by Shutt, Tom
“Can you get a mortgage on a rented apartment?”
“Fair point.”
“On that note, we should really consider getting a bigger place.” Greg blushed as Brennan turned to affix him with raised eyes. He rubbed self-consciously at the bandage that covered his patch burn. “Sleeping on your pullout couch is nice and all, and I really appreciate you taking me in after…well, after. But maybe we could get one of those new Scottages they’re building.”
“Scottages?”
“The guy who is building them is named Scott. Last name, probably. And I’m assuming they look like cottages.”
“Huh. Where are they being built?”
Greg shrugged. “Somewhere outside the city.”
“Outside the city? You do know that I’m a cop, right? I work right across the street,” Brennan said, stressing the last few words.
“Oh. Well if you need someone to housesit for you, I’m your man. I’ll even give you a discount, since you’re family.”
“So you want me to pay for the rent of a luxury cottage in the picturesque countryside and pay you to live there in my stead?” He shook his head. “There must be some lingering toxins from the patch that are addling your brain.”
“Hey,” Greg protested. “When my housesitting business takes off, just remember that you could have been in on the ground floor.”
Satisfied with the knot of his tie, Brennan walked over toward the couch. “What do you think?”
“You’re trying too hard,” Greg stated simply. “But I’m sure she will appreciate the gesture. Shouldn’t you be leaving soon?”
Brennan checked his phone. He had a scant half hour to meet Clara at The Regent, and he wanted to be early so that she would not be waiting when she arrived. “Yeah, I need to go. Do you remember what you need to do tonight?”
“Search for a job and make myself scarce sometime around ten o’clock,” Greg recited without enthusiasm.
“Make yourself scarce? Why would you do that?”
“Look, Uncle Arty, I know not many people would consider you to be fun or charming. I mean, really few people.”
“Hey!”
Greg went on undeterred. “Have you considered that this night might not end when the bill is paid? That this woman—Clara—might for whatever reason want to come back to your place?”
Brennan stood still and stared uncomprehendingly at his nephew. After a moment, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “I didn’t—” He caught himself starting a lie designed to deceive even himself. “Actually, Sam suggested something along those lines.”
“At least someone is looking at this date with some sense. There’s nothing less sexy than bringing a date home to your nephew—witty and handsome as he is—passed out on the sofa.” Greg leaned back onto the armrest with an enormous grin on his face.
Brennan felt immensely uncomfortable discussing sex with his nephew, especially with regards to his own potential plans for the evening. “I’m leaving now,” he said abruptly. He grabbed his jacket off the back of a tall chair near the island bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“Give some thought to that Scottage plan,” Greg reminded him with a wink.
“We’ll see,” Brennan called back, closing the door firmly behind him. He practically glided down the stairs to the ground floor, spurred on by an internal clock that warned him of the impending arrival deadline.
Cold air met him as he pushed open the door to the street. Living in midtown, he was relatively close to all of the high-end restaurants Odols had to offer, and The Regent was one of the classiest. It was located a half dozen city blocks away from his apartment, though, and hailing a taxi at this hour would be slower than going on foot.
Brennan jogged at a brisk pace, and the air was cool enough that sweat was prevented from beading along his forehead. It felt good to be moving at this speed after months—years—of mostly walking and sitting. For the second time this week, he was thankful for the new workout regime that was whipping his body into better shape than it had seen in years. Still, the sudden exertion was forcing his breath to come with some difficulty, and his lungs worked overtime to provide oxygen to his legs.
He arrived in front of The Regent with two minutes to spare.
The Regent was one of the ritziest places in Odols. The ground floor was a fine cuisine restaurant, and their kitchen boasted some of the most renowned chefs in the country. Towering over the restaurant was the rest of The Regent—a soaring luxury hotel that cast shadows on every building surrounding it. A monolithic structure of glass and steel, it offered its guests the best view of Odols—provided they could afford the exorbitant nightly costs of staying.
A reed-thin man in a midnight blue restaurant uniform stepped forward, presumably to turn away the strange, panting man who had suddenly appeared in their valet lane. Brennan held up a hand to stall him, allowing himself to catch a few more breaths. His eyes passed over the other guests entering the restaurant, scanning their faces for any familiar features.
The uniformed attendant hovered nearby; a small metal clip on his breast pocket read Terry. Brennan felt Terry’s eyes pass over his suit and tie, obviously taking in the fact that he was not a vagabond here to cause trouble. “Is everything quite all right, sir?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m looking for someone, though. You may have seen her? Tall, brunette, about the same age as me?”
Terry cleared his throat and peered purposefully around Brennan’s shoulder.
“Arthur?”
He turned to find the source of the mature, feminine voice. The profile photo he had seen online did not do her justice. Clara Thompson was taller than average, with the top of her head just barely reaching Brennan’s nose. Her leaf green eyes were rimmed with laugh lines, and the soft curve of her smile seemed comfortable on her lips. Soft highlights on either side framed her face. Beneath her long white trench coat, she wore a knee-length dress whose color approached the blackest of purples. It shimmered under the evening lights of the city. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.
“Arthur Brennan?” she repeated, taking a step closer to him.
He smiled warmly and willed the butterflies in his stomach to disappear. “Yes, hi. Clara?” He bridged the distance between them.
Her lips parted to show a set of gleaming white teeth. The creases around her eyes found their familiar places. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” she said. Clara moved in and they exchanged a quick hug. Brennan could smell a light, flowery scent that wafted gently from her silken hair.
The two parted and regarded each other silently for a brief moment. Terry took the opportunity to reinsert himself into the situation. “I’ll get the door for you two.”
Brennan hovered his hand a half inch above the small of Clara’s back as he ushered her to go first. She offered a polite smile and stepped forward into the subdued lighting of the restaurant’s foyer. A young woman with perfect posture gave them a cheery smile from behind her podium.
“The name of your reservation, sir?”
“Brennan, Arthur Brennan,” he replied in his best Bond impersonation.
Somehow, she managed not to roll her eyes, maintaining her professional cheer without even blinking. “Brennan,” she said, repeating the name several times as she made a show of checking and rechecking the list of reservations. “I’m sorry, sir, but your name does not appear to be here.”
Clara gave Brennan a worried look, and a thought occurred to him. “Try another name. Sam McCarthy, he’s a friend of mine. He set up the reservation.”
With an almost inaudible sigh of skepticism, the hostess looked again, this time further down the list. His lips parted slightly in surprise. “Sam McCarthy, eight fifteen reservation for two.” She glanced up at the two of them with a false smile plastered on her face. “We are ready for you now. Follow me, please.”
There was an inner set of doors that were opened by other attendants. Inside, the restaurant was alive with t
he buzz of hundreds of hushed conversations. The hostess ushered Brennan and Clara through the restaurant, past several open tables, until Brennan worried that she was leading them to an undesirable table close to the restrooms. This was not the case, however, as they turned and arrived at a cozy square table situated in one of the corners of the restaurant.
Unlike the other tables, which had somber black tablecloths, theirs was draped in a fine white fabric and already held several flickering candles. It was partially enclosed, with carefully sculpted wood beams and thick blocks of glass that obscured easy observation from others in the restaurant. The walls around the table were hidden by a gauzy curtain, behind which water trickled with a quiet murmur. It was backlit as well, giving a calming blue aura to the area around the table.
“This is beyond cool,” Clara whispered.
They took their seats on the single rounded bench and sat roughly ninety degrees apart. The hostess gave them a more genuine smile this time. “You two have a wonderful meal!”
“Thank you,” Brennan said to her back as she turned and started to glide away.
Clara looked at the empty tabletop and gave a cough of laughter. “I think she forgot to give us our menus.”
Brennan grinned. “I think you’re right.”
“We’ll get them when our server comes, I guess.” She looked at him with dancing excitement in her eyes. “So, Arthur, tell me something interesting about yourself.”
“Something interesting about myself? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“I like to read,” he said. “And I have a good friend that I play pool with sometimes.”
“I love a man who loves books,” Clara said enthusiastically. “I wish I had more time for reading. My grandparents had a place in New Hampshire that we would visit every year, once in the summer and once around Christmas. They had a big, old wooden house down by the edge of the lake, with a screened-in back porch that looked out over the water.” Her smile widened as she thought back to her childhood. “My favorite place in their house was a bay window on the second floor. It was as wide as I am long, and there was a deep ledge where I could sit and read as the sun rose in the morning.”
Clara was a talkative person, Brennan noticed, but he also realized that he liked hearing the sound of her voice. “That must have been nice,” he said.
Her excited eyes turned wistful as she met his gaze. “It was. But now I’m busy working with patients and trying to get a book published and, obviously, dating, and—” Clara puffed a sigh of frustration. “Life,” she said bluntly. “It catches up to all of us, doesn’t it?”
“That it does,” Brennan said, laughing.
A large man with dark brown skin and a gleaming head came by the table with two flutes of champagne held in his wide hands. The white fabric of his chef’s apron was pristine, almost glowing in the accented lighting of their secluded table. “Good evening, folks,” he said, white teeth shining as he placed the glasses down in front of them. Brennan rose to his feet, and he and the chef exchanged grips. “Chef Ray, pleased to meet you.”
“Arthur Brennan. And this is Clara Thompson,” he said, and Clara quickly rose to shake hands with the chef.
“You have a great friend, Arthur,” Chef Ray said. “And any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine.”
A sense of pride battled with the shock Brennan felt. People either loved or hated Sam, and the latter group seemed more and more prevalent these days, so it was good to see that not all of his bridges had been burned.
“I don’t know if Sam had a chance to explain what’s going to happen here,” Chef Ray continued, “but I’m going to prepare a multi-course meal for you, paired with several wines, and hopefully we’re all going to have a great evening!” He clapped his hands together and beamed at the two of them.
“That sounds amazing,” Clara said, awe evident in her voice.
Brennan nodded. “I can’t wait,” he told Chef Ray.
“Excellent! First, do either of you have any food allergies?”
They both shook their heads.
“And how do you like your meat cooked?”
“Medium rare,” Clara responded.
“Medium well.”
Chef Ray bowed his head slightly and raised his hands. “Perfect. Well enjoy yourselves tonight, and I’ll bring out the first course shortly.”
“Thank you,” Brennan said.
Clara waited until the chef had left before leaning in to whisper. “Arthur…thank you. I promise I can pay for my half, or at least for the wine. But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t usually spend so much when eating out, especially not for a single meal. I hope I am not seeming cheap, but would you mind if we kept things simple from here on out?” A long moment passed, and color rose in Clara’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, that’s implying a second date. I’m being silly, I—”
“No, not at all,” Brennan said quickly. A grin made its way onto his face, in spite of his best efforts. “I’m relieved, actually.”
“You are?”
“Yes!” He laughed and slid slightly closer to her. “It has been a long time since I last saw anyone, and I want you to enjoy tonight.”
“You’ll have to give my thanks to your friend for setting this up.”
Brennan laughed. “I definitely will. Though I gave him a hard time earlier today, and I think him saddling me with a seven-course meal is his way of getting back while still looking out for me. Next time, I’ll make a home-cooked meal for us.”
Clara’s eyes shined as she looked into his. “Perfectly fine with me,” she said. She lifted her glass and took a gulp of champagne. “You cook?”
“I make ingredients interact with appliances and produce slightly more edible things,” Brennan said, eliciting a laugh from Clara.
“Mmm, impressive. I’m afraid to admit that I have more of a green thumb than a culinary hand.”
“Where do you garden, in a city like this?”
Clara laughed again, a fantastic sound to Brennan’s ears. She moved her handbag and sidled a little closer to him. “Like I said, I don’t have much recreational time. When I was in college, I helped out with tending to the gardens for academic credit, and before that I was always running around in my mother’s flowers in the backyard.” Clara shook her head, still smiling. “She always hated when I did that.”
“Why is that?”
“I think she was afraid I would step on one of her precious flowers. She would import bulbs and seeds from all across Europe and create the most beautiful natural arrangements with them. I realized at some point that I could win her affection by planting instead of playing, and I was surprisingly good at it.” She shrugged. “I guess it stuck.”
A woman with dirty blonde hair appeared with two additional glasses of white wine. Chef Ray came out at that moment and delivered two lightly steaming bowls to the table.
“To start you off tonight, we have a French onion soup with gruyère cheese and caramelized onions, served in a brandy broth.”
“Sounds delicious,” Brennan said.
Clara moved her empty champagne flute to the side and picked up the other glass. After a polite sip, she sighed appreciatively. “That is really good.”
Brennan drank a mouthful and squelched the scowl that came to his lips. His late wife had been a fan of white wines, but Brennan had never developed a liking for them.
“So,” Clara said after a second sip, “what is it like to be a detective? You must see a lot of exciting things.”
“That’s one word for it,” he said.
“How would you describe your job?”
“There are moments of excitement, sure, but those are surrounded by a lot of paperwork. Mostly, it is stressful. It’s a pretty unforgiving job, and there are a lot of opportunities to get yourself shot.”
“See? Excitement!”
Brennan smiled at her tongue-in-cheek humor. “After it happens once, it�
��s not a process you’re eager to repeat.”
“So has it happened to you?”
“Getting shot?” Brennan thought about the botched rescue mission he and Sam had staged a few months ago. In their attempt to save Bishop, she had in turn become their salvation, taking out a ruthless drug lord in the process. “A couple times.”
“When was the most recent?”
“You seem very interested in this topic,” he joked.
“I work with victims of trauma,” Clara said. “I can imagine very few things that would be more scarring, psychologically and physically, than a bullet wound. It sounds like that would be an awful experience, but your job sounds so much more exhilarating.”
Brennan became intensely aware of how closely they were sitting. Over the course of the conversation and with the help of some wine, their hands were now just barely overlapping on the bench space between them. He let his fingertips brush against the edge of Clara’s hand and wander over the smooth skin. They delicately traced the outline of her fingers before intertwining with them. He took another sip of the Riesling, this time not caring about the taste.
“This is nice,” Clara said softly. She edged a bit closer, and her breath intermingled with his.
“I almost died,” Brennan blurted out. The words fell out of his mouth before he could realize what he was saying. “A couple months ago.”
Clara’s hand stopped moving, and her head moved fractionally backward. Her eyebrows knitted together in consternation. “What happened?”
“We were solving the homicide of a pharmacist named Nettle. The kid was barely out of college, with no prior arrests to his name. He would never have been a blip on anyone’s radar if he had kept his nose clean.” Brennan sighed heavily and took a big sip of wine.
“I’m guessing he didn’t do that.”
He shook his head. “Nettle became a middleman provider for a drug lord, and when he tried to increase his share of the profits, things turned violent.”
“I think I read about that in the paper.”
“What didn’t make the headlines is that our coordinated strike on two possible locations for their storage depots went belly up. We lost half a dozen men, and my partner, Bishop, was taken hostage. It took us hours just to track her down, and thankfully she was still alive then.”