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“Who’s asking?” Georgie arches an eyebrow and grins.
“A strange, good-looking city boy,” I say flatly.
She laughs. “Be specific.”
“Her boss.”
“Boss?” Georgie’s grin melts into a frown. “You look like a big-shot businessman, and she works at the theater.”
“Not for long, if she doesn’t come here promptly and explain herself.”
“Wait here.” Georgie disappears into the house, half closing the door behind her. A minute later, Winnifred is outside, wrapping her cardigan against her shoulders. She tips her chin up to look at me, and all I see in her Nordic blues are dread and mild accusation. She wasn’t expecting anyone to make the trip here and confront her. Her New York world and Mulberry Creek world have been separated thus far, and she thought she could keep it that way.
“Hello, Winnifred.”
“Hi.” She turns bright red the minute our eyes meet. “What are you . . . doing here?”
What a question, Bumpkin. If only I knew. Sure, you screwed Calypso Hall over, and I don’t appreciate lazy employees, but I have people on my payroll with the capacity to do my dirty work and seek you out themselves.
The truth is, I haven’t the greenest clue why I’m here.
“We need to talk somewhere private,” I say.
“Are you going to yell at me?” She narrows her eyes, her defiance back in full force.
I give it a moment of consideration. “No. You’d just yell louder if I do.”
She nods. “There’s a river about a mile down from here. Let’s walk.”
“Shouldn’t you tell your family where you are?” I ask.
She gives me a once-over, then smiles. “Nah. If someone’s gonna drown someone, it’s going to be me.”
We both step off the porch and down the loosely paved road of her neighborhood. Each house is acres apart.
“How’ve you been?” she asks as we make our way on the shoulder of the road.
“Fine. Great. Why wouldn’t I be?” I bark out.
She turns to me slowly, a funny look on her face. “No reason, I was just making polite conversation.”
“We were never polite to each other—why break a perfect streak?”
She gives me another look. Why am I nervous? I’m a grown-ass man.
“How about we jump right to the important stuff.” I clasp my hands behind my back. “You owe me a love interest.”
“Excuse me?”
“A Nina,” I specify. “You bailed on The Seagull. Your replacement is not well received.”
Lucas has been calling me nonstop, begging for me to try to find the star of his show. Penny is not holding up very well. Perhaps begging is not the right word. But he did call once. It was by accident, but he did. And when I asked him how Penny was doing, he replied “Oh, well, a theater critic from Vulture described her the other day as ‘possessing the charisma of an ingrown toenail.’ So all in all, I’d say things could be better.”
“Since when do you care about Calypso Hall?” Winnifred narrows her eyes.
“Of course I care about it. It’s my family’s business.”
“You want to sell it.”
“All the more reason for me to want it to function well and turn a profit.”
“And yet, you wouldn’t invest a cent in it, even though it’s falling apart.”
“The next owners will renovate it.” What a maddening woman. What is she getting at?
“I’m sorry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she speeds up. “I realize my actions have consequences, grave ones, but I had no choice. I was in a really dark place. I couldn’t stay in New York after what we found out.”
“You did a lot of growing up in the last few months,” I point out.
“I really did,” she says. “So did you, though.”
The elephants in the room—Paul and Grace—have been acknowledged, and now would be a good opportunity to broach the subject of the pregnancy, of my mother’s videos, of the betrayal. But I don’t. This will not serve my purpose. I’m here to bring her back to New York, not remind her why she ran away.
“Darkness is all I know,” I reply tersely. “And yet you don’t see me dropping commitments left and right just because I’m in a bad mood.”
“It’s not a bad mood.” Her tone changes, the edge in her voice more prominent. “I couldn’t stand the idea of staying in that apartment.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? We’d have found you appropriate accommodations in Manhattan.” I kick a small rock on the side of the road.
“It’s not just about the apartment.” She shakes her head. “It’s about my future.”
“You’ll have no future if you don’t return to New York immediately!” I stop dead in my tracks, a few hundred feet from the river she was telling me about. I’m screaming. Why the fuck am I screaming? I don’t think I’ve screamed my entire adult life. No. Scratch that. I never raised my voice when I was a child either. It is such a common thing to do.
