by Con Riley
That sick clench tightens in Jon’s guts again at another reminder of a favor he never knew his mom had asked for. He distracts Eric with a question. “How about you tell me about your intern program first. Did you say you were rotating your team through Acquisitions this week? Do you need to check in with Mr. Nelson before we go? Or with—”
“I’m on it.” Eric pulls out his phone and makes a quick call as they walk. “Hey, big guy,” he says as they approach the elevator. “Mr. Fournier wants me to show him the sites. I’m taking Heather too, if that’s cool.” It’s another sign of Anthony Nelson’s relaxed management style, Jon supposes, that Eric’s so casual with him. “We’re good to go.” Eric pockets his phone. “You want to eat first?” he asks as they get to the parking garage.
Jon’s never felt less like eating. “Let’s drive for a while first. You good to direct me?”
It’s another task that Eric leaps on, only instead of taking over, he encourages his intern to plot a route for them on her phone. It’s a thoughtful way to include her in the conversation. While Eric talks a mile a minute, she interjects from the backseat, giving Jon quiet but clear directions.
Each mile Jon puts between him and the office lessens the tension he carries inside. He relaxes his grip on the wheel, simply driving where he’s instructed, and yes, his next deep breath is so much easier to draw in.
Maybe the late flight on Friday night and change in time zone messed with him a helluva lot more than he’d allowed for.
Nothing seems quite so desperate now that he’s out of the building.
He drives, and sun breaks through the cloud cover, illuminating fencing covered with Hallquist Holding logos around a construction site. They pass several more along the I-5, and it’s an insight into the scale of Stan Hallquist’s business that’s surprisingly helpful. Maybe he’s right to focus on the one department that locates the tracts of land he builds on. Jon’s also surprised when the intern suddenly speaks up. “That’s one of Mr. Nelson’s!” It’s a particularly classy design, focused on attracting high-end storefronts. If the figures are accurate, the return on investment is forecast to break all company records.
No wonder Stan wants to replicate more of the same kind of purchase.
They drive on until Jon spots something from the highway that has him taking an exit without warning.
“Where are we going now?” Eric asks. “Oh!” he adds. “Heather! You recognize this place?”
“Wow.” She leans forward and lightly touches Jonathan’s shoulder. “Is this the street you drew on the meeting room glass wall?”
Jon glances over his shoulder and nods, catching a glimpse of her nose pressed to the car window before the car bump-bump-bumps over the pitted surface of a parking lot next to a familiar run-down pizzeria. The neon sign he spied as he drove is unlit, and like the exterior of the restaurant below, it looks tired and dated in this bright early summer sunlight. It’s surprisingly busy inside as they order though, a steady stream of construction workers, cops, and kids in line behind them, seeking slices and sodas for their takeout lunches. He takes a seat at a table topped with chipped Formica and faces the window overlooking the street. “So, you two just showed me where Hallquist Holdings focuses its development budget right now. But what’s the potential right here in a neighborhood like this?”
Across the street, Peggy sits on her porch. It looks as if she’s peering closely at a sheaf of papers. Jon watches her through the gap between Eric and his intern’s shoulders and then attempts to refocus his attention. He nods as Eric describes zoning issues and Heather mentions something about access to the nearby highway, but the whole time they talk, he tries to guess what it is that Peggy’s reading. He says, “Thanks,” without truly paying attention when a waitress deposits napkins and their drinks. His focus is on the papers Peggy’s holding until their pizza arrives.
Considering his earlier upset stomach, Jon inhales his first slice and is reaching for a second before he notices his lunch partners’ twin wide-eyed expressions. “Missed breakfast,” he explains, then licks tomato sauce from his fingers. Jesus Christ, it’s so good, richly flavored and fresh, pungent with garlic and basil. The balance of cheese to sauce to crust is sublime, and he’s reaching for a third slice before his second is halfway finished.
Heather stifles a laugh with the bread stick she nibbles. It’s studded with slivers of black olives, releasing the scent of rosemary as she bites. Jon eyes the breadbasket even though both his hands are full, his appetite back with a vengeance, and he feels a whole lot better. He sets down the third slice, chewing and swallowing his mouthful before speaking. “It’s good,” he says, like that’s some kind of justification for his eyes being bigger than his belly.
It is good.
All of it. No matter how rundown the place had looked from the outside.
He sits back and sips his pop, considering how much this place must turnover if each lunch shift is so busy. He’d tell them they should charge more if he was consulting for them, especially as the stream of customers hasn’t let up one bit. He watches patrons bump fists like they all know each other and talk sports while their orders are served. He recognizes the boxes they leave carrying. There had been a stack towering next to the trashcan yesterday in the apartment across the street. That thought reminds him of Peggy, and his gaze slides in her direction again.
Her mouth moves as if she’s reading aloud while frowning, just like his mom used to do, puzzling over loan balances that never seemed to lessen no matter how much she paid off.
Maybe that’s why soda spills from his glass when Tyler emerges from her front door. The way he takes a seat right next to her is proprietary, like he owns the whole place, and when he holds out a pen that Peggy takes from his hand, Jon shoots to his feet without thinking.
If that lazy, opportunistic asshole thinks he’s getting a frail old lady to sign away her home, he’s got another thing coming.
“I’ll be right back.” He runs rather than walks, slowing to a lope when he reaches the front yard, only stuttering to a complete halt at the base of Peggy’s porch steps. Now that he’s closer, what she holds in her hands is clear.
Those aren’t legal papers giving Tyler access to her savings or her home, like his imagination supplied.
It’s a book of crosswords that she’s puzzling over with him.
What the hell was he thinking?
“Jonathan!” Peggy’s delight is obvious. She’s so clearly pleased to see him that he steps forward instead of retreating. “Tyler said he saw you here this morning, but I said he must have been mistaken. I wasn’t expecting you until this evening!” She adds, “And now you’re here at lunchtime,” like it’s the best day ever. Tyler’s tone on the other hand is neutral.
“It’s like you can’t stay away from the place.”
Peggy cups her chin in her hands. Puppies begging for treats would have nothing on her hopeful expression. “You should have stayed for breakfast. Let me get you something to eat right now!”
Jon looks over his shoulder.
Across the street, Eric and his intern both stare at them through plate glass.
“No. It’s fine. I ate already.” The pizza he just gobbled now weighs heavily in his stomach. What might the two of them have to say when they get back to the office? This is the last place they’d expect an executive to live. Is poor judgment a rumor he wants to take root so early?
If he’s about to back out—tell Peggy that he’s changed his mind about renting her apartment—now is probably the best time. He grips the set of keys she so trustingly gave him, about to pull them from his pocket, only there’s something about Tyler looking so at home that makes him tighten his grip rather than hand them over. Maybe it’s the way he casually yawns and stretches so his arm rests along the back of the seat behind her, like he’s a caring relative rather than a schemer. Or perhaps it’s the relaxed way he says he’s going to his room for another nap that grates Jon so badly. Watching Tyler press
a quick kiss to her cheek makes Jon’s decision for him.
He’d been prepared to sacrifice his deposit and to settle for a motel room long-term, but it turns out he can’t let someone like Tyler take advantage.
He just can’t.
It doesn’t matter that he’s meant to negotiate tough deals for a living. When Peggy says that he must come to supper to celebrate his first night under her roof, Jon’s, “Yes,” is completely helpless.
Chapter 6
JON NOTICES that someone’s finished mowing the lawn out front when he pulls up that evening. And the neighbors’ lawns too. He has to admit, the street looks better for it. It’s a minor improvement that, if he’s being honest, is still nowhere near enough enhancement to make up for what’s waiting inside. He clutches his suitcase and a bag crammed with cleaning products he just picked up, steeling himself to face the dump he’s rented.
The groan the stairs let out under his weight sounds almost sympathetic.
Of course, now he has his hands full, there’s no way to reach his keychain once he gets to the front door. The sigh he lets out sums up his whole day, one that’s brought him right back where he started, despite his cut-and-run intentions. He’s distracted as he wrestles his load. A bottle of dish soap threatens to spill, and as he finally gets the door open, a package of disinfecting wipes falls to the floor. The smell of cleaner hits him as he scoops it back up.
He steps inside what surely must be a different apartment.
Early evening sun casts a glow through windows that now gleam. Far from illuminating squalor, it lends a warm impression to a space that’s completely transformed. Perhaps it’s the way sunbeams strike polished furniture that makes it look so much better. Had there even been a table to eat at when he viewed the apartment? Surely he would’ve noticed it set with shiny flatware like this alongside neatly folded napkins. Or maybe it had been so blanketed with detritus that his gaze had skimmed it.
It could be the lack of pizza boxes that makes the living space less cramped. Jon counts the steps from couch to kitchen counter. Nope. The dimensions are exactly as he remembers. His perspective must’ve been off, confused perhaps by all the crap that’s now absent.
He sets down his bag of supplies—unnecessary now, it seems—on a counter that’s dust and dirt free. His fingertips don’t register even a trace of the tacky residue that had made his skin crawl. He opens the refrigerator where a six-pack of longneck beers cool in its spotless interior next to a gallon jug of milk. Jon twists the cap off a beer and takes a long, thirsty swallow before surveying his apartment again. Every spot he recalls being cluttered is clear. Even the couch has been vacuumed, letting out no dust at all when he gingerly sits before relaxing back against cushions that are plump and unstained.
It’s a mystery how the hell Peggy, who he guesses wrestles with arthritis, made such a difference in only a few hours. Perhaps she hired a cleaning service. The devil perched on his shoulder whispers that it’s the least his new landlady owes him. The angel on his other disagrees, scolding that he must thank her for organizing a cleaning crew so quickly. His next mouthful is accompanied by the sound of the front door slamming next door. He swallows quickly and crosses to the window.
Tyler’s headed toward the stairway, like he’s about to pay a casual visit.
There’s no way Jon wants to see the man who’s napped away most of the day while professionals cleaned up the remains of his shit. What the hell can he want?
But Tyler doesn’t get as far as the first step. His phone must ring, because he stops to take a call that provokes an abrupt change in his direction. He dashes back into Peggy’s house before reemerging less than a minute later, a bundle of fabric visible in his hand as he crosses the street. He passes the pizzeria and an all-night drugstore before jogging out of eyeshot.
It’s not spying, Jon rationalizes as he opens the window and leans out to watch Tyler for another block, at least. He’s only paying close attention. It’s hard to make out exactly what’s going on when Tyler stops in the middle of the sidewalk, so Jon wedges a hip against the windowsill and leans out even further.
It looks like he’s tying something at his hip. Yeah. He’s definitely doing something with the fabric he clutched when he left. When a car horn suddenly blares, Tyler turns in response and waves. Jon backs up in a hurry, but not before he glimpses a flash of red and black.
What the fuck?
It’s hard to tell from this distance, but is that a bandana flapping from his pocket, like he’s some kind of gang member? Jon quickly reconsiders. There are gangs in every US city, but the chance of Tyler being a member of one is slim. He wears Bambi pajamas, for Christ’s sake.
He pulls the window closed and turns back to his living quarters, struck all over again by how comforting it smells inside now. That fresh scent lingers in the bigger of the two bedrooms. He’s torn between feeling touched and guilty that Peggy must’ve made the bed with fresh sheets of her own. The pillow he picks up is brand new, but its slipcover is soft and faded, like it’s been washed a hundred times already. It’s covered in muted rosebuds and smells of floral detergent a million miles away from Cloroxed hotel linens.
He sets his suitcase inside an empty closet below a bunch of fresh lavender that’s tied with faded ribbon—another small sign of Peggy’s hard work to make him welcome, on a limited budget perhaps, that makes him pause and swallow.
Someone so thoughtful deserves to be looked after.
Still he hesitates before crossing the driveway to her front door for his promised supper. How can he turn up empty handed after all she’s done for him today? It’s the work of a few moments to take a detour through the backyard to where roses—pale pink like those on his sheets—are in bud around a cast-iron archway.
His first attempt to pluck one costs him a yelp and a drop of blood drawn by a sharp thorn. He turns toward a bed of flowers nodding in a light breeze instead. Columbines, a voice from childhood supplies, would look pretty with a peony at their center. Nearby bees buzz their agreement as he selects enough for a small posy.
It’s worth arriving a few minutes late for his supper when Peggy’s expression shifts from welcome to pure delight at the gift he offers.
“For me?” She answers the door wearing high-heeled mules covered in floaty marabou a similar shade to the flowers. She clasps the posy like it’s precious rather than stolen from her own garden, and her smile of pleasure lingers as she serves him a pot roast that’s delicious. “You like it?”
Jon nods rather than speak with his mouth crammed so full. It’s reminiscent of how he couldn’t get enough to eat at lunchtime. “Everything tastes so good here,” he admits. It’s a simple truth that Peggy responds to with a quick nod.
“Nothing beats fresh herbs picked from your own garden.”
Jon can taste them when he concentrates. He chews slowly and discerns subtle flavors that by some kind of alchemy render meat and potatoes magic. “It’s the first home-cooked meal I’ve had in….” He thinks hard. “Well, in a while, I guess.”
“Is that right, dear?”
She’s just making polite conversation with her new tenant, Jon tells himself. There’s no reason for him to add more detail, but his confessions spill like the milk she pours into his glass.
“Yeah. I don’t exactly get to cook a whole lot. They keep us busy in the office back in New York. It’s easier to get takeout.”
“What about over the holidays? You get to make up for all that junk food whenever you get home?”
Jon chews a mouthful of spinach rather than answer.
Peggy matches his silence, but her head’s tilted when he looks up, like she’s simply waiting.
“Home was… uh…. There wasn’t reason to go back after my mom…. She passed away.”
Peggy spoons more tender meat onto his plate like he’s managed complete sentences rather than stuttering so badly. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. So you spend the holidays with your father?” There’s no judgme
nt in her tone, just the same gentle interest that makes for easy conversation.
“Not since I was a kid.” It’s a shame to spoil a nice dinner by dwelling on that subject.
“So it was just you and your mom?” Her smile is small and fleeting. “And she was who taught you how to garden? Well, if she grew her own produce, you must have got spoiled for home-grown veggies.”
“No.” He sets down his knife and fork. It’s another clear I’m done talking gesture, only Peggy doesn’t seem to grasp its meaning.
“No? Your mom didn’t cook for you?” she asks while passing Jon some green beans he’s certain he can’t swallow.
“No. She cooked plenty when I was young.” Fabulous meals made from produce Jon saw from seed to table—something he hadn’t known he missed until he set foot in Peggy’s backyard. “That all stopped after dad left—” There’s no way for a grown man to end that sentence without sounding ten years old again and needy. “It was fine,” he insists, despite Peggy not suggesting any different. The archway where he pricked his finger is visible through the kitchen window. His voice sounds tight, like one of the roses climbing it now winds around his throat instead. “Seems like this is the first chance I had to think about it since then.”
Peggy remains quiet for a long moment, and he wonders how he must look. So much for his sharp suit and eighty dollar haircut. He’s a kid all over again when she pats his shoulder. She lets him off the conversational hook by clearing their plates and chatters as she rinses, like Jon didn’t just spill his guts all over her kitchen table. By the time she thanks him again for bringing her flowers, his voice is back to normal.
“It’s nothing. I had to give you something for cleaning my apartment. It’s terrible how it was all left to you, but I appreciate it.”
“Oh! I didn’t—” She pauses, and her eyes narrow. “Tell me, do you like pie?”
Jon nods even though he’s stuffed. He could fit in a small slice if that keeps her smiling so wide. He’ll work it off by getting up early and doing some more weeding. The thought has him smiling back at her. Setting his alarm an hour early for that will be a pleasure.