Page 100 of Playing With Fire

He nodded. “Okay.”

Jodi stroked the small smooth arm as Jaime cuddled into Ricky’s shoulder.

“Shit, Ricky,” Jaime mumbled.

Jodi gave an unladylike snort. “Boy, are you going to be in trouble with mommy and daddy.” She swallowed. Her throat was raw. “Jaime,” she said softly. The little hand gripped her finger in response.

Jodi gazed at Ricky, who stiffened at the sudden tension in the air.

“Did you know that before Jaime came to the Beechams as a foster child, that her parents had both died, quite tragically?”

Jodi watched Ricky’s face as he nodded. He hefted the little girl onto his other shoulder, and patted her back until she snuggled in again. “I did,” he said briefly.

Jodi paused. Words trembled inside her, ready to pour out, yet they were dangerous, difficult words and she didn’t know if they were hers to say. Perhaps silence was best, at least in the short term.

A small voice in the back of her mind cut through the sudden dillydallying. For God’s sake, haven’t she learned anything about not keeping secrets? Did she think she was the Almighty, dispensing justice and truth?

Ricky’s gaze narrowed.

“Okay,” she began. “But you probably didn’t know that Jaime was adopted as a newborn. The couple who died were not her biological parents.”

Ricky stared. The blood drained from his face.

“Jaime,” he said softly, wonderingly.

Jodi smiled through the tears which hovered on her eyelashes, threatening to destroy the careful art of mascara and eyeliner. And the lipstick, a glorious pink for freedom, was also clearly under threat.

“Jaime,” she whispered. “It means beloved.”

***

Epilogue

While it is no doubt true that there are workplaces in Manhattan which boast Italian coffee machines and free massages, most of the office workers in this famous precinct make do during their break with a take-out coffee, a pastry and a quick browse through social media.

Some of these folks may pine for the pleasures of the executive floors, but others are perfectly content because they actually enjoy popping outside to the little coffee van in the park where the proprietor knows their name and their coffee order, and the warm pastries are allegedly made by someone’s nonna.

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