“No,” I say sharply.
Kevin Hughes didn’t act on his own—he’s not smart enough. Someone is using him to set Xavier up. But Kevin’s not innocent, not by a long shot. When Xavier finds out what he did, he’s going to fire him.
Kevin has friends at Leforte. I’d rather he didn’t find out that Dixie was the person who uncovered his activities. I’m almost certain Xavier’s going to give Dixie the COO job, and it would make her life a lot easier if she didn’t walk in with enemies.
I want to protect her from the fallout.
And why is that? Why are you riding in to white-knight for someone who can take care of herself?
Because I’ve fallen in love with her, that’s why.
Oh fuck. Shock reverberates through me. I’m in love with Dixie Ketcham. That’s why I want to protect her from Kevin Hughes’ ire. That’s why I want to fight her battles for her.
“Kevin is going to get belligerent, and possibly worse. I’ll handle it.”
She draws back. “Are you sure?”
I barely register her question. “Yes.” My heart hammers in my chest. Adrenaline spikes through my blood. I should have never started this thing with her. She might be able to keep it casual, but I can’t, and now, self-preservation is no longer an option. It’s too late for common sense.
“Okay, then.” She slams her laptop lid shut and gets to her feet. “I’ll see you around.”
I watch her leave, my thoughts elsewhere. Is there the slightest chance she wants more from us? And, more importantly, am I brave enough to ask her?
26
Dixie
I’d been working with Eric. Things were going well. After days of searching, we finally made some headway. We had a lead. I was feeling pretty good about life.
Then Eric tells me he’ll handle the Kevin Hughes situation himself, and the air goes out of me.
He said Kevin will get belligerent, and that’s undoubtedly true, but so what? Kevin gets in my face ten times a day about something or the other. It’s not pleasant, but it’s part of my job, and like it or not, I’m used to it.
No, this is something else.
If Eric were the type to hog credit, I’d say he’s trying to make it seem like he’s made this breakthrough on his own. But that’s not who he is.
Which leaves me with just one conclusion.
Xavier Leforte still hasn’t forgiven me for the Thailand incident. He’d apologized for snapping at me, and he’d even given me a bottle of champagne (which I haven’t found time to drink—the story of my life) but clearly, the incident is still on his mind.
Eric’s trying to shield me from Xavier to spare my feelings. Or maybe he’s trying to keep me from discovering that I’m not in the running for Pierre’s old job.
I haven’t seen much of Xavier in the last two weeks. He canceled the weekly huddle, and then he rescheduled our monthly one-on-one. Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it—Xavier Leforte is a busy man, and, according to Elisa, he’s been traveling.
But is Xavier’s travel schedule the reason for our missed meetings, or does my boss simply not want to tell me his decision? The idea that he’s avoiding me because he doesn’t want to give me unpleasant news is ridiculous, but then again, Pierre Valade was terrible at his job, and Xavier had kept him on for far longer than he should have. Maybe he’s just really bad at confrontation.
And maybe I should be using my time to polish up my resume.
I feel tears gather in my eyes as I walk back, and I blink them away. Once I’m in the relative safety of my office, I let myself cry for five minutes. Eric told me not to be defensive about my ambition. Xavier seemed to like my directness. I believed them.
You could ask Eric why he doesn’t want you there. What the real reason is.
I could, but I’m not going to. When Eric had asked me for help, I’d asked him if Xavier wanted me on board. He hadn’t answered my question then, and I doubt he’s going to answer it now. We might be sleeping together, but Eric’s first loyalty is going to be to his long-time friend. Not to me.
If I needed any more proof that his feelings aren’t involved, this is it.
I blow my nose and wipe away my tears.
I need to smarten up. For weeks—months—I’ve been working fourteen-hour days. I’ve burned the candle at both ends. I haven’t cooked—I’ve been relying on takeout. I haven’t done laundry—I’ve been ordering cheap underwear on the Internet instead. My nails look like crap. I need a haircut. I’ve rescheduled three appointments to get my ladybits waxed, opting instead for a quick trim.
I’m overdue for some me-time. And, if I’m being honest, I need a day off to rebuild the shields I’ve dropped around Eric. His decision to exclude me from the conversation with Kevin Hughes stings. I thought that we—
What did you think? That he’d stand up for you because we’re having no-strings-attached sex? Since when did you become such a sentimental fool, Dix?
It’s a little after four. I send Xavier a quick email telling him I need a personal day. He’s not in the office again, so I make my way to Elisa’s cubicle to tell her the same thing.
She’s not there. Her laptop is still on, and her purse is on the desk, so she hasn’t left for the day. I wander to the kitchen, hoping to find her there, and walk in on a conversation between Elisa and Zoe, John Stone’s assistant.
“—not answering his phone,” Elisa is saying, her voice frustrated.
“Why do you need to reach him?” Zoe asks.
“He has a note in his calendar that it’s his friend’s mother’s three-month death anniversary today,” Elisa says with a grimace. “I don’t know what he wants me to do; he hasn’t left any instructions. Am I supposed to send flowers? I’ve tried calling him all day, but I can’t reach him.”
It’s been three months since Hunter’s mother died? Oh God. Poor Hunter. He’d seemed a little lost on Saturday, and when Eric had suggested getting together mid-week, he’d declined without explanation. “I can’t this week,” he’d said, his eyes shadowed. “Let’s just do Saturday night.”
I’d wondered about it, but I hadn’t asked him if he was okay—I didn’t want to cross a line.
Some people don’t notice dates. My brother Michael is one of them. But for me, that first year after my mother’s death, I marked the thirteenth of every month, and every time that date rolled around, I felt her loss anew in my heart.
Elisa looks up and notices me standing there. “Oh, hello, Dixie. Sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you looking for me?”
“I am,” I confirm. “I’m not going to be in tomorrow. I’m taking a personal day.”
“Good,” she says approvingly. “You’re overdue for one. Are you doing anything exciting?”
“Unfortunately, no. Just laundry.”
I drive home, my thoughts bouncing around in my head. When my mom died, people had been there for me. My mom’s church group, her choir friends. They brought casseroles, and they had stayed with me, sharing stories and photos of my mother. I hadn’t expected their company to help, but it had. It had made me remember that my mom was more than the cancer that took her. That she’d lived a vibrant life, she was loved by many, and that she would be missed by more than her family.
Hunter doesn’t discuss his mother. At all. Ever. But he loved her deeply. He seems to want to get through her death by sheer willpower, but it doesn’t work like that. I should know—I’ve lived through the death of a parent.
He shouldn’t be alone today. That doesn’t seem right.
Explain why it bothers you.
I don’t want to. Because the answer to that question is to confront something I’m trying to avoid thinking about. Whether I want to admit it or not, I’m invested in Hunter’s mental state. I care about him.
You are blurring the lines, I warn myself. You’re too involved. After what happened with Eric today, you should be untangling yourself from this arrangement. Not heading over to console Hunter in his time of need. You’re not his friend. He has
other people in his life who will play that role.
But does he? Eric hasn’t mentioned the death anniversary. Xavier isn’t in town. Does anyone else remember, or are they busy with their own lives, their own problems?
Hunter deserves better, a voice inside me whispers. He listened to your fantasies. Without judgment, without condemnation. When you told him about William, he was there for you. Do the right thing, Dixie. Be there for him in return.
At home, my refrigerator is empty except for the rotisserie chicken I bought yesterday. Thankfully, my pantry yields better results. I find both dried macaroni and a can of condensed mushroom soup.
Perfect. I shred the chicken, boil up the pasta, add the peas and carrots I find in my freezer, dump the soup over it, mix in some herbs, cover the dish with foil, and stick it in the oven to bake.
You’re cooking for Hunter? That seems really intimate.
It’s not really cooking, I rationalize. Store-bought chicken, soup from a can, veggies from the freezer. What I’m doing is glorified reheating.
Faster than I expected, the oven timer goes off. I remove the glass dish out of the oven. If I think about this too much, I’m going to lose my nerve. Go over, drop off the food, make sure Hunter’s okay.
And if he is polite but distant? If he sends you away?
That’s not a bridge I’m prepared to cross.
27
Hunter
It’s been three months since my mother died. Some of the rawness of my grief is gone, but I still feel numb, and I still don’t know what to do about her house.
True to his word, Eric had found me a local realtor. I’d called Ajwa Pearce the day after he gave me her number. She’d driven around to see the house. “Is this a good offer, do you think?” I’d asked her.
“Yes,” she’d replied.
“Do you think I should take it?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Driesse,” she’d hedged. “If you need the money, then yes, you should take the offer. On the other hand…”
“Yes?”
“If you aren’t interested in a quick sale, then my advice would be for you to hold onto this property. Once you sell, it’s gone.” She’d looked vaguely sad. “I grew up in this area,” she’d said. “When I was a child, this was all farmland. Now, it’s almost all gone, replaced by resorts and estates and gated communities. This property is unique, Mr. Driesse. What I’m saying is ironic, given what I do for a living, but once you sell it, it’s gone.”
It’s been ninety days, for fuck’s sake. Do something. Anything. Make a goddamn decision about this house. You can’t stay frozen forever.
There’s a knock at my office door. I look up. It’s Annette Reeves. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in today.”
I had thought about canceling my patients, but in the end, I decided against it. Alone, all I’m going to do is brood. “I’m always here Mondays and Tuesdays, Annette.”
“Hmm. I thought you might make an exception.”
“Because it’s been three months? What use would that be? Would it bring her back?”
She surveys me silently. “Let’s go to lunch,” she says. “I’m buying.”
Everyone’s talking to me about my mother’s legacy. Annette was her friend. I’ve avoided talking to her so far, but maybe it’s time to deal with this, make a decision, and put this issue to rest. “Okay.”
We end up at my usual Thai place. May takes our order and brings us our food. When she’s out of earshot, I broach the topic. “Do you know Mitch Donahue?”
She wrinkles her nose. “The developer? No, not personally. Why?”
“He’s offering me six million dollars for the house.”
“Breanna’s house?”
I nod. “I turned him down. Then he pointed out that I could do a lot of good with that money. We should have talked about estate planning,” I murmur, keeping my attention on my pad thai. “We never did. I thought I had more time…” I take a deep, steadying breath against the sudden onrush of grief. “You were her friend, Annette. I want to do right by her. Tell me what she would have wanted. Tell me what to do.”
She doesn’t respond for a long time. “I’m not sure,” she says at last. “Here’s what I do know. Bree loved that house, every drafty corner of it. I once suggested that she move into a condo, someplace easier to maintain, and she wouldn’t hear of it. She even wanted to plant daffodils all over the hillside. Thousands and thousands of bulbs.” She shakes her head. “I told her she was crazy.”
An unwilling smile touches my lips. “I did too. She wouldn’t listen.”
“That was Bree,” she says. “She was very invested in the non-profits she worked with, and she would have done almost anything to see them succeed. But I can’t picture her selling the place. She had such fond memories of growing up on the farm. She wanted to see her grandchildren run around the property—”
“Grandchildren? She never said anything about grandchildren to me.”
Annette quirks an eyebrow. “Well, no, she wouldn’t have, would she? Bree never wanted to be a cliché. But she was a supportive presence in Nala's life, and she very much wanted you to find somebody to love. She had visions of your children playing in the fields and fishing in the lake, the way you did when you were a kid.”
I never knew. I wish she’d told me. “Thank you, Annette.”
Back in my office, I leave a message for Donahue. “I’ve given your offer some thought, but it’s not what my mother would have wanted. I’m not selling.”
That should be the end of it. But I have a sneaking feeling I haven’t heard the last from Mitch Donahue yet.
At five, I drive back home. No, not home. To my mother’s house. I pour myself a beer and sit in the backyard, staring at the overgrown cherry tomato plants. It’s almost the end of the season. The basil leaves are yellowing, a sure sign that summer’s coming to an end. The nights are starting to get cooler. Fall will be upon us before I know it.
Time. Whether I want it or not, it marches forward. Plants bloom, plants wither. People die, but life inexorably moves on.
And so should I. I’m not going to sell to Donahue, but that’s only one decision among a thousand. The hospital here wants me to increase my hours. “We’re short-staffed,” Liliane Anders, the administrator, had said to me last week. “We’re feeling Breanna’s absence keenly.” She’d given me a sidelong glance. “Her job is yours if you want it.”
My mother had worked for Saint Joseph’s for more than thirty years. Her presence is everywhere. At the hospital, in this house. And it hurts. The only time I’ve been able to keep the feelings at bay is when I’m with Dixie.
I drain my beer and go into the kitchen to grab another one when I see movement on the security system display.
It’s Dixie. She’s wearing her favorite white ruffled skirt and a navy-blue camisole, and she’s holding a covered dish in her hands. I watch as she sets it down, turns around to leave…
I move. Wrenching the front door open, I call after her. “Dix?”
She turns around, her smile hesitant. “Hi,” she says. “I brought you a casserole. I’m sorry it’s weird, but I didn’t want you to be alone, and so…” She gestures to the dish on the front mat.
“Umm, what?” Articulate, I know.
She goes beet red. “I found out that it’s been three months since your mother passed away…” Her voice trails off. “I lost my mother a couple of years ago, so I know how rough the milestones can be. I know we’re not in a relationship, and I’m sorry if I’m intruding—”
“You’re not,” I interrupt. She didn’t want me to be alone. She brought me food. That’s so… nice. I’m profoundly glad to see her. “Come on in, please. Do you have to leave right away, or can you stay?”
“I can stay.” She follows me into the kitchen. I lift open the lid, and an appetizing aroma of herbs fills the room. “It’s chicken noodle casserole.”
I’m suddenly starving. “You cooked. I’m touched.”
Sh
e rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far, Hunter,” she says. “I tossed some canned soup over some store-bought chicken and baked it for thirty minutes. It’s not exactly gourmet.”
“It’s Monday night. You turned the oven on. In my world, that counts as cooking.” I open the cupboard and take a couple of plates out. “Will you eat with me?”
She pauses for a second and then nods. “Sure.”
I pour us some wine. We fill our plates and take them over to the kitchen table. “This is a nice house,” she says, looking around.
“Thank you.”
I brace myself for her next question. Everyone wants to know what I’m going to do about this place. Sell it or keep it? Move in or rent it out? But Dixie seems to sense I don’t want to talk about the house because she changes the subject. “You have a place in DC, right?”
“Yeah, a condo in Adams Morgan.” That’s a much safer topic. “I work in Bethesda, so it’s a little bit of a commute, but I like my neighborhood.” I take a bite of the casserole, and the flavors wash over my tongue, comforting and warm. Dixie’s right—this isn’t a gourmet meal, but today, for the mood I’m in, it’s exactly what I need. “This is really good.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I forestall her. “Accept the compliment, Dix.”
She gives me a wry smile. “Thank you, Hunter.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? How was your day?”
She shrugs. “Up and down. You know Eric and I have been trying to track down some irregularities? Well, we had something of a breakthrough today.”
I look up. I know how hard the two of them have been working on this. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“It’s nothing.” She takes a sip of her wine. “How was yours?”
It’s obviously not nothing. Something’s bothering her. I want to tell her it’s okay to talk about it. That if she wanted to, I’d be happy to listen. But she’s already worried about blurred lines, so much so that she was prepared to leave the casserole at my door without even coming in.
Daring Dixie Page 17