“I should hope not,” Mirna scoffs.
“You need to do it more often,” Barb says with a sharp nod.
Burt ignores them both. “While it’s unconventional, to be sure, it’s nothing we can’t have done by your deadline, presuming you have everything ironed out by tomorrow morning.”
“I think I can do that.”
He gets out of his chair, then holds out his hand. “I need you to pay me a retainer before we get started.”
“You’re gonna charge her?” Barb shouts in disbelief.
“I have to charge her something, otherwise, I won’t be held by the attorney-client privilege.” He winks. “Even if it’s just a dollar.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling relieved. “I don’t have any cash on me. I’ll have to run to my apartment.”
“Not to worry,” Barb says. “I’ll pay her retainer.” Then she begins to tell him in great detail how she plans to sex him up.
“Barb!” I cry out in protest, putting my hands over my ears.
My cheeks are burning, and Mirna looks like she’s about to stroke out, but Burt’s tongue is practically hanging out of his mouth, his eyes wide like a cartoon character.
“Well, somebody has to get sex in this contract,” she says emphatically. “If it’s not gonna be you, then I’ll volunteer as tribute.” She fans herself. “I can’t help it if all this legal talk makes me hot.”
“You’re hot because you have the damn furnace cranked up to eighty!” Mirna complains.
Barb makes a shooing motion. “I need you two to leave within the next three seconds or you’re gonna see me paying that retainer.”
I run out like my pants are on fire.
Chapter Five
Finley
My apartment is quiet when I walk in, and there’s no sign of Maybelle, not that I’m surprised. She likes to hang out in my bedroom, sitting on the pillows at the top of the bed. I’m the first to admit it looks like a Christmas store has exploded in the one-bedroom unit, and while it usually makes me feel closer to my mother, tonight it’s like a burning indictment that I’ve let her down. My seven-foot artificial tree is in the corner, missing a good portion of its needles. As scrawny as it looks, it’s lovingly decorated with all the ornaments my mother and I collected over the years. There’s a vintage Nativity underneath that we purchased at a garage sale when I was ten, and I’m happy to see that Maybelle hasn’t absconded with one of the figures and hidden it somewhere. I love a good scavenger hunt, but I’m not in the mood tonight.
My usual routine when I come home is to grab a quick snack, but I’m home hours earlier than usual and I ate a prepacked sandwich after I left Beans to Go. Besides, I’m too anxious to eat. Instead, I fill a juice glass from my box wine in the fridge and take a sip before preparing Maybelle’s dinner. Her special food costs more than I’d like to spend, but after her bout with bladder stones a few months ago, I do what I need to do for my cranky baby.
She hears the kibble as it clicks into her bowl and slinks around the open doorway to the bedroom, giving me the side-eye like she doesn’t trust my motives.
“Sorry,” I say in a sweet tone. “I know it’s not your favorite, but it’s better than having bladder stones.”
I never thought it was possible for a cat to look down their nose at someone from one foot off the floor, but Maybelle somehow makes it work. I set her bowl down next to her water fountain and she slowly pads over, like she’s sure it’s a trap, then sniffs and looks up at me.
“I know. Sorry.”
She glares at me a second longer then finally eats.
I take my glass of wine to the sofa and give myself a moment to decompress.
This whole thing is crazy. I can’t believe I’ve actually agreed to go on a trip with a guy I’m not even dating, let alone stay with his family.
I open the photos on my phone again, and scan through the images. His family looks nice, but then again, I doubt he’d send me photos that would make them look like a family of Hannibal Lectors. I open my Instagram app and pull up Alex’s account.
Okay, I’m a stalker. I looked him up after he left the coffee shop, but I’m not stupid enough to follow him. He doesn’t post much, and there are only two photos of his family. One is an image of him and his two brothers and sister from when they were little. In fact, infant Mallory is sitting on the oldest brother’s lap. The three brothers are wearing the same blue-button up, short-sleeved shirts, and jeans. Mallory is wearing a pink dress with lots of ruffles. She has a big pink headband around her bald head. The brothers are all smiling, but the youngest—Grant—has an ornery look in his eyes. Tyler looks like he’s taking his responsibility of holding his baby sister seriously. And Alex is grinning, like he’s happy to be there, sandwiched between his brothers.
The next photo is of him and his mother and was posted on Mother’s Day a year and a half ago. They’re standing outside, and he’s got his arm around her. He looks happy. She looks like she’s in her early fifties, but barely. She has shorter, blond hair, and she’s also smiling. It’s her eyes that draw me in—they’re full of happiness, like she’s ecstatic to be hugging her son.
I feel a pinch in my heart, and now I’m missing my own mother even more than before. I pull up photos I have of her before she got sick, stopping on a selfie of the two of us. We’re sitting on a blanket at an outdoor concert. She was so vibrant and full of life. It’s still hard to believe that less than six months after we snapped that photo, she was diagnosed with cancer. Tears burn my eyes, and I wonder if this trip is a good idea. Sure, I’ll get to live the dream my mother and I had for years, but I’ll be doing it without her. And if Alex’s family is as nice as they look, will being around them over Christmas and a week before the anniversary of her death make it even harder?
