“You should’ve called my cell. Some of us work for a living.”
“I did call your cell.”
“Well, I was working for a living.” He opened the fridge, pulled out a Coke. “Everything good?”
“Everything’s very good. Simon, you’re living with a woman.”
“You’re not going to send a priest, are you?”
Her laugh rolled through the earpiece. “On the contrary, I’m pleased with this new step.”
“It’s just a thing because of that other business.”
“She thinks you’re wonderful, generous, supportive and patient.” Julie waited a beat. “Yes, I was speechless, too. Do you know what I see, Simon, with my mother’s super-vision?”
“What?”
“I see some rough edges smoothing out.”
“You’re asking for it, Julie Lynne.”
“When I ask for it, I get it. We’re good at that, aren’t we?”
Amused, he took a swig of Coke. “I guess we are.”
“I like the tone of your voice when you talk about her. And that’s all I’m saying about it. For now.”
“Good.”
“I’ll give you good, good and proper next time I see you. Do something for me, Simon.”
“Maybe.”
“Be careful. You’re the only second son I have. Take care of your Fiona, but be careful.”
“I can do that. Don’t worry, Ma. Please.”
“Now that’s a useless request for a mother. I have to go. I have more important things to do than talk to you.”
“Same goes.”
“You were always a difficult child. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Same to Dad. Bye.” He hung up, took another swig of Coke. “You’re organizing my kitchen drawers.”
“Yes. You’re free to disorganize them at your whim and will. But doing this keeps me sane. And you made the clever dividers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I enjoyed talking to your mother. I like the way you sound when you talk to her.”
Brow creasing, he lowered the bottle. “What is this?”
“What’s what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Turn around.”
“Why?”
“I want to see if the rottweiler bit you in the ass.”
“He did not bite me in the ass or anywhere else.”
“I’ll check it out later.” He pulled open a drawer at random. “Jesus, Fiona, you lined them.”
“I’m so ashamed.”
“Let me point out, neither of us actually cooks, so what’s the point of having lined, divided, organized kitchen drawers?”
“To be able to find things, whether or not you use them. And what’s the point of having all these things in the first place if you don’t cook?”
“I wouldn’t have all this junk if my mother didn’t... never mind that either.”
“I can jumble everything up again if it makes you feel better.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
And she grinned at him, quick and fun. “I’m going to do the cabinets, too. You can just consider it my little hobby.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to put things back where you think they belong.”
“See, look how well we understand each other.”
“You’re sneaky, and don’t think I don’t know it. I grew up with sneaky.”
“I got that impression.”
“That’s the problem. You’re not like her, but you are.”
“How about if I tell you I also understand you’re not really stewing about me organizing the kitchen drawers, but trying to gauge whether this is a prelude to me trying to organize your life.”
“Okay.”
“And in the spirit of why fuck around with it, I’ll tell you straight I can’t promise I won’t try, at least in some areas, to do just that. I like to think I know when to back off, give up or adjust, but that doesn’t mean I won’t irritate you with my deadly sense of order. At the same time”—she held up a finger before he could interrupt—“I think I get that at least part of your creativity feeds on
He felt, tidily, put in his place. “I guess that’s supposed to be logical.”
“It is logical. And I’ll tell you something else. The occasional irritation works well for me as a distraction. But then it just fades. I don’t hold irritable well for long under most circumstances. But under the current? There’s just too much that’s bigger to worry about than whether or not you put the corkscrew back in the right drawer or kick your dirty socks under the bed.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Good. I want to get in a workout. Is it okay if I use your stuff ?”
“You don’t have to ask.” Frustrated, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t ask me things like that.”
“I don’t know where your boundaries are yet, Simon, so I have to ask or...” She closed the drawer he’d neglected to. “I’ll cross over them.” Then she stepped toward him, cupped his face. “I don’t mind asking, and I can handle no.”
When she walked out, he stayed where he was, hands in pockets, frowning after her.
Twenty-Five
He couldn’t figure out if they were fighting. Nothing ever seemed to fall into the nice clear areas of black or white with Fiona—and that drove him a little bit crazy. Because it fascinated him every bit as much as it frustrated him.
If he knew she was pissed and in fighting mode, he could gear up for it, wade into it or ignore it. But the uncertainty kept him off balance.
“That’s her point, isn’t it?” He wandered outside with the dogs. “I’m thinking about it, and her, because I don’t know. It’s fucking devious.”
He frowned at the back of his house. He could pick out the windows she’d washed. She hadn’t gotten to them all, he thought, but she would. Oh, yes, she would. Where the hell did she find the time? Did she get up in the middle of the damn night with a bottle of freaking Windex?
Now, with the way the sun glinted off clean glass, he couldn’t ignore the dull, weathered paint on the window trim. And just when was
And once he painted the trim, he knew damn well he’d have to paint the goddamn porches or they’d look like crap.
“It was fine before she cleaned the damn windows, and I’d have gotten to it sooner or later. Go up.”
At the command, Jaws cheerfully climbed the ladder of the slide and trotted down again with a hand signal. Simon gave the dog a treat, then repeated the skill a couple of times before moving to the teeter-totter.
The other dogs climbed, tunneled, jumped and navigated on their own, using the training equipment as enthusiastically as kids use a playground in the park.
Simon glanced over as Bogart barked, then watched as the Lab picked his way agilely over a length of board no wider than a gymnast’s balance beam.
