Holy crap.
Abrin can kill with a circulating amount of less than 3 micrograms.
At seven p.m., I broiled a flounder filet and shared it with Birdie. Preferring a mayo-based sauce, he passed on the slaw. Or maybe he just dislikes storebought salads.
I then worked through my in-box.
Several e-mails concerned casework. A pathologist at the
Others offered the deal of a lifetime. A Rolex watch for fifty bucks. Access to unclaimed funds in an African bank. A cleanser that would make my skin glow like that of a Hollywood star.
Katy was thinking of quitting her job to spend a year in Ireland. She had an offer to tend bar at a pub in Cork. Great.
Ryan had sent an uncharacteristically long message describing his latest therapy session with Lily. He was dismayed at the amount of anger his daughter seemed to harbor. Against him for being absent during her childhood. Against Lutetia for hiding from him the fact of her existence—and for recently abandoning her to return to Nova Scotia.
He wrote that he was discouraged, homesick, and missed my company. The tenor was so heartbreaking, it drilled a hole through my sternum.
But Ryan’s message wasn’t as sad as the one penned by Harry. Recently, my sister and I had received shocking news not dissimilar from that which had altered Ryan’s world.
Harry’s son, Kit, had fathered a child the summer he was sixteen and in Cape Cod at sailing camp. For reasons that would forever remain a mystery, the child’s mother, Coleen Brennan, of an unrelated branch of the clan, had not disclosed to her summer love that he had a daughter.
Victoria “Tory” Brennan was now fourteen. Upon the sudden death of Coleen, Tory had relocated from Massachusetts and was now living with Kit in Charleston.
Harry had a granddaughter. I had a grandniece.
Harry was furious about all the lost years. And despondent over the fact that Kit, wanting to give Tory time to adjust, wouldn’t yet allow his mother to visit.
I was dialing Harry’s number when the front bell chimed. Thinking it was Galimore, I put down the handset and went to the door.
It wasn’t my worst nightmare.
But it was close.
PETE AND SUMMER WERE STANDING CLOSE BUT NOT TOUCHING. Both looked tense, like people waiting in line. Summer held a Nieman Marcus bag by its string handle.
Pasting on a faux smile, I opened the door. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Summer looked like the question stumped her.
“You sure you want to do this?” Pete sounded uncomfortable.
“Sure.” Oh, no. “Come on in.”
Pete was wearing flip-flops, khaki shorts, and a Carmel Country Club golf shirt. Summer had on wedge sandals, a silk tank, and designer camouflage pants that would have unnerved Patton.
Summer swanned straight to the dining room and parked the bag on the table. Pete and I followed.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. Cyanide and Kool-Aid?
“Merlot would be nice if—”
“We won’t be here that long.” Pete shot me an apologetic grin. “I know you have more important things on your mind.”
“See, Petey. That’s your problem. Our wedding
Finding a cure for AIDS?
Summer began lifting items from the bag and organizing them into clusters. Napkins. Swatches of fabric. Silver picture frames. A glass container that looked like a giant lab flask.
“Now. The tablecloths will be ecru. The centerpieces will be made up of roses and lilies arranged in these vases.” A cherry-red nail ticked the flask. “These are the napkin possibilities.”
She fanned out the stack. The choices included pink, brown, silver, green, black, and a shade that I took to be ecru.
“And these are the options for the fabric that will drape each chair back.”
She arranged the swatches side by side below the lucky napkin finalists. Over her back, Pete’s eyes met mine.
I crooked a brow. Seriously?
He mouthed, “I owe you.”
Oh, yeah.
