“That Batman is cool, and you shouldn’t be sad all the time.”
“Do I look sad all the time?”
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Part of me will always be sad about Daddy. But you don’t need to worry about me.”
He sighs long and hard, exhausted by this truth. “Yeah, I know.”
After taking Heathcliff back to the town house, I can’t stop thinking about what he said. Although his comment is strange, I know exactly what he meant by knowing what his dad would say about everything. Philip was so involved as a dad and partner, the conversations keep going and going in my head. Heartbreakingly, I know what he would say in every moment.
Admittedly, sometimes I don’twantto know what he would say. I know he would say I shouldn’t be sad all the time. I know he would tell me Brad McGregor is a twerp, and I shouldn’t let him get to me. I know he would say he can’t believe I put him in a dumb bird urn and an old-lady necklace.
Feeling a new drive to move forward, I buy a cocktail dress. It’s black of course. But it’s the sexiest black outfit I’ve bought in my widowhood.
August made reservations for seven. I take my time, plucking neglected strays from my eyebrows and slipping my favorite pair of dangly earrings through my lobes. I pick up my widow jewelry, hesitating before I clasp the jet necklace around my neck. I’m not ready to give this up yet.
As I finish getting ready, he calls at about 6:30.
August groans into the phone. “Hi, Elizabeth, I really hate to do this, but my publisher called and I’m in a bit of a bind. Because the Inspector Hall Netflix series debuts next month, they want to get the third book,Blood Offspring,out ahead of deadline. It’s pretty urgent, and I think I can finish if I pull an all-nighter tonight. Would it be bloody awful if we bumped our reservations to tomorrow night?”
“Not at all,” I say. Although my stomach sinks in disappointment.
“You’re wonderful, Elizabeth. Tomorrow night, then. I’m sure you’ll look ravishing in something widowy-black. Enjoy your evening. For me, it’s loads of coffee.”
“I understand. Good luck.”
“I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Take care.”
I sigh, staring into the mirror at my hair, half-secured in a French knot. Strangely, the jet necklace looks like an appropriate accent piece at my neckline. My gold earrings dangle elegantly. The cocktail dress fits perfectly, tailored at the waist and showing off my bare arms. It felt good towantto look good again.
Obviously, this is disappointing, but I can at least do something nice for him.
Slipping the dress off, I pull on my black leggings and tennis shoes.
He’s only a few blocks away from the town house, so I grab the coffee from our favorite shop. We’ve had enough coffee together, and I know exactly how he likes it—extra shot of espresso, milk, two sugar cubes.
I buzz up.
“Elizabeth!” he says through the intercom, sounding slightly surprised. He was probably deep into a Chadwick Hall chase scene.
“Hey, August, I brought you something to help out. A little pick-me-up from one writer to another! Don’t worry. I won’t keep you.”
He lets me in.
For some reason, I expected more evidence of writerly chaos—cups of tea in random places, takeout cartons on the kitchen countertops. Stray beer bottles. I thought he’d be sporting sweatpants and sexy tousled hair.
Instead, he’s well-groomed and put together in pressed slacks and a dress shirt. A bottle of champagne and two flickering candles rest on the table.
“Ahhh... you’re a darling.” He takes the coffee from me.
“Is this the mood you set while writing?” I’m trying to sound lighthearted and not possessive. But I really want to ask if someone else is here.
He glances nervously in the direction of a clock on the wall.
“Yes—um... peculiar quirk of mine. When I’m deep into writing, I dress like I’m going into the office, and I sip champagne. It makes me feel bloody successful.” He smiles, the dimple deepening.
I smile back—as if it makes sense.
