“I’m thinking she wasn’t a fan of chaperones.”
We both stood.
Wearing nice burgundy cords and a cute pink sweater, a tan, cropped jean jacket fashionably accompanying these, Celeste tramped down to the pier.
Jess got out and headed our way.
Jace got out and did the same.
Her father and I waited.
She unleashed.
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaduh!”
I heard air release from Bohannan’s nostrils, which meant he was trying not to laugh.
Other than that, nothing from him.
I guess this was on me.
“Honey, you know why I’m here, yes?”
“Delphine, Jace and Jess sat behind us at the movie!”
I looked beyond her to where her brothers stood.
“You couldn’t be more stealth?” I asked.
“Dude’s gotta know that dude’s gotta be cool,” Jace declared.
“I think he got the message,” Jess added.
I returned my attention to her. “I know this is lame, but one day, you’ll understand how awesome it was to have two protective brothers.”
“That day is not now,” she pointed out.
“I understand,” I said soothingly.
“Will took us to The Lodge for dinner. They sat at the bar and stared at us the whole time. He didn’t even try to hold my hand.”
“That was an unexpected score,” Jace mumbled to Jess.
They bumped fists.
I gave them a laser-focused You’re Not Helping glare that was so strong, it had to penetrate through the shadows.
“Perhaps your father will give them a tutorial on boundaries,” I suggested to Celeste, at the same time I was suggesting it to her father.
“I’m probably never gonna get another date again,” she lamented.
“Another unexpected score,” Jess noted.
There it was.
My glare didn’t penetrate through the shadows.
She whirled on them. “God! I hate you!”
Bohannan’s phone rang.
I went still.
Jace and Jess’s attention whipped straight to their dad.
Celeste’s body jolted.
Bohannan took the call, stepping away from me.
“What’s happening?” Celeste’s voice was trembling.
I didn’t have it in me to reply, my laser focus was now on her father.
“Yup. Yup.” Pause and, “Good.”
Good.
I twisted my tush around and melted to the loveseat, primarily because my legs could no longer support me.
“Yeah. Good. Yup. Right. Okay. Tomorrow. Later.”
Bohannan hung up and now his laser focus was on me.
“Welsh is in custody. The hostages are at the hospital. Their families have been informed, transported and are with them. They’re still sorting through shit, but they got enough to pin the bomb on him, and the pictures sent to Booth. Caught with the women, and with the rest, he’s never gonna feel freedom again.”
For reasons unknown to me, people expressed that they wanted to be “strong” and hold their shit together in times like these.
I didn’t know how it communicated strength to pretend you didn’t feel such extreme relief and release that something tragic and terrible that was happening to you, and worse was happening to others, was over, you might be temporarily insane with it.
Which was what I was.
I folded double, and with face in my hands, I wept uncontrollably.
I did not feel Bohannan gather me in his arms.
I didn’t feel him lift me in them to carry me to the house.
I didn’t feel my ass hitting pistachio velvet, and his hold remaining tight on me.
I didn’t feel anything.
I didn’t think anything.
Except Their families…are with them.
Twenty
Fugly
Celeste and I were at the grocery store.
I was free.
Free.
Free.
Free.
And as a celebration, I was carving jack-o’-lanterns.
And my sixteen-year-old, twenty-seven-year-olds and fifty-five-year-old (Celeste told me Bohannan’s age) were carving with me.
Celeste was all in.
The other three didn’t know about it yet, but we’d spring it on them after we filled their bellies and got them compliant.
It was the afternoon after it all went down.
I’d woken up, still half-catatonic from my crying catharsis, to immediately experience near panic because I didn’t know where I was.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long before it hit me.
I remembered the phone call. Bohannan holding me. Being on his couch. Sensing the kids loitering close. Eventually getting it together enough to perpetuate my first breach of their domain that didn’t include the kitchen, living room and powder room, this being Bohannan guiding me upstairs to a bathroom. He handed me an electronic toothbrush, a new head and a tube of paste.
I remember hearing Jess murmur, “She likes it low.” And Bohannan’s reply of “Set it at sixty.”
I remember Celeste walking in with some cleanser and moisturizer.
I remember that I didn’t care Bohannan was there when he led me to a big bed, and I took off my boots and socks and jeans and sweater, to stand there in my panties and a thin thermal while he threw out a blanket over his comforter.
I remember he pulled the covers back.
I remember he tucked me in.
Kissed my temple.
And I was out when he turned out the lights.
I sat up to see he did not put me in a guest bedroom.
Instead, I was in his bedroom because no guestroom would have that view of the lake, which was uninterrupted at window level across and around a corner, and it was expansive, because the room was huge, and last, it was insane as in, insanely amazing.
I assessed the bed to see he hadn’t slept in it with me, which was good. I wouldn’t want to miss that.
I also noticed the room was a study of shades of sand and lake blues and forest greens, the perfect mixture of masculine and feminine.
One could say Grace Bohannan had failed as a wife, a mother, and arguably (and I’d argue the pro side of this) a human being.
But the woman was talented with interior design.
I also saw a note on the nightstand closest to me. It was held down with my phone and a plain keyring with three keys on it, one with a red band around the bow, one with blue and one with white.
I picked up the note, and upon scanning the bottom and assessing the thing scrawled there might be Bohannan, I took a number of memories of him further to see if he might have exhibited signs he was a serial killer, because his writing sure made him seem like one.
Once I’d decoded enough letters to decipher the note, I read it.
Babe, (Incidentally, I’d never tell him this, but I thought that was a nice start.)
We’ve all hit it. Text me when you wake up. Your choice for dinner tonight, whatever you want, it’s yours. (What I wanted was a jack-o’-lantern carving ritual, but I’d utilize this offer to get my way if that was needed.)
FBI wants a debrief. Call them when you’re ready. Old habits, text me when you leave my house. Text me when you make it to yours. That’ll fade. It hasn’t now. But you always keep your doors locked and the security set when you’re home, forever. (Very sweet.)