Page 44 of The Homemaker
A tiny grin finds my lips as I remember her running to the spigot to wash her feet. Palmer peed in the sand, but she didn’t know that.
When I look at her, Alice assesses me with her sad blue eyes and takes a step closer.
Fearing what her proximity might do to me, I retreat and find a genuine smile. “Good night, Alice.”
“Good night, Mr. Paddon.”
Chapter Eighteen
Murphy
Sex is a distraction. It’s okay to get distracted.
Eight Years Earlier …
“Mr. Paddon,are we role-playing this afternoon?” Alice asked, glancing up from her wine and game of solitaire on the dining room table as I stepped into her kitchen wearing a black suit and tie just before lunch. The inviting sweet smell of freshly baked cookies enveloped me.
“Do you like to role-play?” I lifted an eyebrow, possibilities swirling through my dirty mind.
Alice had part of her shoulder-length hair pulled into a messy ponytail, lips twisted into a naughty grin as she counted three more cards and turned them over. “What kind of question is that? You know I’m an amateur actress.”
“A hypothetical actress.”
Without looking up from her game, she smirked. “Yes, Mr. Paddon. So if you’re not here for role-playing, then who died?”
“My grandfather.”
She jerked her head up. “Jesus, Murphy, I was kidding. Please tell me you are too.”
I adjusted my tie because I hated wearing a suit. “Sadly, I’m not. If it makes you feel better, he died a week before you got here. But my uncle has been in Germany on business, and this was the earliest he could return.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe you’re just now mentioning it. We’ve solved every single world problem on our walks, but you didn’t think to share that piece of information? Was he the vinyl record grandfather?” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder toward the turntable.
“Yeah. And I guess I didn’t want you feeling sorry for me.”
“Well,” she stood and padded her bare feet toward me to wrap her arms around my neck, “Iamsorry.”
“Thank you.” I rested my hands on her waist as she released me. “You know what makes funerals more bearable?”
“Wine?”
I chuckled. “A plus-one.”
She crinkled her nose. “A date?”
I nodded.
“No.” She turned and headed back to the dining room table. “A plus-one for a funeral is a terrible idea. Who wants to meet a complete stranger when they’re at their worst? Funerals should be private events. No outsiders.”
“He had a ton of friends. It’s a big funeral. You won’t stand out as an outsider.”
“Maybe. But I don’t do funerals,” she said, refocusing on her game.
“You make it sound like a pastime. No one ‘does’ funerals. They’re about as much fun as a colonoscopy.”
“Exactly. And you wouldn’t invite me to hold your hand while they stuck a scope up your ass, right?”
“I mean … I might. But that’s not a fair comparison.”
