Page 2 of Daddy Marc's Gem

Zane sighed. “Believe it or not, the guy’s a cop. He was also a high school buddy of Cam’s. I guess that’s why they started interacting. Tate said he needed to talk to someone who would know what it was like not to have realized someone close to them was a killer.”

“Wow.” Marc couldn’t fathom how shocking such a revelation would be. “I can see how that might be helpful. I imagine there’s a lot of guilt coming into play right now. It would be a relief to speak with another person who’s feeling the same way.”

“Yeah?” Zane’s features clouded. “I can’t help but be worried, given how vulnerable Tate is right now. We’ve been doing daily check-ins.”

Marc smiled. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad to hear it.”

After chatting a bit more about less intense subjects, Zane’s cell vibrated on the round patio table. He glanced down then held up a finger.

“Excuse me, Marc. It’s Ryan.”

Zane rose then took the phone with him as he wandered out to the sidewalk. Marc observed how Zane’s attention had completely shifted to his boy—as well it should. The Club Sensation owner took his responsibilities seriously, wasn’t playing around. Which was the exact reason role-playing for a few hours here and there was no longer doing it for him. It only emphasized the lack of the real thing in his life.

Marc tore his gaze away. Even if he couldn’t hear what Zane and Ryan were discussing, it seemed as if it were an intimate moment that he shouldn’t be intruding on.

Zane returned but didn’t take a seat. “I apologize, Marc. I need to cut our visit short. Ryan accidentally spilled cranberry juice on one of the antique rugs. He’s so upset, he’s gotten Ty upset, and now Ryan’s evenmoreupset. This isn’t something I can remedy over the phone.”

Marc rose as well, snatching the check before Zane could. “I’ve got this. You take care of those precious boys.”

After saying their goodbyes, Marc paid the bill then decided to take a stroll down the sidewalk of the historic and beautifulBeacon Hill neighborhood. He spotted the cute little antique shop he would sometimes patronize after meeting up with Zane.

Right as he was about to step inside, he paused, concluding it was the last place he wanted to be. As much as he loved antiquing, the small, dark space stuffed with all manner of collectibles and treasures seemed too depressing to him at the moment.

The day was beautiful. He should be outside enjoying the sun, maybe catching up on some reading. With new resolve, Marc turned in the other direction, making his way back to his parked car. Perhaps he’d hit up a yard sale or two, find something to add to his vintage clock or other collections.

Marc swallowed hard. Anything to distract himself from not having anyone he could spend the day with.

Chapter Two

Foster gazed around his cluttered yard, hands on his hips. He blew a stray hank of hair out of his eyes, sweat gathering at the back of his neck from packing up the remaining collectibles no one had wanted. It looked as though he’d barely sold a thing, yet he’d managed to pocket over three thousand dollars. However, that was primarily because of the mid-century bedroom set a couple had snapped up the first day.

Foster clenched his jaw over how little he’d accepted for it.Desperate times…

With a sigh, he bent down and tugged another box filled with crumpled wrapping material from under a folding table. He didn’t want to be putting stuff away for the rest of the night. So many items remained, and this was the last day he was allowed to sell out of his garage. He’d already hit the three-day Dedham limit for doing yard sales in a calendar year.

He had no idea what to do next about his situation. His stomach twisted the way it always did whenever he was faced with a decision. As in,anydecision. The course of his future, what color shirt he should wear, whether to get a blueberry or chocolate muffin… Every choice was up for grabs when it came to his obsessive anxiety. His usual response was to freeze in terror then either do something stupid or nothing at all.

His eyes burned with impending, potentially humiliating tears. No wonder Edward couldn’t stand his whiny ass anymore. He probably would’ve left himself too.

“Excuse me.” A middle-aged woman with the brightest, orangiest hair he’d ever seen held up a pair of tall, antiquepewter candlesticks in mint condition. “Will you take ten bucks for these?”

Foster almost choked on his tongue. If he had his shop up and running—as itshould’vebeen by now—he’d easily get a hundred dollars for them, maybe more. As it was, it had destroyed a small part of his soul to put a forty-dollar tag on such fine specimens. He would’ve even considered going as low as thirty. Butten?

At last, he was able to breathe. “I’m afraid not. The lowest I can go is thirty.”

She stuck out her bottom lip, turning one of them over in her hand then checking underneath where the signature of the prestigious manufacturer could plainly be seen. At last, she looked up. “Twelve bucks, and you’ve got a deal.”

Foster gritted his teeth to keep from blurting out something rude. No point in alienating the locals since he was still fairly new to the area. He held out his hands to take them from her while vigorously shaking his head. She harrumphed then handed them over.

As she stomped away, he overheard her grousing to the man who’d arrived with her about how her ten-dollar offer was generous enough to begin with, considering the candlesticks weren’t worth more than five.

Foster gazed at the exquisite pieces, admiring the craftsmanship and care from the well-respected designer. He knew that certain items in the antiquities market were soft, but how could anyone view objects of such quality, then say that ten dollars was a generous amount to pay?

Foster’s shoulders dropped, and he made his way up the sloped driveway to the detached, two-car garage. He had a workshop in the back where he kept small furniture pieces to be restored, and he decided the candlesticks should be safelytucked away in there for now. Someday. someone who truly appreciated them would come along.

Right as he unlatched the wood gate that blocked the backyard from the front, his mostly Australian Shepherd, Dolly, wriggled her way through the opening and took off like a shot. Foster gasped, gripping the candlesticks for all he was worth to keep from dropping them on the cement.

He whipped his head back and forth between Dolly and the candlesticks, frozen like he typically was when quick thinking was required. He bit his lip, noting that Dolly was busy sniffing everything and no one was in the yard. Surely, if he took sixty seconds to set down the sticks in the workshop, it would be fine.

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