By the time we have the table set, Jonas is done with the salad and places it on the table along with two bottles of salad dressing, one ranch and one Italian. I guess that the two kinds are because Jonas likes one and Sofie another, and I try to guess who likes what. After a moment of contemplation, I finger Sofie for the ranch dressing, and I’m happy to see I’m right once we are settled in at the table.
Our meal passes by pleasantly enough, with Sofie talking more about school and some of her friends, and me talking about some of my childhood moments. When I mention that I grew up in the foster system and briefly summarize my experience there in somewhat banal terms, Sofie is clearly intrigued.
“How come you didn’t have a dad?” she asks.
I consider my answer carefully, and finally decide on one that isn’t the whole truth but that I hope is safe enough. “He went away before I was born and never came back.”
“My mom did that,” Sofie offers. She says it nonchalantly and with no emotion, as if explaining that the color of salt is white. She stabs a piece of ravioli and stuffs it in her mouth. I look at Jonas, who gives me a subtle nod and a go figure look.
“You had pretend moms and dads?” Sofie says after she swallows.
“I guess you could call them that. Though the proper titles are foster mom and foster dad.”
Sofie looks over at her father. “Maybe we could get a pretend mom,” she says. Then she shoots me a conciliatory look. “I mean a foster mom,” she corrects. “That way you’d have someone to help with the laundry and cooking and maybe clean the house once in a while.”
The way Sofie says this last part makes me certain she’s mimicking something her father has said in the past. I look at Jonas, see him blush from chin to forehead, and smile. “I think those people are called housekeepers,” I say to Sofie. “Or slaves,” I add with a sly look toward Jonas.
“That’s not what . . . I mean, it’s not how I think about . . . I just grumble sometimes.” Jonas says, looking utterly humiliated.
“He grumbles a lot,” Sofie says to me in a loud aside, her eyes wide.
I can’t help but laugh. I love the relationship these two have and find that I’m quite enjoying their company. But Maggie’s warnings sober me up. I need to be careful before getting too close or attached to the child. If things between her father and me go wrong in a bad way, it could be hurtful to the kid, and I wouldn’t want that. Jonas and I might not end up as romantic partners, but judging from what I’ve seen of him and his daughter so far, I would hope we could be friends. In the meantime, best to tread carefully.
I make sure to keep the conversation light and friendly through the rest of supper and dessert, which turns out to be a Sara Lee cheesecake that hasn’t fully defrosted yet. Still, I give credit to Jonas for making the effort on such short notice. I’m sure he had a dinner out somewhere in mind before his daughter took control and forced him to cook, and first dates are stressful enough.
After dessert, I help clear the table and load the dishwasher. It’s a comfortably domestic scene that makes me uncomfortable for some reason. Once the cleanup is done, I thank Jonas and Sofie for everything and tell them I need to get home because I have a very early morning the next day, and I need to let my dog out. Yet another white lie with regard to the dog, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to escape this tableau of domesticity and grasp at any halfway plausible excuse I can think of.
“You have a dog?” Sofie says, clearly intrigued.
“I do. His name is Roscoe. He’s very smart and very sweet. Maybe you can meet him one of these days.”
Looking pleased with this tentative plan, Sofie dashes off into the living room, where she grabs a remote control and turns on the TV.
I make my way to the door with Jonas on my heels.
“I have enjoyed this very much,” I tell him when I reach the door.
“You don’t have to leave yet,” he says. Judging from the disappointed look on his face, my departure is not what he was expecting. “We could watch a movie or something.”
“Another time, perhaps. I really do have an early day tomorrow. Your daughter is a charmer and I’d love to get to know her better at some point. I’d like to get to know you better, too. Let’s you and I do something else soon, okay? Just the two of us?”
Jonas looks mildly relieved. “Yes,” he says. “Sorry about . . . this.” He nods toward the living room and his daughter.
“Don’t be. I truly enjoyed both of you. But I do think it best to keep things low-key with Sofie until we know how things will or won’t work out between us, don’t you think?”
He runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “It is complicated when you’re a single parent.”
“I’m sure it is. But you seem to be doing a great job. Thanks for letting me be a part of your family tonight. I had a great time.”
“I’m glad.”
I take in a deep breath and brace myself for what I have to say next. “There is something I need to tell you. I’ve been on a dinner date with someone else recently, and it’s someone I’ll be seeing again.”
Jonas looks crestfallen. “Who?”
“Bob Richmond.”
Jonas looks askance. “Really? Isn’t he kind of... old?”
“Perhaps. We’ll see.”
“I’ll call you,” Jonas blurts out with sudden determination. Then he backpedals and says, “If that’s okay.”
“It is. I look forward to it.” With that I lean forward, kiss him on his cheek, and leave.
I reflect on the date during my drive home, and overall I’m feeling pretty good about things. Still, I try not to get too excited about it all. Life has taught me that the pendulum inevitably swings the other way. For now, I just want to bide my time and enjoy my chance to play the field, as they say.
Chapter Thirty-One
Five in the morning is an ungodly hour to be up, much less trying to exercise. As I stumble my way into the gym on Monday morning feeling like I’m sleepwalking, I consider asking Bob if he’ll change his workout time.
He is there when I arrive, looking bright-eyed and eager. It’s almost enough to make me hate him. I’m not much of a morning person. I don’t mind getting out of bed early, but I need some time to sip my coffee and shake off the cobwebs in my head before I’m ready to face the day. I’m still nursing my coffee when I arrive at the gym.
“Are you ready to go?” Bob asks, greeting me just inside the door.
“I don’t know. I’m barely awake.”
“The warm-up routines will help with that,” he says. “Where’s your program?”
I fish a crumpled piece of paper out of my pocket, my copy of the routine that Sherri figured out for me on Saturday morning. I hand it to Bob and take another sip of coffee. He looks at me with a frown.
“What?” I say. “Do I have boogers hanging out of my nose?”
“The coffee,” Bob says. “I’ve found it’s better to wait until after you work out to drink it.”
I stare at him for a moment, stunned into silence. “How can you expect me to do any exercises without coffee? Hell, how do you expect me to be awake enough to get dressed and drive here without coffee?”
“I struggled with it, too,” Bob says. “I’m not a morning person by nature.”
I don’t believe him for a minute, and my skeptical expression must make this clear.
“I swear,” he says, holding one hand up like he’s about to be sworn in to give testimony. “But here’s the thing about coffee. If you drink it and then work out, odds are you’ll end up with terrible heartburn. Not to mention the fact that some of these exercises will work your abs hard enough that you might find a full coffee bladder a bit, um, awkward. If you get my drift.”
I do. An image of wetting myself on the machine that resembles a gynecologist’s exam table pops into my head. I look longingly and forlornly at my coffee cup and say, “Do you ever work out at times other than this?”
“I do evening workouts,
but I find the early morning ones work the best, and it’s also when this place is less crowded. That’s how I got into it in the beginning. I was so flabby and out of shape and worked up such a sweat that I was embarrassed to be seen by anyone, so I started coming when there were fewer people here.”
This confession softens my disappointment and endears me some to Bob. Looking at him now it’s hard to imagine what he looked like some two hundred pounds of flab ago.
“Okay, where do I start?” I say, resigned.
“Let’s do the upper body stuff first,” Bob says. “We’ll save the really sweaty stuff for last.”
Yippee.
At least I have Bob helping me out this time. And surprisingly, I find the exercises a little easier to do with him coaching me along. He makes me laugh a few times, and as much as my body, and at times my mind, protests at the agony I’m experiencing, I find myself enjoying it.
When we are done, Bob says, “Are you showering here?”
I shake my head. “I’m going home. Public showers aren’t my thing. I never had enough privacy growing up, so I kind of protect it fiercely now.”
“Makes sense,” Bob says. “Same time tomorrow?”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “I suppose.”
“Good.” He turns to head for the showers, but I stop him with a hand on his arm.
“Any news on the Cochran case?”
“Still waiting to hear on the request for the search warrant.” He makes a face. “The judge who was on call this weekend isn’t one of my favorites. He’s typically overly strict about these things.”
I nod, briefly debating if I should confess my most recent transgression. Might as well put it out there, I decide, because he’ll likely find out soon anyway. “I emailed your chief about the social work position and sent him a copy of my résumé.” I wait, watching Bob’s face closely for a reaction.
“That’s great,” he says. “I was planning on talking to him about you this morning anyway.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “You were?”
“I am. Best of luck. I hope you get it.” With that, he heads for the men’s locker room, leaving me standing there sweaty, exhilarated, and a bit surprised.
Once I get home and take my shower, I decide to wear something dressier to work today, just in case I get a call for an interview. I opt for a gray skirt suit with a hunter green silk blouse and a pair of pumps with a mostly green, multicolor floral pattern on them.
I’m feeling quite chipper when P.J. shows up to take Roscoe for his pre-school morning walk just before seven.
“Did you go to the gym again today?” she asks.
“I did. It wasn’t quite as bad this time.”
“Was that policeman there with you?”
“He was.”
“And how did your date with Jonas go?”
“It went very well.”
“Did you kiss him?” I give her raised eyebrows for an answer. “Well, did you?” she insists, not phased in the least by my look.
“Just a quick one on the cheek,” I say.
“Hmph.” She bends down and clips the leash onto Roscoe’s collar.
“What does that mean?” I say, frowning at her.
“I didn’t say anything,” she says, feigning innocence. Then, in a brilliant effort to change the subject, she quickly adds, “You look very nice today. Is there something special going on at work?”
“No. I just felt like getting a little fancy today.”
P.J. tilts her head and stares at me. I can tell she doesn’t believe me and suspects I’m holding out on her. But she decides to let it go.
“I have a big math test today,” she says. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, though you don’t really need it. You have smarts, and that’s much more reliable.”
She smiles at me, nudges the leash, and goes out the door with Roscoe. I head for my car in the garage and drive to work.
The hospital is quiet for a Monday morning, with nothing of interest in the ER and only a few patients on the floors. I head for my office and start in on paperwork, but my mind won’t stay focused. I keep thinking about Toby Cochran and the case, wondering if Bob will get the search warrant for the Sheffield place.
I go down to the cafeteria to grab a breakfast sandwich around eight thirty, and as I’m standing in line behind a couple of lab techs to pay, I overhear their whispered conversation.
“I hear they’re going to cut back twenty percent of the staff in all departments,” says one of them.
“That’s one-fifth of the staff. We should be safe,” the other says. “There are only three of us on days, and they can’t lay off part of a person.”
“It might not be layoffs. Andy thinks they’re going to cut hours. And that might affect benefits.”
I frown as I listen, but their conversation stops there because they have reached the cash register. Their topic concerns me because I’ve learned that hospital gossip, while overblown and exaggerated at times, often bears a kernel of truth. But if there are staffing cutbacks coming down the pike, Crystal hasn’t informed me of them.
When I get back to my office, I know the overheard gossip is true. Crystal is waiting for me, sitting in my chair, chatting on her phone. She waves me into the room and then holds up a finger to let me know she’s almost done.
I sit in the chair meant for visitors and unwrap my sandwich, taking the first bite as Crystal concludes her call. She looks over at me and smiles, but it’s clearly forced. “I have some unexpected news,” she says.
“Am I losing my job?”
“What? How? Who?” The shock on her face is real. Clearly, she didn’t think I had a clue. Of course, I didn’t until just a few minutes ago.
“The grapevine,” I say. “You know how gossip is in this place.”
“Yes, I should have known,” Crystal says, running an anxious hand through her hair. “You haven’t lost your job. Frankly, I didn’t think our department would be affected by the coming cutbacks, given that there’s only three of us and one of those is a PRN employee.”
A PRN employee is someone who picks up shifts when they can but isn’t scheduled for any regular time. It’s a position that comes without guarantees of time and with no benefits. We have one PRN employee, a semiretired social worker named Jane Lawson who lives in a neighboring town about twenty miles away. Jane comes in and helps to cover things whenever Crystal or I take a vacation. Otherwise, Crystal and I are the entire social work show. It’s a small hospital, so we manage well enough, though the nursing staff is always griping about the lack of social services on the weekends and night shifts.
“But our department didn’t escape unscathed,” she says. “I have to cut your hours.”
“How much?”
“One day a week. You’ll still be salaried because of the off hours you put in for support groups and such. And your benefits won’t change. Basically, it’s a money cut.”
It could be worse. Losing some of my pay isn’t great news, but I’ll survive it. I’ve always been thrifty with my money, and I have a healthy savings account, a good start on my retirement plan, and few bills. And, I realize, if by some miracle I get the job at the police department, this might prove to be a good thing.
“How do you want me to schedule it?” I ask Crystal.
“I was thinking you could take Fridays off. You have the grief support group on Thursday nights, so you’re typically here late. That way you’ll get a three-day weekend most of the time. You will still get comp time, but that comp time will be based on a thirty-two-hour workweek, not forty. There will be times when I might need you to change it up, but for the most part I think we can live with that sort of schedule. What do you think?”
“Sounds fine to me.” In fact, it sounds fabulous.
“I’m relieved you’re taking this so well,” Crystal says. “I thought you might get upset.”
This seems like the perfect segue, so I say, “Actually, it may fit in well with somethi
ng I’m working on.”
I then tell her about the police department job and that I’ve applied for the position. Crystal asks me several questions about the position, expresses some concern over my ability to balance the two jobs should I get it, and then wishes me luck.
The remainder of my day goes by without any excitement, and that includes any word from either Chief Hanson or Bob Richmond. At three o’clock I start preparing to leave for the day, and my cell phone rings. I feel a little kick of adrenaline when I see that it’s Bob and wonder if the feeling is triggered by the prospect of more police work or Bob himself.
Maybe both, I decide, and I answer the call with, “Got any news for me?”
Bob chuckles in response. “Indeed, I do,” he says. “I’ve had chats today with Alex Parnell and Heath Monroe, Toby’s roommate. Neither of them had much to offer me, and they both made excuses for why they had to leave in a hurry.”
“Figures,” I say. “And it sucks.”
“It does, and it doesn’t get any better.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, the judge won’t grant the search warrant. Says Sheffield is too connected and well-known in this area. He is a man of power and we’ve got squat in the way of any real evidence that ties him to the kid’s death.”
“Rats. What do we do now?”
“I had Jonas bring Toby’s car in to have another look at it. He found traces of that coconut oil on the floorboard.”
“Not surprising,” I say.
“It is when you consider he found it on the passenger side.”
It takes me a moment to digest this. “You think someone else drove his car with him on the passenger side,” I say.
“Could be. Jonas is inspecting the driver’s side of the car more closely, looking for trace. It’s a long shot, but who knows? In the meantime, I’m doing some more digging into our friend Mr. Belov and the boys at the frat house. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
“Okay.” I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice. I worry that I may have gotten Sharon Cochran’s hopes up for nothing.
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