“Does a man need a reason to visit his ancestral home?” Monk asked.
Ambrose looked past Monk and smiled at me. “Not when he’s accompanied by such a beautiful woman.”
I blushed. Ambrose had a little crush on me. I don’t think it was due to either my sparkling personality or my ravishing beauty. The truth is, he’d had a thing for Sharona, too. We were the only two women who’d come to see him in years.
But I was flattered anyway. His feelings were genuine, and feelings, especially genuine ones, are hard to find in a man these days. At least for me.
In the year or so since I’d met Ambrose, I’d spent a few evenings with him, playing checkers and eating popcorn. He was a sweet guy. But I was careful not to see him too often because I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about us.
He motioned us inside. We came in and he immediately closed the door behind us and latched the dead bolt.
I was surprised to see that the living room was still stuffed with file cabinets full of mail and thirty-five years’ worth of newspapers stacked nearly to the ceiling.
Ambrose had been saving it all for their father, who went out for Chinese food in 1972 and didn’t return until a few months ago, when he unexpectedly called Monk for a favor. Their father, who had become a trucker, was in jail on an outstanding warrant for unpaid parking tickets or something minor like that. He needed Monk to get him out of jail or he’d lose his job for not making his delivery on time.
Monk didn’t talk to me much about the reunion, but I knew they’d come to some kind of understanding and that their father had stopped to see Ambrose on his way out of town.
“Why do you still have all of this junk?” Monk said, straightening one of the piles of newspapers.
“I’m saving it for Dad,” Ambrose said.
“But Dad came back,” Monk said. “You can stop saving it now.”
“He told me to hang on to it until he has a chance to pick it up.”
“He’s never going to pick it up,” Monk said.
“You were the one who said he’d never come back,” Ambrose said. “And you were wrong. He came back.”
“Only because he needed something from me,” Monk said.
“He needs this from me,” Ambrose said. “He’ll be back for it all.”
“He was blowing you off,” Monk said.
“Are you saying he doesn’t need me?” Ambrose yelled, startling me. “Do you think you’re the only one he needs?”
“He doesn’t need either one of us,” Monk said. “Not until he does.”
“You’re not making any sense, Adrian.”
“Dad isn’t someone you can count on, especially when it comes to considering the feelings of others. Look at how he’s inconvenienced you.”
“It’s no problem for me. I have been doing it for years.”
“That’s my point,” Monk said.
Ambrose ignored him and smiled at me. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“No thank you,” I said.
“How about an Eskimo Pie?” Ambrose asked. “They are quite delicious.”
“I wish I could,” I said, “but I am watching my weight.”
“That must be how you stay so slim and shapely.”
I think there may have been a contradiction in there, but I smiled anyway.
He picked up a stack of books from the coffee table. They were tied with a red ribbon. He presented them to me.
“I’ve been saving these for you,” he said.
“You save everything,” Monk muttered.
“These are copies of my latest books,” Ambrose said.
I glanced at the spines. There was an owner’s manual for the Linknet WMA24Z7 Wireless Router, the installation guide for a low-voltage outdoor lighting system, and instructions in Swedish and English for putting together an elaborate bookcase. I’m sure he wrote both versions.
“Thank you,” I said. “I look forward to reading them.”
“They’re inscribed,” he said proudly.
I opened the cover of the Linknet manual. He’d written: To Natalie, May all of your connections, wireless and otherwise, enjoy uninterrupted throughput.
“You’re very sweet, Ambrose,” I said and kissed him on the cheek. “Nobody has ever inscribed an owner’s manual for me before.”
“I have it in Spanish, if you’re interested,” he said. “I wrote that one, too.”
Monk cleared his throat. Ambrose looked at him as if he’d forgotten that he was there.
“Why are you here?” Ambrose said.
“I need to stay for a couple of days,” Monk said. “It’s an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“A coffee stain emergency,” Monk said.
Ambrose nodded gravely. “Why didn’t you say so to start with?”
“I didn’t want to shock you,” Monk said.
Ambrose put his arm around Monk, who immediately went rigid. “If you can’t come to me for support when you’re in trouble, what kind of brother would I be?”
“I made the stain,” Monk said.
Ambrose patted him reassuringly on the back. “It’s okay, Adrian.”
“You don’t understand,” Monk said. “It’s not the first time.”
“I know,” Ambrose said.
“I’m so ashamed.” Monk leaned his forehead against his brother’s shoulder.
I slipped away discreetly and went outside to get the luggage.
5
Mr. Monk and the Free Day
I left Monk at Ambrose’s house and headed out into the big wide world to enjoy my first totally free day in ages.
I drove back into the city and made a detour to Fisherman’s Wharf, an area I usually avoid because of the crush of tourists. But there’s a Boudin Bakery on the waterfront and they make the best sourdough bread on earth. The lure of a hot loaf of bread to bring home for dinner was too strong for me to ignore.
I spent twenty minutes looking for a parking spot and then stood in line for bread, watching the tourists take pictures of themselves in front of
