“Yes, well, be that as it may, in his attempt to turn my marriage into some sort of spicy tabloid headline, he’s inadvertently outed the name of a private citizen and official consultant to the general public and I’m irritated.”
Irritatedwas Calvin-speak forroyally pissed off. It was the same thing when he said he was tired. Because he was never tired in those instances. He was exhausted and probably close to hallucinating. Over the course of our relationship, I’d become pretty adept at interpreting the deeper meaning of Calvin’s choice in polite verbiage and willingness to admit to such human faults. I said, very gently, “What would you like me to do?”
There was a thinking-quiet over the other end of the line, and then Calvin said, “Don’t speak with these reporters.”
“No, of course not.”
“And remember that the Emporium is a private business. If you feel harassed, youcantell them to leave or call for help.”
“You think they’re going to show up on my doorstep?”
“I don’t know. Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. If you feel unsafe—”
“No, I’m fine. It’s okay. I’ll see you tonight.”
Calvin said goodbye and hung up.
I lowered the cell and watched the screen go black. I frowned and tucked it into my pocket.
“That didn’t sound good,” Max stated.
“No.”
“What’s our next move?”
I scratched my stubble a moment before saying, “I want you to go home.”
“Come again?”
“If any of these reporters come by the shop, I don’t want it to be open season on you too.”
Max said, “I’m not leaving you to fend off the jackals alone. Why don’t you close the shop for the day and webothgo home?”
“Keeping the store closed doesn’t pay the bills. Besides,” I continued when Max opened his mouth to protest, “I need to get those hounds from hell packed up for Chris.”
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
“That’s the cake-in-a-cup you had for breakfast. How much sugar was in that thing?” I asked.
Max rolled his eyes and started for the front door. “Says the guy with an industrial-size bag of saltwater taffy in his desk drawer—”
“Stop going through my things.”
“—and a cheesecake problem that, in all honesty, has reached intervention levels.”
“Enjoy being a trim, twentysomething-year-old brat while you still can,” I called after him. “Once you hit thirty, that Frappuccino is going right to your waistline. You’ll look like me in no time!”
Max opened the door, the bell chiming. He glanced over his shoulder, smirked, and asked coyly, “I’ll be short and cute?”
“I’m average height. Get the hell out of here.”
The shop was quiet after Max departed, but that was mostly due to me disconnecting the landline in an attempt to dissuade future journalists from trampling all over my private life. And for once, I was happy to have no customers either, so it was me and the definitive collection of Louis Armstrong as I prepared the spaniels for transport across the city. The dogs were gawky enough in both size and shape that wrapping them without help was a pain in the ass. Despite hiring out to a professional antique mover who’d been doing my pickups and drop-offs for years, I always prepared the parcel myself, prior to it being packed up in their moving crates.
It’s not that I didn’t trust other people… but I didn’t trust other people.
Dillon came out of the office, stretched, and wagged his tail as I huffed and puffed from behind the counter.
I glanced at him. “Your possessed cousins are finally out of here, and Dad made a profit of almost three grand. Thank God Staffordshire ceramics are on an upward swing again, huh?”
