Page 23 of All's Well that Friends Well

“If you’re here and I’m not, just sit in the good chair,” I say, pointing to the rolling chair I use. “You’re an old man, Rodney. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Someone is prickly today,” Rod says with gruff amusement.

“Andyouseem strangely happy,” I counter. “So we even things out between us.” I round the desk and put my bag down before hanging up my jacket; it’s a cool morning, but the day should end up being warm.

I feel lame admitting I have a favorite season, but I do, and it’s spring. I get grumpier in the winter, and summer is too hot. Fall is fine, I guess.

I just like all the green, and the sunshine, and that feeling in the air that something new is coming.

Possibility. That’s what spring feels like to me. Infinite possibilities.

“Well,” Rod says as I settle myself in my desk chair. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Why you’re in such a good mood?” I say, glancing up at him. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are bright, which for Rod is basically a giant smile. “No. I’m not going to ask.”

Because I have the feeling it has something to do with Juliet Marigold, and I don’t want to think about her. In fact, I’d like to forget she exists. No matter where I go, there she is, in my face and in my space, smiling and feeding me the most delicious desserts I’ve ever had.

I needspacefrom that woman. So, no. I’m not going to ask why he’s so chipper this morning. I’m not going to ask if Juliet started work today, though I’m positive she did. I’m not going to ask if Rod has seen her. I don’t want to know.

“Fine,” Rodney grunts as he pushes himself out of his chair. I stand quickly to help him, but he waves me away, and I sink slowly back down. He more or less hobbles over to my office door and then tugs the string that opens the blinds. “Leave these open,” he says—and it’s Mr. Ring talking now, my senior business partner and boss. “Do you know how unapproachable you are? I’m still looking for someone to help with your image problem, but good grief—do some of the lifting yourself.” He pauses and then goes on in his weathered voice, “You might see someone interesting through these today, anyhow. Or hear about her.”

Then he looks over his shoulder at me and smirks. The man with permanent frown linessmirks.

He’s talking about Juliet, of course. He has to be. But why would Ihearabout her? We hire new people fairly regularly.

My question is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it in, even when Rod lifts one wiry brow at me. I just turn my gaze back to my desk, looking blindly at the unimportant piece of paper in front of me as though it holds all the secrets of the universe.

“Have it your way,” Rodney grunts, and the blinds rustle again as he opens the door. “I spoke to Susan about the breakfast you’re hosting”—I shudder at the reminder—“so she’ll be in touch. I’m off. Don’t let me hear any more complaints about you—and Iwillhear.”

I give him a sharp nod in response to the look of warning he’s giving me, and it’s only when he’s gone that I let myself relax back into my chair. I pull my glasses off and set them on my desk, running my hand down my face.

I’m too tired for this. I’m too tired for everything, always. But I have to keep going anyway, because I don’t have time to stop.

I don’t know where rest is supposed to fit in my calendar. Sometimes I think it would be nice, resting.

My phone buzzes on the glass top of my desk, and with a sigh, I open my eyes. A sinking feeling in my gut reminds me of the call I’ve been expecting, but I let myself hope for a brief moment anyway. I let myself hope that I won’t hear a warm, motherly voice when I answer; that I won’t hear a good-natured murmur of laughter in the background.

My hope is in vain, though. Because when I pick up thephone and look at the screen, I see the name I dread:Delaneys.

Mr. and Mrs. Delaney were supposed to be my in-laws. They love me like a son; they’re thrilled to see me and hear from me every time we talk. Maura was their pride and joy, their only child. And they think we were going to get married. They think I loved their daughter unconditionally.

They don’t know that I?—

I shut the thought down before it can emerge. I need to answer the phone; I don’t have time to wallow. The guilt will come anyway, and I’ll deserve it when it does.

So I hit the greenCallbutton and hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello,” I say, the word hoarse.

“Luca?” Mrs. Delaney says, and her voice is just as warm and inviting as always. “Oh, good. I worried I was calling at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” I say. I clear my throat to get rid of the pain blocking my throat. “How are you doing?”

“We’re just fine,” she says. I can picture her fluttering brown hair, thick like Maura’s but shiny and touched with gold. Her smiling lips are less like my former fiancée’s, however; Maura’s smiles were rare toward the end. “How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m good,” I lie. The sick, churning regret is settling heavy in my stomach, guilt like the shining oil that stains pavement and blackens water. Toxic. Suffocating. “Doing really well.”

“Well, I know you’re still out in Lucky,” Mrs. Delaney goes on, “but if you’ve got a bit this weekend to nip out to dinner, we’d love to have our meal with you. Are you free?”

“Of course,” I say.

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