Page 20 of Priceless
I was furious and thought of the perfect response. I told him, “That’s okay. My next husband will want more kids.”
He sat on a kitchen chair with his mouth hanging open, holding an ice pack between his legs, while I threw some clothes in a duffle and repacked the diaper bag. He hadn’t even looked at Peaches when I said I was taking her to my mom’s for a while. Never reached for her.
“You’d leave me like this? I can hardly walk!”
I’d pointed to his crotch. “From now on, I guess you should stay away from doctors. Just in case. Or better yet, have the whole kit removed. Since, you know, you won’t be needing it anymore.”
I stayed away for two days. When I came home again, we never talked about it. We never fought again. If he was angry with me, he never let on. And when I was pissed at him, I kept it to myself, let it simmer and boil, but he never heard a word.
We focused on Peaches. Acted like a normal couple. When anyone asked if we were having more kids, Paul would jump to answer. “There were complications. We won’t be having any more.” And eventually, people stopped asking.
Complications. He thought he was doing me a favor, steering everyone’s pity toward me. Too bad their pity was for the wrong thing.
A marriage without fighting almost sounded romantic. But there was nothing romantic about it. Not fighting wasn’t a sign that we were in tune with each other. Not fighting, for us, meant suppressed emotion on my part, escape from emotion on his.
There were never any conversations about how Paul felt about our new relationship. I never asked if he felt bad or if he just didn’t feel anything at all. What did it matter?
I do remember we stopped holding hands…
And sitting there, on that plane, I had an image in my mind of a couple I was sure would be holding hands, even if they weren’t real—Brodie and Jenny.
Of course, witches didn’t bring ghosts back to life for their amusement. Witches weren’t real, anyway. But if they were, and if that story had been true, I figured Brodie and Jenny reveled in every drop of emotion they could get their hands on.
I snorted quietly when a wildly crazy thought hit me, securing my membership in the Nutcase Club...
Maybe there was another Scottish ghost out there…waiting for someone like me.
CHAPTER TEN
The staff of Jocko’s Public House had been acting odd since they’d opened that morning. A bit too cheerful. Sometimes nervous. As if they had a large private party booked but no preparations to keep them busy.
Jacob had to tell Dougie to stop whistlin’ more than a dozen times. It wasn’t that it bothered him, but customers didn’t appreciate the solemn dirges that seemed to be the bulk of his playlist that day.
Later in the afternoon, he caught Vonnie coming down the hall from the loo and stepped in her path. “Has Dougie been to a funeral that I didn’t know about?”
Her eyes popped more than usual, then she looked away and shrugged. “Maybe he’s been watchin’ sad movies. Ye’ll have to ask him—wait, no. Dinnae ask him. Might bring him down even more. Just… I’ll go put on some nice céilidh music, shall I?”
Jacob nodded, though she hurried off without waiting for an answer. Too suspicious by half.
He used the loo himself, and when he came out again, the place was silent as the grave. No customers at the moment. And not only had Vonnie failed to turn on dancing music, she’d turned off the low background tunes altogether. In the bar itself,it seemed all his employees had decided to take a break together and settled themselves at the tables, including those who were expected for the evening shift. Cooks, barkeeps, and waitstaff. Thirteen in all.
On the door, Vonnie hung the special sign they used when the pub had been let for a private party. But there was no private party. The hard knock of the bolt turning in the door finally did the trick, however, and Jacob realized they’d planned something on their own.
“’Tisn’t my birthday, ye ken.”
Vonnie turned to smile at him. “We ken it. Do ye see a cake anywhere?”
He shook his head and looked at the others. Brandon, the lad who washed the dishes and bussed tables, had been with them for half a year. He was the only one who suddenly couldn’t look him in the eye. The others stared him down no problem.
Dougie seemed upset, but he had nothing to say.
Jacob glanced at the clock on the distant wall. It was a tiny, rusted thing that hung in the shadows and kept his customers from keeping close track of time. Three o’clock, if his eyes could be trusted. The next hour was the slowest of the day, so he wouldn’t be losing too much custom by barring the door for a wee while.
He reckoned he knew what this was about. He’d been riding them all fairly hard for two weeks, and they’d reached their limit. If he didn’t sit still and take his lumps, he might lose some very fine people who were now family to him.
Instead of presuming to know their complaints and trying to stop the show, he pulled out a chair, sat, then folded his arms and let them do their worst. When they looked among themselves for a brave soul to speak first, he gave them a wee nudge.
“Go on, then. I’m listenin’.”
