Page 27 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“Whatever happened to your stance that ‘no publicity is bad publicity’?”

“Maybe that was a little broad. I’m rethinking it,” she said from her condo in Sausalito.

“Try ‘No comment.’ Look, I’ve got to run, I’ll talk to you later.” Before she could say another word, he hung up and took another long gulp from his coffee. What was it with Jannelle? Naturally bossy, she was forever sticking her nose into his business.

But then, his whole family had a tendency to get under his skin. All opinionated; no one could ever keep his or her mouth shut. And they’d all chimed in on his separation from Cissy. Jannelle, divorced twice herself, had never liked Cissy and was rooting for the split to be finalized. When he’d given Jannelle the news, she’d arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, crossed her incredibly long legs, leaned back in her chair in the Italian restaurant on Pier 39, and smiled. Outside, a colony of sea lions lazed on the docks in the cool wintry sun. Inside, Jannelle ordered two glasses of champagne and said, “Let’s toast to your new freedom. I’ve always said you should divorce the bitch.”

Jack had walked out, leaving her with the two flutes of expensive champagne and the bill. He’d wandered aimlessly along the waterfront, smelling the brine of the sea and wending his way through tourists willing to brave the sunny, if windy, day.

Things had gone differently with his father. Jonathan Holt had been saddened when he’d heard of the potential demise of Jack’s marriage. He’d met Jack in an Irish bar not far from Jack’s office in the financial district. “I hope you find a way to bury the hatchet and patch things up,” he’d said, sipping a Guinness and glancing at the long mirror that stretched behind the bar. They had been standing, each with a foot on the brass rail, an array of colorful bottles and clean glasses stacked on glass shelves in front of the mirror. “There’s a child involved, you know. My grandson.”

“I know that, Dad. B.J. isn’t just your grandkid, he’s my son.” The old man always had a way of turning the center of the conversation to himself. And Jonathan Holt was no expert on marriage. Though he and Jack’s mother had endured nearly forty years of being together, throughout the duration of the union, Jonathan—handsome, fit, and charming—had found it difficult to stay faithful to his wife. In the end, Jill Holt had become weary of turning the other cheek, looking the other way, and pretending not to hear the whispers, while younger women openly flirted with her husband. She didn’t divorce him, just moved into a bedroom on the far side of their house, as far from her husband as possible without actually taking the step of “separation.” In Jack’s estimation, Jonathan Holt was the last one to be giving advice on the sanctity of marriage vows.

Jack hadn’t had to face his older brother, Jon, who went by the moniker Jonathan Junior and sometimes was referred to as J.J. Once a major surfer and now “doing time” as he called it as a philosophy professor at a small college in Santa Rosa, Jon often dated coeds and had always been a believer in the old hippy axiom of “doing your own thing.” When Jack had delivered the news of his separation from Cissy to his older brother over the phone, J.J. had barely reacted. “Hey, man, it’s your life. Mom and Dad made a mess of theirs hanging together for so long. If we learned anything from them, it’s you should get out of a bad marriage while you can. I did. It’s no big deal.”

No big deal. J.J.’s words still haunted Jack, ringing in his ears as he stood by the French doors and looked outside to the predawn morning. He noticed his watery reflection in the glass, seeming ghostlike. J.J. had been wrong. This, the breakup of his marriage, was the biggest deal of his whole damned life. And his marriage wasn’t “bad”; it just needed some work. Maybe he needed some work. He was the one who’d messed up.

Closing his eyes for a second, Jack could almost hear his mother’s voice, as if she were in the room standing next to him instead of dead and buried, having succumbed to liver cancer two months before B.J. was born. Of course, if Jill Holt had been alive, she would have wrung out the old “’til death do us part” line, not that it mattered much.

The divorce had been Cissy’s idea.

He heard the sound of little dog paws and then footsteps on the stairs. In the wavy reflection, he spied his wife walking into the room. She was carrying a tousle-headed B.J. in her arms.

“’Morning,” Jack greeted her.

“I thought one of the terms of our deal was that you’d be gone in the morning.”

“Still haven’t worked on the furnace.”

To his surprise, she didn’t argue. Still in pajamas and bare feet, her sun-streaked hair a mess, no makeup visible while hauling a groggy and seemingly grumpy child into the kitchen, she was still beautiful.

“Hey, big guy,” Jack said as Cissy handed her son off to him. “How’re ya?”

Beej, usually ecstatic to see him, turned his face away and grumbled, “No!”

“What’s this all about?” Jack asked him with a frown.

“No, Dad-dee!” B.J. was emphatic.

Cissy glanced over her shoulder on the way to the coffeepot. “Welcome to my world. This has been his disposition most of the week. I think he’s teething again. He hasn’t got a fever or anything. Just a bad mood.” She poured herself a cup and rested her hips against the counter as she blew across the top of the steaming cup. “You made this?”

“Yeah?”

“The single life must be agreeing with you already. Look what you’re learning.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. I knew how to make coffee before I met you.”

“Never made a pot while you were living with me.”

“You’re the earlier riser.”

She hid a smile behind the rim of her cup. “And how was that couch?”

“Slept like a baby.”

“Up every three hours crying?” she asked as Beej, a limp rag, his head tucked i

n the crook of Jack’s neck, looked up at his father and scowled.

---