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Authors: Sara J. Henry
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adjustto his new life here, without a mother, with the father he hadn’t seen for months; that Philippe and I had gotten close, partly because of Paul, but had backed off for many reasons. The timing wasn’t right; I was deeply attached to his son, and he was recovering from the loss of his wife. Not the best time to start something.
Jessamyn drained her wineglass. “I dunno, maybe you should just go for it, Troy. He seems to be a great guy. You like the kid, and this place is amazing.”
Yeah, I know
. I wasn’t going to open my veins here and tell her how much I’d struggled with my attraction to Philippe and to Paul and the whole setup, and explain why I couldn’t have stayed here. “I know. Maybe if there wasn’t a child involved. But I didn’t want to try something that was too soon or not right, and then not be a part of Paul’s life. He’d already lost his mother; I didn’t want him to lose me, too.” It was late enough and this was enough of the truth that my voice caught.
Jessamyn thought for a moment. Her next question took me off guard. “Are your mother and father together?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think it ever occurred to them not to be. They seem okay. Neither of them have much use for me, but that’s just how it is.”
“Mmm, kind of the same here. But no father. He took off when I was about three. I saw him again once, I think, and that was it. I don’t even remember what he looked like.” She shrugged. “Paul’s lucky. He’s lucky to have his father, and Elise, and you, and all this.” She waved a hand to encompass
all this
. The puppy, the delectable meals, the fine furnishings, the house filled with love.
My throat tightened. “Yes, he is.”
“I think we need more wine,” she said.
“I think you’re right.”
We tiptoed off to the kitchen and polished off the bottle and the last of the apple pie while we were at it. We rinsed our dishes and went off to bed, comfortably full, and feeling, I think, more like friends than we had before.
CHAPTER 14
At breakfast Philippe excused himself to go to work early, but we’d be meeting him downtown later. Jessamyn said she was tired, and found a book and went off to her room to read. I fired up my laptop and sent an e-mail to my brother, telling him what had happened, because at some point in all this I might need Simon’s cool logical brain.
And then I started some Googling to see if I could track down the person who had sent that article around. I had the e-mail address from George, and it didn’t take long to trace it to a little-used Facebook page with a cartooned Marilyn Monroe for an avatar. Lives in:
Lake Placid, New York
. Worked at:
Price Chopper
. User name:
Marilyn Munro
. It was likely a fake name but if not, how unfortunate. I asked Jessamyn if she knew anyone named Marilyn, and she said she didn’t.
Then we drove downtown to meet Philippe for a bundled-up walk and an early lunch at a bistro. Because, as he told Jessamyn, you shouldn’t come to Ottawa and not at least see the Parliament buildings and Rideau Canal. It was iced over so thoroughly that some people commuted on skates to work, and little huts were set up to sell hot chocolate and beaver tails, a particularly large and sticky pastry.
When we got back I went through the voice mail messages that had downloaded into my inbox as mp3 files. Most were reporters, but not the last two, and they left me feeling queasy.
I found Jessamyn in the kitchen.
“The state police called me at home,” I told her. “They were trying to get in touch with you—they want to interview you.”
All the animation drained from her face. I hadn’t realized until then just how much Jessamyn had relaxed here, how different she looked.
“The state police?” she asked. “Not the local police?”
I nodded. “I guess they’re following up on Tobin’s death.”
“Do we have to go now?” Her voice was plaintive, like a small child’s.
I looked up at the wall
Jessamyn drained her wineglass. “I dunno, maybe you should just go for it, Troy. He seems to be a great guy. You like the kid, and this place is amazing.”
Yeah, I know
. I wasn’t going to open my veins here and tell her how much I’d struggled with my attraction to Philippe and to Paul and the whole setup, and explain why I couldn’t have stayed here. “I know. Maybe if there wasn’t a child involved. But I didn’t want to try something that was too soon or not right, and then not be a part of Paul’s life. He’d already lost his mother; I didn’t want him to lose me, too.” It was late enough and this was enough of the truth that my voice caught.
Jessamyn thought for a moment. Her next question took me off guard. “Are your mother and father together?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think it ever occurred to them not to be. They seem okay. Neither of them have much use for me, but that’s just how it is.”
“Mmm, kind of the same here. But no father. He took off when I was about three. I saw him again once, I think, and that was it. I don’t even remember what he looked like.” She shrugged. “Paul’s lucky. He’s lucky to have his father, and Elise, and you, and all this.” She waved a hand to encompass
all this
. The puppy, the delectable meals, the fine furnishings, the house filled with love.
My throat tightened. “Yes, he is.”
“I think we need more wine,” she said.
“I think you’re right.”
We tiptoed off to the kitchen and polished off the bottle and the last of the apple pie while we were at it. We rinsed our dishes and went off to bed, comfortably full, and feeling, I think, more like friends than we had before.
CHAPTER 14
At breakfast Philippe excused himself to go to work early, but we’d be meeting him downtown later. Jessamyn said she was tired, and found a book and went off to her room to read. I fired up my laptop and sent an e-mail to my brother, telling him what had happened, because at some point in all this I might need Simon’s cool logical brain.
And then I started some Googling to see if I could track down the person who had sent that article around. I had the e-mail address from George, and it didn’t take long to trace it to a little-used Facebook page with a cartooned Marilyn Monroe for an avatar. Lives in:
Lake Placid, New York
. Worked at:
Price Chopper
. User name:
Marilyn Munro
. It was likely a fake name but if not, how unfortunate. I asked Jessamyn if she knew anyone named Marilyn, and she said she didn’t.
Then we drove downtown to meet Philippe for a bundled-up walk and an early lunch at a bistro. Because, as he told Jessamyn, you shouldn’t come to Ottawa and not at least see the Parliament buildings and Rideau Canal. It was iced over so thoroughly that some people commuted on skates to work, and little huts were set up to sell hot chocolate and beaver tails, a particularly large and sticky pastry.
When we got back I went through the voice mail messages that had downloaded into my inbox as mp3 files. Most were reporters, but not the last two, and they left me feeling queasy.
I found Jessamyn in the kitchen.
“The state police called me at home,” I told her. “They were trying to get in touch with you—they want to interview you.”
All the animation drained from her face. I hadn’t realized until then just how much Jessamyn had relaxed here, how different she looked.
“The state police?” she asked. “Not the local police?”
I nodded. “I guess they’re following up on Tobin’s death.”
“Do we have to go now?” Her voice was plaintive, like a small child’s.
I looked up at the wall
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