images looking for another dark-skinned man of medium height and build who might have been lurking at the crime scene. They came up empty, but Will thought it was still a viable hypothesis.
Today’s celebration was a welcome respite from all that. Will dumped a box of Uncle Ben’s into boiling water and opened another beer. The doorbell rang again. He hoped it was Nancy with the flowers, and it was, but both she and Laura were there together, gabby and happy like girlfriends. Behind them stood a young man, tall, whippet-thin, with intelligent, darting eyes and a mound of curly brown hair.
Will grabbed the bouquet from his partner and sheepishly handed it to Laura. “Congratulations, kiddo.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Laura joked.
“I didn’t,” he said quickly.
“Dad, this is Greg.”
The two men checked out each other’s grip with handshakes.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Same here. Weren’t expecting you but I’m pleased to finally meet you, Greg.”
“He came for moral support,” Laura said. “He’s like that.”
She pecked her father’s cheek as she passed, put her bag down on the sofa and unzipped a side pocket. Triumphantly, she waved a contract from Elevation Press in the air. “Signed, sealed, delivered!”
“Can I call you a writer now?” Will asked.
A tear formed and she nodded.
He quickly turned away and retreated into the kitchenette. “Let me get the bubbly before you get all blubbery.”
Laura whispered to Nancy, “He so doesn’t like it when you get emotional.”
“I’ve noticed,” Nancy said.
Over steaming bowls of chili, Will toasted for the umpteenth time and seemed to take pleasure in the fact that all of them were swigging champagne. He fetched another bottle and continued to pour. Nancy mildly protested but let him continue until the froth overflowed and wet her fingers. “I almost never drink, but this is tasty,” she said.
“Everyone’s got to drink at this party,” Will said firmly. “You a drinking man, Greg?”
“In moderation.”
“I excessively drink in moderation,” Will joked, catching a sharp look from his daughter. “I thought journalists were big boozers.”
“We come in all stripes.”
“You going to come in the striped model that follows me around news conferences?”
“I want to do print journalism. Investigative reporting.”
Laura chimed in, “Greg believes that investigative journalism is the most effective way to tackle social and political problems.”
“Do you?” Will asked with a jab to his words. Sanctimony always raised his hackles.
“I do,” Greg replied, equally prickly.
“Okay, I now pronounce you…” Laura said lightly, to head off a problem.
Will pressed. “How’s the job landscape look for investigative journalism?”
“Not great. I’m doing an internship at the Washington Post. Obviously, I’d love to get a gig there. If you ever want to pass me a tip, here’s my card.” He was half kidding.
Will slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I used to date a gal at the Washington Post.” He snorted. “It wouldn’t help your chances to use me as a reference.”
Laura wanted to change the subject. “So, you want to hear about my meeting?”
“Absolutely, give me details.”
She slurped through the champagne foam. “It was so great,” she cooed. “My editor, Jennifer Ryan, who’s a real sweetheart, spent almost half an hour telling me how much she liked the changes I’d made and how it only needed a few tweaks, etcetera, etcetera, and then she told me we were going up to the fourth floor to meet with Mathew Bryce Williams, who’s the publisher. It’s an old town house, so beautiful, and Mathew’s office is dark and filled with antiques, like some kind of English club, you know, and he’s an older guy, like Dad’s age, but way more distinguished-”
“Hey!” Will howled.
“Well, he is!” she continued. “He’s like a caricature of an upper-class Brit but he was urbane and charming and-you’re not going to believe this-he offered me sherry from a crystal decanter which he served in little crystal glasses. It was so perfect. And then he went on and on about how much he loved my writing-he called my style ‘lean and spare with the muscularity of a fresh young voice.’” She spoke his words with a mock English accent. “Can you believe he said that?”
“Did he say anything about how much you’re going to make?” Will asked.
“No! I wasn’t going to ruin the moment with a crass discussion about money.”
“Well, you’re not going to retire on what they’re paying up front. Is she, Greg, unless there’s a lot of dough in investigative journalism?”
The young man wouldn’t take the bait.
“It’s a small publisher, Dad! They only do like ten books a year.”
“Are you doing a book tour?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know yet but it’s not like it’s going to be some huge book. It’s literary fiction, not a pulp novel.”
Nancy wanted to know when she could read it.
“The galleys should be out in a few months. I’ll send you a copy. Want to read it, Dad?”
He stared at her. “I don’t know, do I?”
“I think you’ll survive.”
“Not every day you get called a wrecking ball-especially by your daughter,” he said ruefully.
“It’s a novel. It’s not you. It’s inspired by you.”
Will raised his glass. “Here’s to inspirational men.”
They clinked glasses again.
“Did you read it, Greg?” Will asked.
“I did. It’s superb.”
“So you know more about me than I know about you.” Will was getting looser and louder. “Maybe her next book’ll be about you.”
The comment made Laura say acidly, “You know, you really ought to read it. I’ve turned it into a screenplay- how’s that for hopeful? I’ll leave a copy. It’s a quicker read. You’ll get the idea.”
Laura and Greg left soon after dinner to catch a train back to Washington. Nancy stayed behind to help clean up. The evening was too pleasant to cut short, and Will had shaken off his irritability and seemed relaxed and mellow, an altogether different man from the coiled spring she encountered every day on the job.
Outside, the light was bleaching out and the traffic noises were fading, except for the occasional wail of a Bellevue ambulance. They worked side by side in the little kitchenette, washing and drying, both swaying with the afterglow of the champagne. Will was already on the scotch. Both of them were happily out of their routine, and the domestic simplicity of doing dishes was soothing.
It wasn’t planned-Will would reflect on it later-but instead of reaching for the next plate, he reached for her ass and started rubbing it gently in little circles. In retrospect, he should have seen it coming.
She had cheekbones now and an hour-glass shape and, damn it, he would say if asked, looks mattered to him. But even more, her personality had molded under his tutelage. She was calmer, less gung-ho and caffeinated, and to his amusement, some of his cynicism had rubbed off. There was the occasional pleasant whiff of sarcasm emanating from her mouth. The insufferable Girl Scout was gone and in her place was a woman who no longer jangled his nerve endings. Quite the opposite.
Her hands were in soapy water. She kept them there, closed her eyes for a moment and didn’t say or do anything.
He turned her toward him and she had to figure out what to do with her hands. She finally placed them wet on his shoulders and said, “Do you think this is a good idea?”
“No, do you?”
“Nope.”
