Page 70 of Coming Home

“Yes. I can tell you which furniture goes to which place, so if you want to group the pieces going to the house with all of those boxes and deliver it before you go to the store—or vice-versa—I can.”

The man nodded. “Direct us on what to do then, Mr. Martin. I have tags that will designate what goes to which stop.”

With Jackson’s guidance, the movers loaded their van, keeping the two groupings apart. When the final box left the storage unit, he pulled down the door and went out to the truck.

“Delivery is scheduled for this coming Monday,” one of the movers told him. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

The movers climbed into the van and left the property as Jackson called for another rideshare to take him to his former office. He had the box of pastries with him, eager to show off his new wife’s artistry.

He got antsy with all the traffic, once again grateful that he had left L.A. behind. He read the national news daily and found himself turning to a few California newspaper websites, skimming them to see if his former client, Gerard McGreer, had been arrested. The case—and the client—had left a sour taste in Jackson’s mouth. He thought of the last day, just before McGreer’s verdict came in, and how the accused was already trying to line up Jackson and the firm in case something else happened and he was charged with a crime again. He shuddered at the thought, hoping no other innocents would be violated by McGreer.

He arrived at his former workplace and was greeted warmly by their receptionist.

“How are you, Cindy?” he asked as she moved from behind the desk and gave him a big hug.

“We’ve missed you, Jackson,” she said. “Flannigan is doing a great job, but no one could ever replace you.”

Their paralegal appeared with a stack of files, placing them on Cindy’s desk, and giving him a hug.

“Come on back to the conference room,” she said. “Bill and Flan are working on a case, but they know you are stopping by.”

Jackson followed both women back to the familiar conference room, placing the box he’d brought on the table and shaking hands with Bill Watterscheim.

“It’s good to see you, Bill,” he declared. “You’re looking good,” his former partner told him. “And we’re swamped with cases. Sure you don’t want to come back?”

“Not on your life,” he said, laughing. Then he turned and greeted Richard Flannigan. “Hey, Flan. How are you fitting in at Watterscheim & Flannigan?”

“Best decision I ever made was to buy you out, Jackson,” the attorney said. “Have a seat.”

They gathered around the conference table, and Jackson opened the box he had brought. Both women oohed and ahhed over what was inside.

“These are from my wife’s bakery,” he said proudly.

“Let me grab some plates and napkins,” Cindy said, hurrying from the room.

Bill eyed the contents. “If they taste half as good as they look, I’ll know why you married Ainsley so quickly.”

They spent an enjoyable half-hour catching up, their two private investigators also making an appearance and claiming pastries from the box.

Jackson consulted his watch. “I’m going to need to head out in order to make my flight home.”

“You were just here for the day?” Bill asked.

He nodded. “I have to be back because tomorrow we’re doing a walk-through in the home we purchased. We had some work done to it, and we’re meeting the contractor to make sure everything is up to speed before we move in on Monday.”

Everyone rose, and Bill offered Jackson his hand. “It was good to see you, buddy. Yes, I was pissed that you left, but Flan here has been a terrific replacement. Thanks for recommending him.”

“Do you have a rental?” Flannigan asked.

“No, I just Ubered everywhere. It’s easier.”

“Why don’t you let Cindy take you to the airport?” Bill offered. “Friday afternoons are a little slow. We can cover the phones.”

“I can do that,” their paralegal piped up.

Jackson looked to Cindy? “Do you mind?”

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