“Jesus,” I say, almost shocked enough to overlook her obvious abandonment ploy. “Why do you keep going back?”
She shrugs. “They make this small-batch jam that’s basically the best thing I’ve ever eaten—and if you tell my nonna I said that, you’re dead to me. Anyway, I get six jars every time I dog-sit. It’s totally worth it.”
“That’s the good payment you mentioned? Some of your Jill of All Trades jobs are for bartering?” I ask in fascination, and also because I can still feel Cal’s eyes on me.
“Sure, why not? See you guys later,” she says, her gaze flitting between the two of us. Then she’s off, and Mrs. Dahl is off, and I know neither one of them is about to come back any time soon. Doesn’t matter that we’re in Mrs. Dahl’s house.
“So,” I say, finally letting myself look at him again. He’s still every bit as handsome as always. “You know where the bathroom is, or am I going to have to play tour guide to a house I’ve been in for half an hour?”
“I’m pretty sure I know where it is,” he says, not looking away. “Most of the old places in this neighborhood have a similar layout.” Something wars in his eyes. Then he nods his head toward the front. “I used to live two houses down. That’s why I mow Mrs. Carlton’s lawn. She was my neighbor before I moved in with Dad, and I always did it back then. I didn’t want her to have to find someone else to help out.”
It’s on the edge of my tongue to ask him if this is something else he does to balance the karma scales, but I don’t. I suspect I know the answer. Yes and no. He does it because he wants to help, because he likes Mrs. Carlton, but also because he’s convinced there are wrongs he needs to right.
“Shall we?” I ask, doing my best Mrs. Dahl. My heart is beating faster, and I have the crazy urge to link arms with him, as if we were two Victorians taking a turn about the room. But I keep my arm to myself.
“We shall,” he says. So we walk toward Mrs. Dahl’s bathroom together, Cal a solid, warm presence beside me.
We’re quiet for a moment, and then, when we get to the bathroom, he stops just outside the door.
“You don’t need to worry,” I say. “She attacked the sink, not the sewage line or anything.”
But this time I don’t get even a twitch of a smile.
“I seem to keep saying the wrong thing with you,” he says, looking into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry about which wrong thing?” I stare right back at him. “You’ll have to be more specific.” Because I want to bust his balls a little. Because he’s made me see my own life choices under a different light, whether or not he realized his words would stick, and I believe in fair play.
“I’m sorry about yesterday, and about what I said outside. I just…I was worried about how Mrs. Dahl’s daughter might react to you writing about her mother’s dating life. She can be a bit intense. Anyway. I don’t think you’re a bad person, Molly.” He swallows, as if it cost him to say that. “In fact, I know you’re not.”
My heart is racing in my chest, like it’s in its own personal marathon. Calm down, you idiot, I tell it. We’re stationary. But it chooses not to heed me. It would much rather regard the gleaming, sun-brightened bits of Cal’s hair.
“Because I give good tree?” I ask.
He lifts a hand and tucks some slightly damp hair behind my ear. “You don’t always have to make jokes to lighten things up.”
Part of me wants to get pissed—who is he to know things about me?—but he’s right, and the stupid yearning fool inside of me likes it.
I arch my brow and say, “And you don’t always have to push people away because they’re interested in getting to know you.”
“Is that what you’re interested in?” he asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he’s tired. “Because I told my dad that he and Harry and Nicole and the others can talk to you about Bad Luck Club if they want. I shouldn’t have asked for their silence. But I’m not comfortable taking part in it.”
“I was thinking we could make a compromise,” I say. “I don’t need to mention your name or your father’s, especially if I have other sources confirming that Augusta didn’t create the club. I can just name you as an anonymous father and son.” I widen my eyes. “And that might open other…possibilities.”
It’s insane for me to want a repeat of yesterday. Insane. It was bad enough for me to completely shatter the journalistic code of ethics once, but a second time?
Yet I want a second time. And a third. And more.
When was the last time I felt this need for a man?
I can’t remember, but it feels both thrilling and dangerous, like dancing on the edge of a skyscraper.
Cal stares at me for a long moment, his eyes dipping for an instant to my breasts, which are pressing against the still-wet fabric of my dress, but then he glances away. “Molly, we both know you’re only here for another couple of weeks. So maybe—”
I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever he has to say, much like he will probably not like to hear that I already know quite a bit about Bad Luck Club, but just then Mrs. Dahl opens the bedroom door, down the hall, and emerges in a silver cocktail gown. I suddenly feel a powerful need to see her wardrobe. Does she own pants? How about sweatpants?
I can’t imagine it, but the mental image does make me want to giggle.
“Can you fix it, Cal?” she asks. “Or do we have to tear this heap of lumber to the ground? Be brutally honest.”
His cheeks turn slightly red, and my lips lift into a smirk. He’s embarrassed he hasn’t even checked out the sink yet, and he clearly does not want to admit it.
“I’m afraid I waylaid him before he could look at it,” I say. “You know me and my wicked ways.”
She grins at me, pleased. After all, isn’t this exactly what she wanted?
We all turn to enter the bathroom together, which is ill-advised for Mrs. Dahl, who’s all gussied up again, but I don’t say anything because I’m somewhat curious what she’ll come out in if she has to change clothes for a third time.
But we don’t get the chance to darken the doorway, because a tall woman with white-blond hair comes barging into the room, dressed in fitted pants, a loose silk blouse, and three-inch heels, and I know, I just know, this goddess has to be Mrs. Dahl’s daughter.
Cal shoots me an alarmed look.
“Is this her?” the woman asks, her voice rising. She’s on the verge of some powerful emotion, and I hope she doesn’t take to my face like Mrs. Dahl did to that pipe. “Mom, is this Molly?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dahl says, beaming, but I don’t take that as my salvation. After all, fabulous though she is, I wouldn’t put empathy in her top five character traits, and I can’t forget what Cal said about her episodes of dementia.
Cal tries to step in front of me as the woman comes bounding toward us, but I give him a gentle but firm push to the side. I won’t have a man fighting my battles for me.
“Agnes,” Cal says, the name spoken like a warning. He’s clearly ready to jump in with his knight in shining armor schtick, wanted or not, but there’s no need.