“Thank you,” I said. After the doctor left the room, my mother’s pleasant expression vanished. Uh-oh. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” She smoothed her skirt, averting her eyes.
“Mom.” I stared at her to force a conversation, refusing to simply appease her.
She sighed, still looking at some distant spot. “I knew counting on the sting operation would be a mistake, and now we have nothing.”
“I’m sorry.” It figured that the one time I’d ever defied my mother had come back to bite us both. “I promise I won’t rest until you’re paid back everything Lyle took.”
She waved me off. “Let’s both focus on the baby.”
I laid my head back and closed my eyes as my enmity toward my husband spread through me like the saline solution pumping into my veins.
A future in which I hated Willa’s father as much as I loved her sounded grim and impossible. I’d never have peace of mind unless we got the title to that yacht before Lyle was apprehended.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ERIN
“Hey there, buddy.” Eli crouched to pet Mo, who’d jumped up to excitedly hump his leg. Couldn’t blame Mo for that urge. Eli glanced up at me, smiling, before he stood. “Good to see you again.”
Sadly, he didn’t scratch behind my ears or offer any other physical affection. Our slow friendship-to-maybe-more track would test my newfound maturity. His “casual cookout” invitation had been a huge first step, but my expectations remained in check.
He stepped back to let Mo and me into his house. Once again, its fresh scent gave me all the homey feels. There were a million things to investigate—the photographs, the knickknacks strewn about, and what appeared to be a collection of awards—but snooping so soon would be rude.
I handed him a box of cupcakes from Hannah’s. “Full disclosure—the only things I cook come in a can or other container, so I bought these for after dinner.”
“Sugar Momma’s?” His inquisitive tone suggested he hadn’t heard of it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been?”
He shook his head. Using his thumbnail to cut through the yellow-and-turquoise sticker that sealed the carton, he then lifted the lid to take a gander at the double-chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles.
“Obviously you don’t get out enough. Lucky for you, I can add Potomac Point tour guide to my list of odd jobs. Sugar Momma’s is on the west side of town, across the street from Give Me Strength—the fitness center where I also teach. Hannah makes this bay’s best chai and some awesome pastries, too.” I smiled, then remembered another facet he’d enjoy. “Actually, she plays great tunes in there, too. Eclectic stuff.”
“Guess I’d better book a tour. Maybe you can pencil me in one day next week.” He set the cupcakes on the dining room table, then crooked his finger so I’d follow him to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator. “Can I get you a drink—tea, beer, wine?”
The Coronitas and limes on the top shelf called to me. “I’ll take a beer.”
I set my cinch sack on the peninsula and scanned the kitchen while he opened my bottle and sliced a lime. Soapstone counters, walnut cabinetry, oil-rubbed bronze fixtures, all of which looked relatively new. The cozy, warm space suited him and the house. After he handed me the bottle, I said, “If I’d ever had a kitchen this nice, I might’ve learned to cook. Did you design the renovations?”
If he wrote, sang, and designed, my ovaries would explode on the spot.
“Nah.” He sipped from his own bottle. “The previous owners had just finished renovating the house when the guy got transferred to the West Coast.”
“Great timing for you.”
“Very.”
Maybe one day I’d get a full tour. The audible tip-tap of Mo’s nails could be heard from the other room, where he was likely sniffing out all of Eli’s secrets. Lucky dog. “Do you mind Mo’s nosy nature?”
“No, but let me make sure my guitars are set up where he can’t get at them.” He hustled back to the front of the house to check on his instruments. Only one, which Mo had not yet discovered, lay abandoned on the sofa.
“Were you playing before I arrived?”
He lifted it off the cushions. “Fiddling around.”
“Writing a song?” Fraught territory, but hope bubbled inside like uncorked champagne. If I could get him to write again, it might help him move forward with his life.
“Not quite . . .”
Something—an inkling—made me give Eli a little push. “Can I ask something? Because I’m curious about the process. If I wanted to write a song, how should I begin?”
“Do you play an instrument?” His eyes lit up.
Well, shoot. “One, if you count the tambourine.”
His chuckle encouraged me to keep up the schtick.
“I can also hum off-key and do a really appalling beatbox.” I proceeded to show off my musical nontalent with a few “boom-pah-chew, boom-boom-pah-chews.”
I suspected Eli hadn’t laughed aloud much these past two years, so his guffaw was better than a gold medal around my neck.
He rubbed his chin. “Not to be a dream killer, but maybe songwriting isn’t in your future.”
Eli didn’t know me well enough to predict my response to that challenge. “Oh? So you’re a lame teacher?”
“Hell no.”
Settling my hands on my hips, I said, “Then come on . . . I want to write a love song for my favorite male—Mo.”
“A love song for your dog?” Another little smile cropped up. “That won’t sell.”
“Well, then clearly you’re no Cat Stevens.” I affected a heavy sigh. “How disappointing.”
The last time I’d heard that old “I Love My Dog” song had to have been 1998 or thereabouts. My dad had delighted in introducing me to obscure music that would make me giggle.
“Those are fightin’ words.” A glint of heat flickered in his eyes, changing the nature of his grin.
He seemed to enjoy this game, so I feigned nonchalance, teasing, “Well, I don’t want to tax you or anything. It’s okay if you can’t write a love song about a dog. I’m still impressed with your past accomplishments.”
Eli set his bottle on a coaster, went to the hutch to get a legal pad, then picked up his guitar again. “Have a seat and tell me what, exactly, you love about Mo.”
I nearly bounced on my toes because—even though we were joking around—I was on the verge of getting him to write something for the first time in years. This could be a turning point for him. My whole body warmed like it did when I helped my students make that mind-body connection. Guess this wasn’t all that different, except that I didn’t usually have the urge to jump over the coffee table and kiss my yoga students.
“Wait, don’t we start with a melody?” I asked.
“I don’t, but if you want to, hum what you hear in your head when you think about Mo.” He sat on the arm of the sofa—one foot on the coffee table—with his guitar across his thigh.
I closed my eyes, curious about what might come to me when thinking about the most awesome little dog. Unsurprisingly, a happy tune spun through my thoughts. “Something with a snappy beat, and maybe like ‘Ba da baah, la-la-la-lee da, doodley doo-di-ley, ba da ba daah.’”