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She turned to leave. Frankenstein, mewling unhappily, followed her.
“Kitt,” Jackson said, surprising us both and stopping her in her tracks. When she turned around, her face was a beacon of hope. “You should know,” Jackson said, “all paths lead to Oren.”
She looked…vanquished.
Sunday, September 20, 2015, Janus—I threw my overnight bag in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat next to MJ. “Thanks for the ride,” I said by way of greeting.
“Anytime,” MJ said, putting the car in gear and backing down the driveway. “But, where’s Jackson?”
“He’s in the house, sleeping. He just got back from Locust Hollow last night. He was there all week.”
“Locust Hollow? Why on earth was he there? I didn’t think either of you would ever go back there.”
“His father died.”
“Reverend Jack?”
I nodded.
“How do you feel? she asked.
“I’ll quote Moms Mabley when she was asked how she felt about her ex-husband dying. ‘I was raised to only say good of the dead. He’s dead; good.’”
MJ chuckled and punched me in the arm. Turning serious, she asked, “How’s Jackson?”
“Upset. Out of sorts. Evidently, his mother told him he killed his father.”
“Let me guess, they saw the wedding story.”
I nodded. “We didn’t realize it was a national broadcast.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. I hate to leave Jackson like this, though. But the client is threatening to cancel the contract, so I’ve got to go do damage control. I asked Jackson if he wanted to come with me, but he said no. It’s only a couple of days.”
“Want me to check on him for you?”
“No. He wants to be alone, I think. And Kitt said she’d keep an eye on him.”
“I bet she will, that viper.”
“MJ…”
“OK, fine. You know I don’t trust that Amazonian heifer as far as I can throw her—”
“That’s our exit!”
Sunday, December 6, 2015, Janus—I should have known today was going to be one of the worst days of my life thismorning. Jackson was moodier and more distant than when he first came back from his father’s funeral. This morning didn’t start with sex as it usually does. In fact, our sex life dropped off about three months ago. I’ve tried to chalk it up to a combination of grief over Reverend Jack’s death and age. Maybe I should try harder to restart our sex life, but he’s rebuffed me the few times I’ve tried to initiate. I don’t like asking anyone for anything. Not even Jackson. Not forthat. No matter how lonely and horny I am. I’ve tried not to let sex’s sudden absence chaff me.
We postponed grocery shopping yesterday because Jackson didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like it today either, even after I said he could ride in the cart, so I said I’d do the shopping alone. Hoping he’d change his mind, I pottered around the house and dragged my feet all day, so it was already dark when I left.
Shopping, I soon realized, was no fun without Jackson and his antics, so I decided we’d order pizza for dinner and headed home. I walked into the kitchen and discovered him and Kitt talking tensely at the kitchen table, heads together. Frankenstein was sitting placidly at Jackson’s feet; over the last few months, they seem to have reached détente. He hissed at me, though, when I leaned down and kissed the top of Jackson’s head.
“We have to tell him,” Kitt said insistently.
“Tell who what?” I asked, setting my bags on the counter. They both jumped a little at the question.
“What are you doing back so soon?” Jackson asked. “I thought you were going shopping.”
