine King and no sign of Leo out back, either. I’m about to throw his food in the garbage when raised voices reach me from upstairs. I gingerly navigate the narrow wooden staircase on the exterior that leads to Leo’s front door. A little ice and those steps are a lawsuit waiting to happen.
There are two voices, both male, coming from inside Leo’s apartment. They rise and fall like a duet, going from barely audible to loud enough that I’m able to make out the words. I take a few steps closer on the landing.
Suddenly, there’s a loud ruckus as if a chair has toppled over, and a voice yells, “Bennett is not the one who carries my name!”
The outburst is followed by Tilly barking, and that’s the intermission I need for the truth to settle in.
Leo’s dad is here, and he is not happy.
I knock hard, and everything on the other side quiets down. I take off my hat and wait.
I’m about to knock again when Leo opens the door enough for me to see him and nothing else.
“Hey…” He’s pale, his shoulders tense.
I squint at him. “What’s going on?” I try to get him to make eye contact, but his gaze doesn’t settle. “I looked for you at the store.”
“I can explain.”
“Explain what—why you didn’t tell me your dad is here?”
His surprise is visible. “I…” He hangs his head and pushes the door open wider.
A movement in the kitchen draws my attention away from him. I step inside, and at the kitchen table is an older gentleman I recognize from my web search of Royal Equine. Unlike in that photo, though, today he’s not smiling.
“Cora, meet my father, John Salinger. Dad, this is Cora Lewis.” Leo remains a step behind me, his voice strained.
My bravado fizzles at the sight of Mr. Salinger’s imposing presence. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Likewise.” Mr. Salinger smiles briefly, and as he does, his face transforms into a vestige of Leo. Charismatic command runs in the family, it seems, along with the blond hair and steel-blue eyes. At sixty plus, he’s still as broad-shouldered and towering as his son. I suppose a life of working with horses will do that. Only the creases lining his face and the grays at his temples betray his age.
“I didn’t know you were visiting,” I say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not.” Leo sweeps up next to me, his hand at the small of my back. “Come on in.”
The scene looks highly domesticated—like I’ve interrupted a gentlemen’s conference over a civilized cup of coffee. There’s even a bowl of sugar sitting out and a plate with what looks like gingersnaps. But the atmosphere is completely different. The tension in the room is suffocating. Tilly must agree with me because she vigilantly follows every move of the people present.
I glance up at Leo, waiting for him to take charge of the situation with his usual confidence, but nothing happens.
“So, is this why you want to stay?” his dad says eventually, nodding to me.
Excuse me?
Leo’s arm drops to his side, releasing me.
Whatever is going on here, I’m no longer sure I want to be a part of it. “Maybe I should…” I hitch my thumb in the direction of the front door.
“That would be best.” His dad doesn’t take his eyes off Leo as he speaks. It’s a dismissal of proportions I’m not used to.
I’m about to turn when Leo grips my hand. “No.” His Adam’s apple bounces twice as he swallows. “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Cora.”
I know this sort of gesture should make me feel flattered, but at the moment, it’s hard to tell if his insistence that I stay is a vote of confidence or a need for a shield. I can’t read him when he’s jittery like this.
Mr. Salinger turns to me, the trace of a smile now completely gone. “You do know he’s married?”
“She knows I’m divorced,” Leo spits out.
His dad’s eyebrows arch. “You finalized it, then? Took your time.”
A knot lodges in my gut. It was that recent?
“Respectfully, that’s between Samantha and me. We’ve both moved on.”
His dad studies me again, and his disapproval could not be clearer. “So I see.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I hear myself say.
Leo’s hand tightens around mine. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Dad.”
“Very well.” Mr. Salinger looks about him as if making sure he’s not leaving anything behind. “But your mother and I look forward to seeing you this weekend.”
Leo glances toward the door. “She’s here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
At Leo’s quizzical expression, his dad reaches into the inner pocket of his sport coat and produces a business card that he slides toward us on the table. “I’ve arranged an interview for you with Silverton Financial. Thursday afternoon. A fantastic opportunity in your field . I’ve known Spencer for ten years now—stand-up guy, a real shark. You’ll like him.”
Leo picks up the card, and I crane my neck to see the fine print, but all I can make out is the company name and beneath it in bold, NEW YORK .