“Well, let me help you back up.” I reach out a hand.
“Thank you, but I can do it on my own.”
It’s an assertion of independence. She gets to her knees and places one black Easy Spirit lace-up on the floor, then staggers to her feet, puffing out hard little breaths.
The fault line in my heart widens a bit more. I hate that she’s getting feeble, both for her sake and for Lily’s. Regardless of whether or not she wants to acknowledge it, her age is catching up with her. It’s important that I stay close to Lily, because the day will inevitably come when I’ll need to take over guardianship.
I debate again whether or not I should tell Miss Margaret that I’m pregnant. If she knows I’m having Lily’s half sister, maybe she’ll be more inclined to let Lily come stay with me for extended visits.
On the other hand, it’s very early days, and I want to wait until I’m safely through the first trimester before I announce my pregnancy to anyone outside of the single parent group. I’m especially concerned about Lily; the last thing I want is to get her hopes up and then dash them. And as for Miss Margaret... well, today seems laden with enough emotional baggage. It’s probably best not to add a new complication.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Oh, my. Do you suppose that’s the moving company already?” Miss Margaret asks.
“I’ll go check,” I say. I can tell that she’s still out of breath from her fall.
“Thank you, dear. I’ll finish placing stickers in this closet.”
I head down the stairs into the foyer. Through the front door sidelight, I see a broad-shouldered, brown-haired man standing on the porch. He’s just wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans, but he somehow looks too well dressed to be a mover. I glance at the driveway and street. I don’t see a moving truck, but a BMW is parked in front of the house.
I open the door. The guy is tall—probably six foot one or two—and fit, like a runner. He’s clean-shaven and good-looking. “Hello,” I say.
“Hi. I’m Zack Bradley.” His eyes are like little pieces of sky, and a dimple winks in his jaw as he smiles. The smile transforms him from attractive to devastating. “Are you Brooke Adams?”
Chill bumps chase up my arms, and it’s not cold outside. He looks familiar, but his name doesn’t ring any bells.
“Uh, no. She’s not here right now.” For some reason, I can’t bring myself to say,She’s dead.
His smile fades into disappointment. “Can you tell me when she’ll be back?”
“Not, um, really. Is there something I can help you with?” I realize I sound like a clerk at a shoe store. I smile and stretch out my hand. “I’m her best friend, Quinn Langston.”
“Nice to meet you.” He takes my hand, and my palm is encased in warmth. More goose bumps instantly prickle up my neck. It’s definitely a sign of something, but I don’t know what.
“Her phone doesn’t seem to be working,” he says.
Miss Margaret has Brooke’s cell phone. I’m not sure if she’s already suspended service or just turned it off.
“The number I have is a landline,” he continues, “and I thought maybe she doesn’t use it anymore.”
I nod. Like many New Orleans residents post–Hurricane Katrina, both Brooke and I keep landlines because they’ll work in emergencies, but neither of us keeps the ringer on.
“Could you give me her cell number?”
The request makes me wary. If Brooke wanted this man to have her number, she would have given it to him herself. “I’m sorry. I, uh, don’t feel at liberty to do that.”
“Okay.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me.Zack Bradley, Attorney at Law, I read. The firm’s address is downtown New Orleans.
“Would you please ask her to call me?” he asks.
I frown at the card. “Is Brooke involved in some kind of legal matter?”
“Not exactly.”
I realize I’m coming off as nosy, but I can’t seem to help it. “Are you trying to serve her with a summons or something? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but it’s weird that you came to her house, especially since you don’t seem to know her.”
He flashes that dimple again. “We connected online.”
