Page 34 of The Reluctant Reaper
“See? Weareconcerned.”
“So are vultures, Penny. Now throw down your napkin and storm off while your husband keeps trying to feed you salmon and get to second base while the rest of us try and lookanywhereelse.”
Penny, who was already on her feet, sat so quickly it looked like she’d been hit over the head. “I’ll do no such thing, Amara.”
“More juice?” Hilly asked with forced cheer. “Or a smoked turkey? I could bring one in from the larder.”
“Aw, man,” Gray said, polishing off the last of the bacon. “Next time, lead with ‘smoked turkey.’ I’ve never been so full in my life.”
ChapterSixteen
After breakfast, Hilly had declined all offers of help with cleanup, so Amara had taken Gray up the stairs and across the bridge.
“A little bridge. In your house.” He bounced a bit, testing the weight. “Sturdy, too.”
“Stop making the bridge bounce, you twit. Come on.”
“What’s next? A secret tunnel? A mysterious elevator that only works during a full moon? An enchanted pantry?”
“Nothing like that. Well, maybe the tunnel.” She took his hand and led him across to the other tower, which held the library. His ecstasy was on full display and she loved to see his joy.
“Oh my God. Stand back, I’m gonna do a Belle-type whirl. ‘Ohhhhhhh, isn’t this amaaaaaaaazing?’”
And he did.
“I wanted to show you last night, but...”
“Yeah, I get it. Yesterday was a lot. Speaking of ‘a lot,’ you have so many books they have their own sections! And you’ve got two stories to hold them! Watch out; I feel another twirl coming.”
I’d like a lover who looks at me the way Graham Gray looks at a great big stack of books. Just for a little while.
Nope. Such things were not for her. The thought of falling in love with someone and knowing exactly when and how they would die? Knowing the date she would be alone again? If it was a bad marriage, she’d be counting the days. A good one, and... she’d be counting the days.
Unsupportable. Especially when it came to Graham Gray.
The library was one of the few rooms with wall-to-wall carpeting. The bridge was a nod to the fact that the place was two stories high, with rows of built-in bookshelves ringing the room. A spiral staircase led to the lower level, where there were comfortable couches, chairs, plush footstools, and two antique desks, each long and wide enough for a grown man to stretch out on. A chandelier hung overhead, and there were three-way lamps scattered around the room, with switches set to bright, brighter, and operating room. A wooden cabinet across from the desks held a printer and (quaint!) a fax machine. The two-story windows offered a view of the lake, and in winter, it was the coziest place imaginable. Summer, too.
Her family’s collection boasted everything from a book of twelfth-century Norwegian literature to Joe Hill’sLocke & Keygraphic novels, and Gray wasted no time plucking books from shelves and sinking into a couch.
I should go see Dad again. I should. Maybe bring him some fruit. I know Mom fed him, but it was probably savory oatmeal, poor bastard. I should... but it’s nice in here. With Gray. Maybe we could stay a bit longer. Until Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday.
She was startled by the difference her best friend’s presence made. The place didn’t seem like a luxurious tomb with him there. She wondered what that meant.
After half an hour or so, Gray came up for air. “So I knew about your dad, but I didn’t know your mom was famous.”
She had sunk into the chair across from him and let out a sigh. “Yes, Gray, that’s usually how it works when the myths are written by men.”
“Could you not right now? I get it; we’re all terrible.”
“Finally! A bald admission of guilt. I’ll make sure to tell all the other feminists during the next blood moon.”
“Ho-ho-ho.” In deference to his status as guest, Gray was as dressed up as he ever got: knee-length cargo shorts and a sunny-yellow long-sleeved polo. No socks, natch.
“Your folks are in a lot of these,” he continued, brandishingD’Aulaires’ Book of Norse Mythsin her direction. “Listen, and I don’t mean this in a nasty way, but isn’t your mom—who I think is awesome—but isn’t she a little—um—I mean, I didn’t expect—but she’s kind of?—”
“Cough it up already.”
“A cliché?” he whispered. “She fusses and feeds and that’s it? Maybe that’s not fair; we’ve only just met. It’s just, she’s so different from you. From what I expected.”
