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“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
“Max is eager to see your new digs. And maybe you need GSU to provide extra security.”
I bite my lower lip. “Can’t see why. Sam will be in jail.”
“You know better than I do that he’ll probably be out in a day or so.”
In a grudging tone, I agree, “Guess so. But he violated the order of protection. Maybe a judge sympathetic to persecuted women will give him 90 or 120 days. Or something for the vandalism.”
Background noise on the other end makes me ask, “What’s happening, Cress?”
“Max was just talking to JL and says to tell you we’ll be over in twenty minutes. Finish putting on your going-out face.”
“Byeeee.” I click off the phone, ready to paint my face. Once the mascara, a light dusting of foundation, highlighter, and blood-red lipstick are on, I grab my hairbrush.
Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. My arm throbs, but my hair looks fab. Beauty is hard work. I add sparkly clips to each side, slip into my totally impractical stiletto-heel nude sandals, and finish with gold hoop earrings and a necklace of lapis lazuli chunks and gold beads.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Must be Max and Cress. I fumble the clasp in my haste to push the entry button. I’ve just gotten it fastened when rapping starts against the door. I yank it open just as Max raises his fist to pummel the inoffensive wood again.
“Come on, Max. It’s a door, not a percussion instrument.” The grumpiness in my voice doesn’t go unnoticed.
His breath slowing, Max whips out his latest quip. “I was out with some friends, and one pulled out of singing at karaoke at the last minute.”
Cress and I look at each other. “Huh?” we say at the same time.
“Snap,” Cress crows.
Max snickers. “I had to duet myself.”
Cress grimaces. I give Max a small smile. One thing I’ve learned, since meeting Max’s family, is telling jokes is deeply embedded in the Grant clan’s DNA.
“Don’t encourage him,” Cress warns.
Ignoring her, Max continues, “A karaoke singer stayed with me once, but I had to ask him to move out. He never knew when to come in and could never find the key.”
“Boo. That was terrible,” Cress says.
I’m giggling. Max smirks in triumph, and I know he will do at least one more.
“Chap I know went to the doctor and said, ‘I keep singing “The Green, Green Grass of Home” at karaoke.’ The doctor said, ‘You’ve got Tom Jones syndrome.’ Got that from Dad.”
Cress has been moving around the living room, straightening ornaments, and plumping throw pillows. “Brian is a terrible influence. Anyway, bad things always come in threes. You’ve had yours, so stop now.”
“Fine. Micki’s amused, so my work is done. Show off your digs, then we’ll go.”
A ding heralds a text message. Max pulls out his phone. “JL says he’s waiting to sign his statement. Give us the thruppenny tour. Then we’ll make tracks for the bar. I hear they have the best karaoke in the city.”
I usher them toward the dining room, outfitted with a table for twelve, and holding a matching breakfront and buffet. The kitchen is just behind. No galley kitchen. This is a large space with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, cherry cabinets, and laminate flooring that looks like stone. There is an island in the middle with stools set on one side.
Moving toward the double doors on one side, I say, “Drumroll, please. The pièce de résistance.” I pull them open with a flourish. Shallow shelves display a startling array of food, mostly jars, jewel-tone colors of jams, preserved fruit, containers of grains and cereal, bags of coffee. You name it, it’s probably there. The owners are obviously foodies. Too bad I don’t cook. At all. Ever.
“Nice,” Cress comments, picking up a jar and examining the contents. “Preserved lemons. Guess they like Moroccan food.”
“Can we liberate a few things?” Max asks. “Or do they know their food stocks will remain unviolated while they’re away?”
I snicker. “They didn’t padlock it.”
