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“I haven't been on the ferry in ages.”
I nearly tripped at the hint of excitement in her voice. It wasn’t much, but it was there. And that spurred me on.
“You’re missing out.” I wasn’t sure if it was the breeze or the water or what. Even if I was going nowhere, riding that boat helped to clear my head. I hoped it helped clear hers too.
“Seems to be my specialty,” she mumbled under her breath.
“No time like the present to join the fun.” I hated the sadness she wore like a cloak. Hated that she was on her own and withdrawn from her family. Tonight was the first time she’d been to Sunday dinner in ages.
“I don’t remember what that is.” Her tone was so soft, I almost didn’t hear her.
“Let’s see what we can do to change that.”
“You have a way of getting people to do what you want.”
“Not that.”
“Especially that. You made me forget I wasn’t supposed to do that. I cheated on my husband.”
“He’d been dead for almost two years,” I said incredulously. She recoiled. “I—fuck. I really hate that guy.”
She looked as if I’d slapped her. “You didn’t even know him.”
“I know he’s cock-blocking me from my kid.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I do want to live with you, Marlow. But not in that haunted house.” I set her to the side and shot out of the bed. “I want to live with our little girl. You’re going to fight me every step. Keep me from her.” I plowed a hand though my hair. “I’m trying to make this difficult situation easier. But you won’t help me even an inch.”
I couldn’t look at her anymore. I stormed from the bedroom out the back door. What did the woman want from me? I’d given her more than I ever had given anyone. I was willing to do whatever she wanted as long as it involved seeing my gummy as much as possible.
It never once occurred to me I’d have a family. I sure as hell never thought it would include a dead man.
Chapter Thirty-One
Marlow
“You should have a week.I should have a week. With the understanding we can see her whenever we want.”
I leaned against the island. Patrick stirred something on the stove and turned down the stereo. “Ain’t No Way” by Aretha Franklin played softly. I tried not to read too much into his music choice.
“She speaks.”
This was not the amicable man who’d brought me here. Somehow, in this small house, we’d managed to avoid each other or give each other the silent treatment. He’d moved to the couch. I hated that. Just the sounds of someone sleeping alongside me was something I’d missed—craved—desperately. And now he’d taken that away.
“Does that work for you?” I asked him.
“It’s too much time apart.”
“It isn’t practical to move her around every other day. Or even a half week. And like I said, we agree to visitation whenever one of us wants.”
“We try it for six months, then we assess and renegotiate if it’s not working.”
“Fair enough.” I climbed onto a barstool. “I want her to have my last name.”
The spatula clattered on the counter. Fury blazed back at me. “No. She’s a Whitley. The end.”
“We’ll hyphenate then,” I said casually.
