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She pulled a face. “Yeah. That might’ve been dumb.”
“He’s divorced.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to get back together with him? You gonna move to Chicago? Is he dating anyone back there?”
“I don’t know. Look. It was one kiss.” Well, then, there was that other kiss, down by the lake. Two kisses.
“One kiss? This wasn’t the first time, was it?”
“Look, Long Island Medium, he took me by surprise, okay?”
“Just remember what he did to you last time. I don’t think he deserves a second chance, personally. But I’m just your brother. I’m just the one who’s been watching you avoid a serious relationship this past decade.”
“Where’s your wife, huh? Do you have three beautiful children stashed somewhere? No? So don’t throw stones. You won’t even be seen in public with this mystery woman of yours.”
“Don’t change the subject.” He sat on the floor; Rufus, the whore, rolled onto his back and presented his stomach (and other parts) for admiration. Connor flinched. “You should get this dog neutered.”
“He is neutered.”
The twins were quiet for a moment. They didn’t fight often; well, they bickered constantly, and Mom still complained about it, but they hardly ever really disagreed. “You shouldn’t have punched him,” she said.
“He broke your stupid heart,” Connor grumbled.
There was no lying to her brother.
She’d done her best to hide her feelings last time. She certainlydidn’twant to be like Mom. Didn’t want people to know she’d been dumped. She was supposed to be smarter than that.
But Connor knew anyway. Despite her playing it lightly with most people—You know how fickle young love is. Hardly ever lasts—Connor knew.
“I don’t want you to get hurt, Collie Dog Face,” her brother said now.
“Me, neither.”
“Be careful.”
She swallowed. “Yeah.”
Connor scratched Rufus’s tummy another minute, then stood up and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “See you.”
“Wait. Who’s your girlfriend? Do I know her? Is she a prostitute? I won’t judge either of you. Please tell me,” she said.
“Good night,” he called from the door. Tossed her a grin and left, his feet thumping on the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THECHICKENKINGlived in a beautiful old Victorian house that had once belonged to Mark Twain’s wife’s aunt, legend had it. Colleen was here to go over the planned encounter with Bryce. And just to hang out a little because, let’s face it, she really liked Paulie.
The blue-and-cream-painted house sat high on a hill in a heavily wooded neighborhood overlooking Keuka Lake. Their driveway was long and shaded, and the house had to have at least twenty rooms.
However, the yard—grounds, really—were littered with giant metal chicken statues in lurid colors, like a terrifying dream you might have as a kid when you’re running a very high fever. As the breeze blew, it made a strange whistling sound through the, uh, artwork, making it sound like the chickens were moaning. And those beaks looked mighty sharp.
“Dad collects these from all over the world,” Paulie said. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Colleen said, trying not to look. She’d always been a little afraid of chickens, personally. The polka-dotted statue seemed especially hostile.
Inside, the house was just as beautiful, carefully restored and extremely elegant. Not what you’d picture for the Chicken King; well, no, there were a lot of paintings of chickens on the walls, as well as Mr. Petrosinsky dressed in chicken garb standing next to various local celebrities...and some national celebrities, too. “Is that Meryl Streep?” Colleen asked.
