Page 18 of No Angels

“I could cook dinner for us if you want to take a tour of the house tomorrow night.”

When she turns around, the paintbrush is dangling from her hand and she’s grinning. “Are you officially asking me out, Callihan?”

Suddenly my face is burning again. I’m supposed to be asking her to Thanksgiving dinner next week, not my house. But if she says yes, I can ask her the other question then. I shrug. “If that’s the label you wanna give it.”

She tips her head to the side. “What other label is there?”

“Just a couple of old friends catching up.”

“You can call it that if you want. But I’m still going to call it a date. Especially if Farrah hears about it. Maybe she’ll get off my case then.”

“Why’s Farrah on your case?”

“Our visit to Dairy Freeze was heartily observed and well-documented.”

“You can use me as prop, Cassidy. I don’t mind.”

“I don’t consider you a prop, Callihan. If I tell her we’re going on a date, she’ll stop trying to think of ways to throw us together.”

“I’m glad to be of assistance. You can bring the wine.”

“Text me the directions and I’ll be there at six thirty sharp.”

“Dinner will be ready. Just be careful – there are a lot of deer out that way this time of year.”

“I promise I’ll be careful.”

I want to show the house in the best light possible, so I putter around all day Saturday. I have my mom’s chicken cacciatore recipe in the crockpot and the garlic bread is ready to pop in the oven. One of the Mantovani records I borrowed from my mom isin the record player. I just need to finish nailing down the loose boards in the hallway and painting over the dark spots in the oyster plaster.

I have time to do that and hop in the shower, because Bianca was always late for everything when we were growing up. I set the alarm on my phone and get to work.

Chapter Eight

Bianca

When Taren found outI loved to thrift she told me about an estate sale happening on the edge of town today. It’s on the way to the O’Brien place, so I decide to stop on my way to dinner. I’ll be a little early, but I don’t think my date will mind.

The house is huge. It’s a late nineteenth-century farmhouse with at least five bedrooms, and every single one is filled to the brim with antiques. There are so many things I want to take home with me, but I don’t have the space.

My hand glides over the top of a cherry wood piano. I started taking lessons when I was five, but it’s been years since I had thetime to sit on a bench. Unable to resist, I lift the lid and sit down. I glide my fingers over the keys and close my eyes. Suddenly I’m playingSomeone to Watch Over Me.

As the last note dies, I’m surrounded by clapping. When I open my eyes, the intimate parlor is filled with an audience drawn by my impromptu concert.

I stand and bow with a smile on my face, a little embarrassed I got so carried away.

The woman who introduced herself as the executor steps forward. “Dear, I have all of your records, but I had no idea you played as well as you sing.”

“You’re very kind. I haven’t played in a very long time. Thank you for allowing me to take advantage of your gorgeous instrument.”

“It was truly a joy. It’s for sale, just like everything else in the house. It should go home with someone who truly appreciates it.”

“I do appreciate it, but I don’t have the space for it,” I regretfully tell her.

“I’ll hold it for you just in case you change your mind.”

“Thank you.” I’m not going to change my mind. I really don’t have anywhere to put it. Here in Willow Creek or at my apartment in the city.

I buy some Cole Porter records and a chic vintage wool swing coat and head to the O’Brien farm for my date.

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