had changed. Forever. A little bit of her heart tore, but she ignored it.
Before her husband could get too comfortable, Cissy said, “I think I can handle it from here. Thanks.”
His lips tightened at the corners. “Don’t do it, Ciss,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Play the part of the bitchy ex-wife. You know, all prickly and able to handle life on her own no matter what kind of trauma she’s just been through.”
“But I can. Handle everything.”
“Even your grandmother’s murder?”
“Don’t be such a bastard.”
He inclined his head, taking the heat. “I just want to face reality.”
She slid a glance at their son, and her voice softened. “Let’s not discuss this now, okay? Little ears hear a lot, Jack. Maybe you should just go home.”
“This is my home.”
“No more. And I’m tired. It’s been a helluva week.” She slid another piece of pizza onto the tray of Beej’s high chair, then poured some milk into a sippy cup. “Careful with this,” she told her son, and he, so much like his father, grinned mischievously before taking the handle and swinging the cup to and fro, spraying milk on the wall, floor, tray, and Cissy.
Perfect.
“I was afraid of that. You just lost your ‘get out of jail free’ card, bud.”
She retrieved the cup, and he started winding up to wail before she distracted him with his favorite toy. A little rubber car with no moving parts. It did nothing except look remarkably like Jack’s Jeep.
“Dad-dee car!” he said gleefully, his attention diverted as Cissy dabbed at her sweater with a dishrag before swabbing the counter. She glanced up at Jack and saw him smothering a smile. “Don’t say it,” she warned, pointing at him and dropping the rag by mistake. “Crap.” She bent to pick it up and nearly cracked heads with Jack, who had also dived for the soaked towel. “I’ve got it!” Retrieving the dishrag, she mopped up the sprayed milk, then walked onto what had once been a porch and was now the sunroom. Opening a cupboard door, she dropped the rag into a laundry chute that channeled to the basement.
By the time she’d returned to the kitchen, Jack had retrieved two bottles of beer from the fridge. “Something I forgot when I moved out,” he said, then popped the tops. He handed her a bottle, tapped the neck of his to hers, and said, “To better days.”
A part of her wanted to argue and throw him out, though another part told herself to let it go for the night. She didn’t need another fight. She figured there were enough battles on the horizon. Reluctantly she offered him a conciliatory smile.
“Amen,” she whispered. “To better days.”
She lifted the bottle to her lips, but paused as a horrid thought hit her.
What if this was the best day?
What if from here on in, things just got worse? She took a long swallow as her son pounded his little car on the tray of his high chair.
Now, there was a happy thought.
Chapter 4
Paterno felt a case of heartburn coming on.
He reached into his pocket and found a near-empty packet of Tums. Popping a couple of the chalky tablets, he took a sweeping glance at the Cahill estate, thinking this was the price he paid for returning to the city. A few years back, he’d taken a leave of absence and spent some time working in Santa Lucia, thinking the quiet life might appeal to him. Instead, though, he’d caught one helluva case involving a firefighting family, and after that he’d slowly become bored with the slower pace of small-town life. He’d done his share of touring wineries, golfing, or fly-fishing, but the quiet life hadn’t taken. Truth to tell, he’d missed the hustle and bustle of the city: the steep hills, rich history, and varied elements and ethnicity of San Francisco. He loved the smell of the wharf, the Irish bars, the noise and color of Chinatown, all of it. He still got a thrill driving over the Golden Gate, and hell if he didn’t ride a damned cable car now and again. He just
Before her husband could get too comfortable, Cissy said, “I think I can handle it from here. Thanks.”
His lips tightened at the corners. “Don’t do it, Ciss,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Play the part of the bitchy ex-wife. You know, all prickly and able to handle life on her own no matter what kind of trauma she’s just been through.”
“But I can. Handle everything.”
“Even your grandmother’s murder?”
“Don’t be such a bastard.”
He inclined his head, taking the heat. “I just want to face reality.”
She slid a glance at their son, and her voice softened. “Let’s not discuss this now, okay? Little ears hear a lot, Jack. Maybe you should just go home.”
“This is my home.”
“No more. And I’m tired. It’s been a helluva week.” She slid another piece of pizza onto the tray of Beej’s high chair, then poured some milk into a sippy cup. “Careful with this,” she told her son, and he, so much like his father, grinned mischievously before taking the handle and swinging the cup to and fro, spraying milk on the wall, floor, tray, and Cissy.
Perfect.
“I was afraid of that. You just lost your ‘get out of jail free’ card, bud.”
She retrieved the cup, and he started winding up to wail before she distracted him with his favorite toy. A little rubber car with no moving parts. It did nothing except look remarkably like Jack’s Jeep.
“Dad-dee car!” he said gleefully, his attention diverted as Cissy dabbed at her sweater with a dishrag before swabbing the counter. She glanced up at Jack and saw him smothering a smile. “Don’t say it,” she warned, pointing at him and dropping the rag by mistake. “Crap.” She bent to pick it up and nearly cracked heads with Jack, who had also dived for the soaked towel. “I’ve got it!” Retrieving the dishrag, she mopped up the sprayed milk, then walked onto what had once been a porch and was now the sunroom. Opening a cupboard door, she dropped the rag into a laundry chute that channeled to the basement.
By the time she’d returned to the kitchen, Jack had retrieved two bottles of beer from the fridge. “Something I forgot when I moved out,” he said, then popped the tops. He handed her a bottle, tapped the neck of his to hers, and said, “To better days.”
A part of her wanted to argue and throw him out, though another part told herself to let it go for the night. She didn’t need another fight. She figured there were enough battles on the horizon. Reluctantly she offered him a conciliatory smile.
“Amen,” she whispered. “To better days.”
She lifted the bottle to her lips, but paused as a horrid thought hit her.
What if this was the best day?
What if from here on in, things just got worse? She took a long swallow as her son pounded his little car on the tray of his high chair.
Now, there was a happy thought.
Chapter 4
Paterno felt a case of heartburn coming on.
He reached into his pocket and found a near-empty packet of Tums. Popping a couple of the chalky tablets, he took a sweeping glance at the Cahill estate, thinking this was the price he paid for returning to the city. A few years back, he’d taken a leave of absence and spent some time working in Santa Lucia, thinking the quiet life might appeal to him. Instead, though, he’d caught one helluva case involving a firefighting family, and after that he’d slowly become bored with the slower pace of small-town life. He’d done his share of touring wineries, golfing, or fly-fishing, but the quiet life hadn’t taken. Truth to tell, he’d missed the hustle and bustle of the city: the steep hills, rich history, and varied elements and ethnicity of San Francisco. He loved the smell of the wharf, the Irish bars, the noise and color of Chinatown, all of it. He still got a thrill driving over the Golden Gate, and hell if he didn’t ride a damned cable car now and again. He just
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