“Saw that. Much obliged. Will you be needing the driveway plowed?”
I opened the door more fully and took a few bags from one hand. “You can just set the rest down. I’ll get them. And yes, please send someone to take care of the driveway.”
“Will do,” he said. “You have a nice stay, now.”
I set the first pile of bags down inside the door and stepped out to pick up the remaining packages, using it as an excuse to watch as he ambled back to his vehicle, an old pickup truck, and climbed in. He waved as he backed up and left, his tires cutting deep grooves in the general vicinity of the driveway. Once he was gone, I sent one final scan around the area, still and quiet in the fresh snowfall, and then backed up into the house.
“What’s all this?” Emery was behind me suddenly, picking up one of the bags and looking inside.
“Go ahead.” I shut the door and carried the bags in my hand to the couch. “Most of it is stuff for you.”
“For me?” Dropping to the floor where she was, she started pulling things out. “Shoes!”
“Only for running,” I warned.
“Maybe I’m not planning on running, anymore” she said, her meaning plain. She built a pile around her of the things I’d requested: the shoes, the glue she’d requested, more books, a few burner phones, and some extra groceries I’d decided we needed. She held up a net bag of avocados. “What’re these for?”
“I like avocado toast.”
“You like…” She nodded to herself. “Okay. That’s not at all what I was expecting from an Irish mobster, but…”
“What were you expecting?”
“Well, I mean I wasn’t actually expecting anything, but once I found out about your…profession, I was expecting more Guinness. And maybe a leprechaun or two.”
I held up a pack of Guinness from another bag. “Would you like one?”
“Absolutely.”
We sat back down at the table with our beer and Emery with her tennis shoes. I watched as she tried them on for fit and gave me a thumbs up. “They’ll work.”
“Good. Let’s get back to what we were discussing when we were so rudely interrupted.”
Emery’s face blanked immediately, and she took a long pull on her beer. “I told you. It’s General Kittredge.”
“Why would a decorated general want to kill you?”
She busied herself with tearing the paper off of the bottle in a single long strip, like an apple peel. Abruptly, she stood. “I’m going to run. You want to know more, figure it out from your cousin.” After grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she strode to the basement door.
“What about your journal? Can I use that?”
She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. She wanted to tell me. I knew she did. I could see her struggle in the tightness of her jaw, the thin line of her lips, the way she refused to meet my eyes. If she gave us both permission, she could tell me a different way.
Finally she gave a single curt jerk of her chin and disappeared behind the basement door.
Permission granted.
