Jackson rested his hands on his thighs and took a moment to sweep a gaze over my office. It was piled high with boxes and crates, decades' worth of accounting ledgers, and an assortment of items branded with beer logos. Hats, t-shirts, paper coasters, frisbees, you name it. I meant to clean it out every time I couldn't find something, but never remembered to get it done.
"Since I'm here," he started, "I'm interested to hear how Nate is progressing."
And since you're here, I'm interested in hearing everything you can tell me about your fiancée's best friend. "You'd have to ask him that yourself," I replied. "You could, but he's not here right now."
The muscles in his jaw twitched. "Where is he?"
"I got enough problems of my own. I don't keep track of the kid's calendar too."
I shuffled the documents on my desk, looking for nothing but an exit from this conversation. I didn't care for the routine check-ins on Nate's recovery or the constant questions about his conduct and habits, and the sheriff wasn't the only one asking. The reemergence of Nate Fitzsimmons was something of a local legend now. It wasn't uncommon for customers to ask him highly personal questions or gape at him while he bused their table. Others gave him sobriety advice after ordering their meals and a special few made it their business to watch his every move and report back to me about behavior they found suspicious.
"Got it, got it," Jackson murmured. "I'd have to assume he's doing well enough if you've kept him on this long. Knowing how you operate, he would've been on the curb if there was an issue."
I didn't like the sheriff. We were cut from different cloth. But I couldn't deny that he was suited for his job. "What do you want? A performance review? He comes in on time, he does the work, and he puts up with all the assholes this town has to offer. He's fine. Leave him alone."
He nodded thoughtfully, as if this information put everything in a new light. "I see him at the gym in the morning." He shared a laugh with himself. "The mornings I manage to drag myself out of bed early enough to hit the gym."
I gave him a blank stare. "Ha."
"He seems to like the six a.m. yoga and meditation class," Jackson continued. "The weight room too. All the times I've stopped by, he's been very focused on the weights."
"Maybe if you shared your protein shake recipe with him, he'd share his workout plan," I replied. "I'm sure you'd hit it off once he forgets he's on probation and handing in a cup of urine every week and you're the head of the local law enforcement agency receiving those piss reports."
He blinked at me. "Point taken."
"Leave the kid alone. Let him work out without the sheriff spotting him." I took another sip from my water. "Don't you have better things to do? You're engaged, you're building a house, and you're in a power struggle with Audee Netishen. Isn't that enough?"
Jackson lifted a hand to his forehead, rubbed his brow. "Following up on Nate is much easier than building a house. The process is—I can't even explain how complicated and exhausting the damn thing is. And the ground is frozen, so there's nothing we can do until spring, but since we have that time to kill, we might as well change the plans seven or eight hundred times."
"Don't forget about the wedding," I added.
"I don't know whether I should be concerned or relieved that Annette has prioritized the house." He continued rubbing his brow. "I figure she wouldn't be driving herself nutty over closets and cabinets if she didn't intend to stick around." He glanced up at me, a look of pure dread on his face. "She wants us to visit a home design studio in Portland this weekend."
"Isn't that what you do best, sheriff? Escorting Annette and Brooke up and down the coast while they shop and brunch and whatever else it is they do?"
It was such a lame attempt at drawing information about Brooke out of him that I wanted to kick my own ass.
"We haven't seen much of Brooke lately. She has a lot on her plate." He frowned, glanced over his shoulder at the door. "Last I heard, she isn't available to compare bathroom flooring samples this weekend."
I drummed my fingers on the desk, considering my options while the sheriff and I stared at each other. They weren't good options. Everywhere I turned, I boxed myself into a new corner. I couldn't ask about Brooke and whether she needed some help without tipping my hand hard in that direction. I couldn't ask whether her father's condition was deteriorating because it was possible Jackson didn't know about it.
"Annette's baked a number of banana cream pies for Judge Markham these past few weeks," Jackson continued. "I'm told it's his favorite, but Brooke hates them. Can't stand the smell of bananas. The conversations Brooke and Annette have about those pies are, well, they're entertaining."
"It's always fun to be the target of Brooke's simultaneous love and hate."
Jackson pushed to his feet and opened the door, hooking a glance at me over his shoulder. "You would know, wouldn't you?"
And that was how I realized Jackson Lau was better at his job than I thought.
Chapter Twelve
Brooke
Prime Rate: the interest rate at which banks lend to their best customers.
February
Annette: Jackson just sent a million roses to the shop to celebrate six months of cohabitation.
Brooke: That sweet boy. Someone taught him right.
Annette: That's the truth.
Brooke: As you know, I love you dearly.
Annette: Yep.
Brooke: Do you think you could share with me some of the downsides of that cohabitation? Because I love you and don't want to hate you for having unlimited access to good dick and someone to take out the trash.
Annette: I wouldn't say it's unlimited access. He does work.
Brooke: And you've had sex in his office enough times to count on both hands, so let's not split hairs on that point.
Annette: Here's one. He prefers to store leftovers on plates covered in plastic wrap. He doesn't see why anyone would move food to a storage container when it's on a perfectly good plate.
Brooke: What a savage. Pyrex is life.
Brooke: Keep going.
Annette: He doesn't believe in expiration dates.
Brooke: What's that now?
Annette: Yeah, I bought a bunch of ricotta cheese in November. Two quarts. I wanted to try a new cheesecake recipe, but I never got around to it. It has since passed its expiration date, however, Jackson won't let me toss it because he believes it's still good. So, we have two quarts of aging cheese in the back corner of the fridge.
Brooke: That's an interesting belief system.
Brooke: What else?
Annette: He flat-out refuses to take any of my help when he's getting sick. I tried to give him some vitamins when he picked up that cold after the holidays and you would've thought I'd offered him heroin or a teacup of bleach.
Brooke: Men are the worst.
Annette: He won't admit when he's falling asleep. He likes to watch one of those sports news programs every night, though he's never seen an entire episode. He falls the fuck asleep. And god forbid I suggest he DVR it or turn off the television. It's right up there with illicit use of vitamin C.
Brooke: Yeah, you're a heretic.
Annette: Whenever it's snowing, he wakes up two or three times during the night to shovel. He says it won't accumulate as much that way. I understand that it's easier to shovel a few inches rather than a few feet, but first of all, we have a snow blower. Second, nothing good has ever come from going outside at three in the morning during a snowstorm.
Brooke: Literally nothing.
Annette: I don't even try to argue it with him. He's going to do what he's going to do.
Brooke: How do you manage?
Annette: He makes up for it in other ways.
Brooke: This guy has the good dick.
Annette: You're not wrong.
Brooke: Ugh this hasn't made me hate you less.
Annette: That's fine. You can hate me. It's that or put real effort into meeting men, I guess, and we both know you won't do that
.
Brooke: Would you just shut up, please?
Annette: Since when have you refrained from giving anyone a pointed push?
Brooke: Yeah, because that's my thing. I'm the rude one. You're the nice one.
Annette: Only sometimes.
Brooke: Wait, are you referring to me or you?
Annette: Both seems like a fine answer.
* * *
March
Annette: Can I be ridiculous and self-centered for a minute?
Brooke: You never have to ask permission to be ridiculous or self-centered as I am both with alarming frequency.
Annette: You're neither.
Brooke: Don't try to debate this with me. I'll win. I always win because I'm amazing like that.
Brooke: See? Ridiculous and self-centered.
Annette: Anyway…Jackson's sister is coming to visit next weekend.
Brooke: Rachel, right?
Annette: Yeah.
Brooke: Isn't she a teacher in some Grimms’ fairy tale land?
Annette: By that, I assume you mean western Massachusetts.
Brooke: Same thing.
Annette: Right, well, Rachel who teaches middle school out in western Massachusetts is visiting next weekend and this is the first time I've spent more than a Thanksgiving meal with her.
Brooke: …and you're freaking out about what?
Annette: The list is extensive.
Brooke: Start with the most absurd shit.
Annette: She doesn't like sweets and 90% of my life is baking with tons of sugar and I don't understand how anyone could exist without pie and cookies and cake and lemon squares.
Brooke: Proportionally speaking, your life is not 90% baking. You run a small business, babe. Baking is your passion project, your stress relief, your hand work.
Annette: I don't really care about the math.
Brooke: Of course. But, real talk, she's not going to ooh and ahh all over your sticky buns and that's okay. People like you for reasons entirely separate from the treats you shove in their mouths.
Annette: I don't shove anything in anyone's mouth.
Brooke: Oh, right. I forgot it's the other way around with you.
Annette: Shut up.
Brooke: Back to the freak out of the day. What's the next most absurd thing?
Annette: I feel like the house is a weird mix of 1990s-meets-vintage-thrift. I know that's the least of her concerns and she's not coming here to evaluate the style of the place we're renting while our house is being built, but I've never had guests in our home before and I want it to be nice.
Brooke: Would you like to move into the carriage house over here? It hasn't been updated since before my mother died, but you can play house there all you want.
Annette: Jackson would never go for that.
Brooke: It's funny how Jackson is the reason it won't work and not your own lunacy.
Annette: (eye roll emoji)
Brooke: What else is bothering you?
Annette: I just want her to like me.
Brooke: She absolutely will.
Annette: Sisters never like me.
Brooke: Your sisters are the heavyweight champions of cunt. They do not count as evidence.
Brooke: Rachel will adore you. She'll get a tattoo that reads "I'm With Annie" before the weekend is over but if you think for one second that this chick is replacing me as your bloodless sister, I will wage war.
Annette: I would never go to war with you.
Brooke: Because I know all of your weak spots?
Annette: Because we know each other's weak spots, but we'd never use them.
Brooke: No. We wouldn't.
Brooke: Would you like to continue freaking out or are you feeling better?
Annette: I think I'm okay.
Brooke: I know you're okay.
Chapter Thirteen
Brooke
Depreciation: the allocation of value over a period of time to account for the loss of value as an asset ages or is rendered obsolete.
April
Annette stared at her reflection in the mirror as she pivoted on the pedestal. "I'm not sure."
"Aren't you supposed to have an involuntary reaction? Something more interesting than a sneezing fit, but less troublesome than a seizure?"
She glared at me in the mirror. "This was your idea."
"You're the one who got engaged," I argued from my perch on the tufted white sofa. "Suggesting we find you a wedding dress doesn't seem ridiculous to me."
"But this," she cried, fisting the ball gown's heavy skirts, "this is ridiculous."
"Oh my god, yes." I drained my champagne. Everything in this bridal boutique was blindingly white and the dresses were questionably fashionable, but at least the champagne was free. "Take it off immediately and return it to the America's Cup team. I'm sure they're pissed about someone stealing their sails."
"Perhaps a slimmer silhouette," the saleswoman offered as she flew to the racks. "Something form-fitting, like a column or mermaid."
Annette met my gaze in the mirror, shook her head. She blinked quickly as tears filled her eyes. That was my cue. "Sandra, you've been such a treasure today. We're going to pause here, but we'll be back when the bride has narrowed her ideas. Let's get her out of this giant cupcake, okay?"
Sandra stepped away from the sea of tulle and lace. "You're so lucky to have such a caring maid of honor," she said to Annette. "But your interests are my priority. What do you want?"
"I want to get out of this dress and never see it again," Annette replied.
"You are breathtaking in this dress," the saleswoman argued. "Look what it does for your figure. It's just magical." She smiled despite Annette's deep frown. "Let's try it with a veil!"
"I want to get out of this dress," she repeated.
The saleswoman shook her head. "Try to see it with your own eyes. Don't let the opinions of others"—a pointed glare in my direction as she went in search of a veil—"change your mind."
"My eyes are annoyed that I'm still wearing this," Annette replied.
I pushed up from the sofa and moved to my friend's side. Lacing my arm around her waist, I said, "I can have you out of this corset in thirty seconds flat."
"You should add that to your résumé. At least your LinkedIn profile." She patted my head. "It's strange being taller than you."
"Maybe, but now you're at the perfect height for me to nuzzle your boobs." I dropped my cheek to her chest. "I can see why Jackson wants to marry you. These are amazing."
"I know, they really are," she agreed with a laugh. "You can't hear it through the ten miles of satin fabric I'm wearing, but my tummy is rumbling like a thunderstorm."
I pointed to the front of the gown. "You pick up that end. I'll get the other end. We'll waddle back to the dressing room." The saleswoman appeared again, veils draped over her forearms and her hands outstretched as if she meant to help. "We've got this, thanks."
"Oh, well—"
"I wouldn't argue with her, Sandra," Annette interrupted. "She was president of Kappa Alpha Theta at Yale for three years and would've served a fourth year, but the bylaws didn't allow new pledges to take office."
The saleswoman trailed after us as we shuffled toward the dressing room. "Okay, but—"
"And she's the only female hedge fund manager in her firm's one hundred and nineteen year history," Annette continued. "She has a black belt in tae kwon do, speaks fluent French, German, and Mandarin, and consistently reels in the biggest catch during the bonito run. But, go ahead. Tell her she doesn't know how to properly exit me from this whipped cream avalanche."
I folded my lips together to stop myself from laughing. Once we'd wedged Annette through the dressing room door, I kept my gaze on the dress. I didn't dare look at my friend or the stunned saleswoman while I loosened the corset's lacing.
"I'll be right outside," Sandra said. "Shout if you need anything."
When the door closed, I said, "I don't speak German and I went fishing on
ce when I was fifteen. I made Chad Bodger bait the hooks and then get the fish off the hooks because it looked horrible."
"So, you—what? Held the pole?"
"That could be the summary of my life right there," I said, giving the laces a yank. It was a wonder my girl could breathe. "I held the pole."
"But you do know tae kwon do?" she asked.
"No black belt, but I took a few martial arts classes when the guys in my office started raving about Krav Maga. They spent entire days chopping each other in the balls. I wanted to be able to poke them in the neck and have them fall to the ground and piss themselves."
"That's a noble desire." The dress fell away from her body and a breath rattled out of her. "I'm going to need some lunch now."
"Maybe we can talk about this wedding while we eat." I gathered the dress as she picked her way out of it. "You know, spitball some of the basics like colors, theme, venue. If you want to go crazy, maybe we'll even come up with ideas for the date."
Her back turned to me, Annette shrugged into her clothes. "I get it. Going dress shopping wasn't the best idea."
I slipped the dress onto its hanger. "That's not what I'm saying."
She bent at the waist to fluff her hair. "You're saying I can't choose a dress until I know when and where I'm getting married," she said, standing. "And you're not wrong, but dresses felt—I don't know—manageable. I figured we could drive down here and I could try on a dress and it would be perfect and then I'd have all the answers."
"You don't need all the answers," I said. "Let's get out of here before our friend Sandra busts in here and tries to sell you on some more meringue."
She frowned at the dress, brushed her fingers along the delicate fabric. "It is lovely," she said softly. "For someone else."
We left the boutique and headed straight for one of our favorite Portland breweries for lunch. Once we were settled with a flight of beers and three appetizers between us, I revisited the wedding topic. "You've been engaged for a couple of months now—"
Far Cry: A Talbott’s Cove Novel Page 9