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He flipped on the porch light and opened the door. Shipka held up a bottle of wine. His eyes were shining. He had shaved, but the damp was causing his hair to frizz in a wild halo about his face. “Peace offering, neighbor.” He smiled, his cheeks pink with the cold.
It was the dimple that undermined Jason’s resolve. Shipka looked hopeful and boyish and uncomplicated.
Wouldn’t uncomplicated be a nice change?
Plus it was hard to stay mad at someone who had written so many nice things about you.
Jason sighed. He felt like a jerk. He probably was a jerk. It didn’t change the fact that this was an odd situation. “Look,” he began.
Shipka said earnestly, “No. It’s okay. I get it. You think this is just about me getting an exclusive. You don’t trust me not to run my story before you’ve closed the case.”
Partly, yes. Shipka struck him as ambitious and aggressive in his pursuit of the truth—and they were liable to trip over each other. But partly…he’d have to be blind not to notice Shipka was interested in him. Too interested. So, uncomplicated was already wishful thinking.
On the other hand, Shipka had already proved a useful resource.
Jason stepped back, opening the door. “Okay. Truce.”
“Were you able to talk to Barnaby?” Shipka said as Jason waved him ahead to the kitchen.
“No.”
“No surprise there.”
“He had to return to the mainland. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow afternoon.”
Shipka glanced around the kitchen with automatic interest—probably thinking how he would describe the room in whatever article was simmering in the back of his brain. “Not if he hears from Mrs. Merriam first. Do you have a corkscrew?”
“A— I don’t know.” Jason opened one of the counter drawers, considering the fact that Shipka knew the name of the Durrands’ housekeeper.
“I forgot my cottage doesn’t have one.”
“Your cottage? You’ve been out here before?”
“Yep. Six months ago I tried to interview Barnaby. And got about as far as you did.”
“I’m not giving up yet.”
“No. That’s why you’re so good at what you do.” Shipka was smiling, seemingly sincere, and again Jason felt that flicker of discomfort. Not that he didn’t like compliments, but—this was probably unfair—that much admiration was off-putting. Or maybe it only seemed like undue admiration in comparison to Kennedy, who offered praise like he was spilling his life’s blood. The thing was, when Kennedy did break down and give a compliment, you damn well knew you deserved it.
Jason rifled through the utensils drawer and then the silverware drawer. No corkscrew. “Plan B.” He reached in his jeans, pulled out his pocketknife, and flicked open the flimsy corkscrew tool.
Shipka laughed. “Former boy scout?”
“Not me. I thought the Boy Scouts were very uncool.”
“They were. Back then.”
Their glances caught, and Jason knew Shipka was also thinking of the Scouts’ recent decision to accept transgender boys into the ranks.
It was a nice moment. Jason looked away first. “There are glasses in one of these cupboards.” He pried out the rubber cork while Shipka hunted for glasses.
No wineglasses being found, they settled for plastic juice glasses. Jason poured the Merlot.
“Skol.” Shipka pushed his glass against Jason’s, and the plastic bent inward. Shipka laughed. He seemed to laugh easily, and that was kind of nice too.
“Skol.” Jason sampled the wine. It seemed like a decent vintage. He was no expert, although everybody else in his family considered themselves to be. He preferred beer or, if he was looking to get drunk, Kamikazes.
Shipka swished his wine around like mouthwash and swallowed with a satisfied sigh. “Ye gods. That was a hella long trip. Even before my connection flight was canceled.”
