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Did Jamie Callahan?
Sorting through the possibilities gave him a nice hit of energy. For the most part, he enjoyed the slower pace of civilian life, but every now and then the shit hit the fan and he recognized how much more alive he felt, more
himself, when there was almost too much to deal with. Surround him with cranky people and logistical difficulties, and it was like, Damn, this is what I was trained to do. Bring it on.
Carly wiped her face on his sleeve and straightened up.
“I think I got snot on your shirt,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. The shirt was already having a rough day.”
He waited while she got dressed, then walked her to his car, which Sean had left in the lot like he was supposed to. She wouldn’t let Caleb carry her bag without a fight, which didn’t surprise him in the least. He hadn’t expected Carly to be a compliant patient.
There weren’t any photographers staking out the car, at least. He went through a drive-thru to buy her a sympathy milk shake and took her home, settling her down on her couch with a glass of water, her phone, her laptop, and strict instructions not to move until somebody showed up to help.
Then on to the next item on his list—Mom. On the drive over to the apartments, he brought Katie up to speed. She promised to find someone who could sit with Carly this afternoon and to start working on a schedule for the coming days.
From the lot in front of his parents’ place, he called Ellen. She didn’t pick up, so he left her a message filling her in on what was happening with Carly and suggesting she might want to think about telling her brother.
He didn’t know if she’d welcome the idea. He didn’t have the first clue what was going on in Jamie Callahan’s head. But if the guy felt anything for Carly, he’d get his ass back to Camelot. And that would create its own set of headaches.
His parents’ place was a converted apartment that took up the entire floor above the rental office. Caleb found his mother sitting at the table eating lunch. “What are we having?” he asked, wandering into the kitchen.
“It’s just leftover manicotti. If I’d known you were coming over, I would’ve gone to the grocery store.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.” He dished cold pasta onto a plate and stuck it in the microwave. He’d been home six months, and she still treated him like the prodigal son, fixing his favorite foods and keeping beer in the fridge for him as if he might redeploy next week and she wanted his time home to be special. It had been nice for the first month. Now it made him wonder how long it was going to take before Mom accepted he wasn’t going anywhere. “How’s your day been?”
She waved one manicured hand as if her day wasn’t worth the bother of talking about. “Fine. I was over at the Parish House this morning getting ready for tomorrow’s lunch.”
His mother had converted to Catholicism when she married Dad. Overnight, Jannah Haddad became Janet Clark. The shift had scandalized her mother and various Lebanese great-aunts, but Catholicism suited her. She appreciated its emphasis on rules, tangible steps to be taken to endear herself to God. Any faith that rewarded showing up for mass with military precision was, in his mother’s book, a faith worthy of her effort.
“Your father’s gone into town to buy heaven knows what at the hardware store. Washers or something. Carriage bolts? I don’t know, I was only half-listening. You look good today. Very sharp.”
“Thanks,” he said, repressing a smile. His mom was a harsh judge of appearance. If she liked the shirt, the shirt was fine. “So do you.”
She’d been the receptionist in the college admissions office for a couple of decades before taking early retirement to care for his father, and she still cultivated the cool, reserved look she’d always had behind her desk—salt-and-pepper hair cut in a sleek bob, lipstick regardless of the occasion. It was 85 degrees with 90 percent humidity, and his mother was sitting in her own kitchen wearing a pink silk blouse and pearls.
He thought of Ellen in her purple T-shirt and smiled. Unlikely she owned pearls. Though maybe she had a whole closet full of lawyer outfits somewhere. He wouldn’t mind seeing Ellen in a suit if he got to take it off her.
“Katie said you had some work for me.” He settled down at the table with his plate of steaming manicotti. When he tried a bite from the edge, it burned the roof of his mouth.
“No, not really. I was going to call Kevin to come by. There’s some painting, and I know how you hate to paint. Plus, one of the units needs new vinyl laid in the bathroom. You don’t really do vinyl, do you?”
“I like painting, Mom. I’ve told you that. And I’ve probably laid half the bathroom floors in these units.”
“Well, that’s not true,” she said, and the fencing match began. After ten minutes, he’d managed to get her to admit he knew how to lay a vinyl floor and that he was a competent, if indifferent, painter. Five more, and he had the unit numbers that needed the work and a clear description of what had to be done.
He rinsed his plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll get this stuff taken care of right away.”
“You don’t have to rush. I know you have your own business to attend to. How are things going with that Jamie Callahan?”
“Not too bad,” he said, wishing the statement more closely resembled the truth. The job would be going better if the women he was supposed to be taking care of were more compliant.
Actually, that was true of his entire life. Between his mother, Katie, Ellen, and Carly, he was a sheep dog trying to round up kangaroos.
“The reporters have claimed all the good parking spots downtown. It’s terrible.”
“Do you know anything about Richard Morrow?” Mom and her parish ladies knew everyone in Camelot. He’d been hoping she could give him some intelligence on Ellen’s ex.
