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Lucas walked inside Bernadette’s kitchen. Ironically, the scent of dried herbs and food cooking on the stove only made his heart ache all the more for Birdie.
Why, he couldn’t tell you.
Lately, he found some sense of Birdie in everything around him.
It was pathetic, really.
During the workday, his office and the memories of what they did on his desk made it impossible to concentrate or get any work done with a modicum of efficiency.
Every time he opened the door to his house, he would picture her standing in his kitchen, wearing that skintight dress covered with some type of muck that smelled like bilge water, with a wry smile on her face and as if dressed for the Met Gala.
He couldn’t even manage a decent workout in his garage without memories of her vulnerable and needy in his arms. Begging him, with tears streaming down her face, to please make her forget.
Jesus, he was fucked.
Bernadette walked into the kitchen and tilted her head at his pathetic, lovesick expression.
“Ah, boie. Look at y’a, with yer stomach in your back.”
He didn’t have much of an appetite, but the soup on the stove looked warm and comforting. “Your Gullah-Geechee talk has been strong these last few weeks.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Taking care of that ornery Scot brings it out of me.”
“The war of the dialects?” he asked, not feeling half of the lightheartedness he tried to evoke.
“Something like that. He’s a proud man and the worst patient. With anger issues he masks with outright flirting. Unfortunately, for him, I’m not easily intimidated or tempted.”
She pulled a ladle from her crock of kitchen tools and spooned out some soup as he sat at the table. She placed the decades-old bowl in front of him.
He took a spoonful. “Mmm,” he said, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Eee bussin. This is sooo good.”
“Listen to you bustin’ out the Geechee.” She laughed, softly shaking her head back and forth.
He gave her a small smile. “What? I paid attention when your friends stopped by.”
She pulled out a chair, reached out, and covered his hand with hers. “What’s troubling you?”
Apparently, he wasn’t successful in appearing indifferent to Birdie’s departure. Not to mention her marriage to that pasty asshole.
He was tired of waiting.
Wracked with worry for Birdie.
“I’m fine,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Is Mia up? I know it’s late but I wanted to see her.”
“She’s up. Probably not getting any more sleep than you are these days. Angus sleeps in the recliner in the living room with the help of the meds. But I’m weaning him off of them, at his cranky insistence. I’m afraid that without the medication, he’ll be wide-eyed and up all night, as well. Everyone’s sick with worry.”
He scratched his head, cupping the back with his palm with a sigh. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
Complete lie.
He was almost sure she wasn’t fine. When he thought about it too much, he’d drive himself crazy, going out to the garage to work out in the middle of the night, only for his heart to get scooped out and stomped on when the memories of her sad and crying in that very garage cut him at the knees.
“What you waitin’ for?” she asked, rubbing his shoulder and doing that concerned head tilt gesture she did when she knew he wasn’t being honest. More so with himself than with her.
What was he waiting for? Grant, for one. He’d promised to give him time to meet with some woman who seemed to have insights as to criminal activity directly connected to the Shepherd family.
