Page 23 of The Cartographer

Chapter Eight

‡

I’m out oftown for much of the next week, criss-crossing the country to visit various clients. Stops in New York, DC, Atlanta, Chicago, Houston, and then San Diego to spend an overnight with India before I head back home to my own house, my own bed, and yes, Matthew. I’ve heard not a peep out of Hart, and I try not to be irritated by it, but his lack of communication is a mosquito buzzing in my ear. Difficult man.

At least I’ve been busy and will continue to be so—I have to be on a plane stupid-early tomorrow and have a mountain of work to do before I can go to sleep. I’ve told Matthew no interruptions and have been trying to ignore the notifications that flash on my phone every few minutes, but when LO flashes on the screen, I answer. “What’s the story, morning glory?”

It’s Friday, so if India’s calling at this time of night, she’s either in Kona or there’s something really wrong. Possibly both.

“Rey, I—”

I kick my feet off the desk and put them on the floor, sliding the chair I’d been leaning back in closer to my desk to wake up my computer. That tone of voice usually requires a plane ticket.

“What happened?”

“No one’s hurt, I promise. We’re all fine. Sort of.”

My head cocks to the side, and my eyes narrow, the phone still pressed to my ear. This is interesting. No one’s hurt, no one’s dead, she’s not in tears, and she said “I.”

“What did you do?”

Even though I can’t see her through the phone, I can imagine India wrinkling her pert nose and wrenching her mouth to the side because that’s what she does when she doesn’t want to talk about something but still needs my help.

“Why do you assumeIdid something?”

I’d laugh because she’s not here to hit me if I did, but I shouldn’t. If she’s calling, she must’ve fucked up quite a bit, and I don’t want to make it any worse. I’m more than a little proud she and Cris can work through their periodic tiffs without my intervention, but I can’t deny it makes me feel needed, useful, when she does call.

“Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Her confirmation is muttered, and I can barely hear it. At least she admitted whatever this is was her fault. Another good step.

“Are you going to tell me what happened or should I guess? I’m assuming this is to do with Cris, yes?”

Not that she never flips out about business things, but that she can generally handle on her own, with the crack team of people she’s put together who can stand working for a taskmistress like her or with a little help from Cris. Burke Consulting Group is flourishing, and she turns away more work than she takes on. That’s where her strengths lie. It’s with people—and, god forbid,feelings—where she falters.

“Yes.”

“What was it this time? Did you scorch his favorite saucepan? Pick up the wrong wax for his surfboard? Try to foist an e-reader on him again?”

She snorts at my patently ridiculous suggestions because none of those scenarios would elicit more than a shrug from her extremely laidback husband, and I smile. All hope is not lost.

“No. It was so much worse.”

“So tell me, little one.”

I push back from the desk, because this is sounding increasingly like an issue that, while it would be nice to ease her through while cuddling her on a couch, probably won’t necessitate a flight across the Pacific. More likely a lengthy phone call and a series of check-ins over the next few days. It’s going to be okay, so I walk over to the fridge and pour myself a glass of juice.

Strolling over to the couch, I take a sip, enjoying the cool, intense burst of tartness that fills my mouth and cools my throat. I sink into the cushions, wondering precisely how long it’s going to take India to work up the nerve to confess whatever her latest transgression is. “Are you going to talk to me, or should I call you back when I’m finished with my Pilates?”

She laughs. “You do Pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays, asshole.”

I don’t answer, but take another swallow of my juice. It’s different than the one Matthew usually gets. I like this one better. I’ll have to tell him to switch. And get some more hummus. My grocery list musings are interrupted by a heavy sigh. Showtime.

“So you know Cris has been depressed since Mal died.”

“I do.” Cris and his father had been close, and even though it had been a long time coming, I know the loss was devastating. Continues to be devastating. I can understand why. I met Mal a few times before he passed away. He was a genuinely good man who loved his family and never seemed to be angry at the shit hand he’d been dealt. He and India had adored each other.

I lost my dad at an early age to violence, and it still haunts me. I don’t have a whole lot to mourn because we didn’t have much time together, which would explain why I hear the same words of his echo through my head all the time: “Helping people is the best most important thing you can do. You have a super power and you should use it.”

---