Page 96 of Love in Fine Print

I looked like death walking. Maybe it was a good thing Ben wasn’t here to witness my zombie era.

After making sure that Dolly had gone out, I put all of the food in the back seat of my SUV and then headed over to Miss B’s house to see if she wanted to tag along with me to the senior center.

She answered the door on the second knock. “Hey Miss B. You ready?”

“Almost. I just need to finish putting my face on. Oh, and I got a new shawl that I ordered off the internet just yesterday. They dropped it right off at my door this morning.”

I’d noticed over the past two months since the Christmas Eve party that Miss B had gotten quite a few new clothes. She’d also started curling her hair, and wearing lipstick and rouge aka ‘her face.’ She and Uncle Mort had been talking every day; they texted each other, and Miss B had even mentioned that she was considering selling her house and moving into Bay View.

As much as I would miss having her next door, I wanted what was best for her. I thought it was a great idea. Plus, I wasn’t going to be her neighbor for much longer. Eight more months and the agreement would be over. The thought of it made me feel sick to my stomach.

I lowered down onto Miss B’s porch rocking chair and closed my eyes to wait for her. Waves of exhaustion pulled at me as I rested my eyes. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when I heard the front door shut.

“Okay, I’m ready dear,” Miss B chirped.

“Wow, you look great!”

Over the past couple months, I’d also noticed that she’d put on some weight, which she desperately needed. Her frail frame could still use another ten or fifteen pounds but at least she didn’t look like she was about to blow away.

“You look tired, dear.” Miss B threaded her arm through mine as we made our way to my SUV. “When does Ben come back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How are you two doing?” Her brow creased in concern as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“Good.” Too good, actually. That was the problem. With our new no-holds-barred PDA and sex clause, remembering we weren’t actually married was nearly impossible.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Miss B turned toward me. “You know, Pearl would have loved you.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” I knew that Miss B and Pearl had been best friends. It made sense that she would feel obligated to say that to me.

“No, I’m serious. She worried that Ben would never get married. That’s why she left him the business. She didn’t think he’d really run it, but she thought at least he’d meet eligible women that way.”

“What? Does Ben know that?” I glanced over at her.

Miss B shrugged. “Doubt it. I was sworn to secrecy. My job was to gently nudge him toward matrimonial bliss, and not to toot my horn, but I think I nailed it.”

Holy shit. I knew that Ben had no clue that his grandmother hadn’t actually wanted him to run the business. I needed to tell him that. I would, when he got home.

The rest of the drive, Miss B chatted about Bay View and the friends she’d met there. She had started playing Mahjong with several women, Mrs. Cranston, Mrs. White, and Mrs. Flores. She was concerned that one of them, Hildy Cranston, had eyes for Uncle Mort, but I assured her he wasn’t interested in Hildy. He’d expressed to me that she was too chatty for him. I felt a little better that I wasn’t the only person who the green-eyed monster had visited today. Miss B and I both were members of the Jealous Club, it seemed.

When we got to the senior center, I told Miss B to head inside to stay warm while I grabbed the pans of goodies. I had just pulled out the brownies when my phone buzzed. I looked at it and saw it was a report from Dominic, a private investigator I used. I assumed it was more info on the Gibson case, which was going to court on Monday, but then I saw Ben’s name.

I blinked, thinking I must be seeing things, but then remembered that at Christmas, I’d asked Dom to find out where Ben’s dad was and any additional information he could get on him. He’d let me know he was slammed, but I told him it was low priority and to get around to it when he could.

As I pressed on the attachment, I climbed into the back seat to sit down. I read the report once, then twice, then five times. Each time, I was sure that I had to be misreading his findings.

My brain felt too foggy, and this was too important to get wrong, so I called Dominic.

“Hey, Vi,” Dom answered on the second ring.

“Hey, I just got your report and wanted to make sure I understood it correctly.”

“Sure, the highlights are Owen Whitaker is not Ben’s father. His father was Roger Dawson. He played for the NY Jets and was killed in a car accident twenty-one years ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I discovered a DNA test that was done around that time. And I sent in a BG who spoke to Owen.”

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