“Niamh.” He flicked her a smile, which she met with a surprised quiver of a sleek eyebrow.
A waitress passed by with a tray holding two bowls of lobster chowder. It smelled delicious; Jackson’s stomach growled.
“You look better than you did on Sunday.” Niamh picked up a menu.
“I’m sure I do.” He grimaced and caught her eye. “Sorry I couldn’t take you home.”
She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “It was no problem.”
The waitress doubled back for their drinks order and Jackson glanced around at the other diners on other tables—all chatting and laughing in a sea of color and movement. Easy humor, carefree enjoyment, which he’d not taken the time to notice on previous visits. Today it made him envious. He turned back to Niamh. “Work going well this week?”
“Yes, thanks. It’s been pretty quiet so far.”
“Great.”
The waitress set a raspberry iced tea and Jackson’s sparkling water on the table, then asked if they were ready to order.
“I’ll have the small sushi platter, please.” Niamh handed her menu back to the waitress.
He did the same and found pleasure in deviating from his standard order. “I’ll take the lobster chowder. Thank you.”
Toying with his glass, Jackson asked after Niamh’s mother, her dog, her plans for the evening, and, in desperation, whether or not the elevator had been fixed in her apartment block. When her phone vibrated in her purse, she answered a very brief work call with an apologetic grimace and he hoped that their food would come soon.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Jackson took a sip of his drink.
“So, are we still on for the theatre tomorrow?” Niamh asked, unfolding her napkin.
He thought about saying yes. After all, the lackluster conversation wasn’t new and neither was their arrangement. But the last few days were too vivid in his mind; Jackson couldn’t getthe word past his lips. Whether he wanted to or not, he had been missing Leah’s company and her unforced chatter since he’d left Amity Court, and anyone else was a poor substitute. Now that she’d cracked him open and shown him what true connection could look like, he was all too aware that he’d been using Niamh as a convenient human shield for years.
“Do you mind if we don’t?” That sounded way too blunt. He wished he’d prettied it up somehow—that was the problem with spontaneity—but he attempted to soften his tone before forging on. “I don’t think this social arrangement we have is working for me anymore. Maybe you feel the same?”
“I see.” Niamh avoided his question and reached for her glass.
Jackson studied her face for clues but found none. “‘I see,’ as in yes, you do feel the same? Or ‘I see,’ as in something else?”
With wonderous timing for peak awkwardness, the waitress returned with their food. The paused conversation hung in the air and it was several minutes until they were alone again. Jackson, finding his knee was bouncing beneath the table, made a concentrated effort to sit still.
Niamh turned her plate until the layout of her food was displayed to her satisfaction and used her chopsticks to select a rainbow roll. “It’s OK—you’re right. It’s not enough just to look good together and mix in the same circles. I can find other dates.”
“I’ve always enjoyed spending time with you.” It was such a weak endorsement of their friendship. Jackson gave an internal wince.
By unspoken agreement, they dug into their food, turning to easier talk of work issues and social plans as they ate. There were no recriminations. In front of the restaurant, they shared a hesitant moment on the sidewalk but Niamh’s smile was genuine, unruffled.
“Maybe I’ll look for someone with less hidden depths to hang out with. I’m after an easy life and you’re quite hard work, you know.Way too brooding for me.” She squeezed his arm affectionately and pressed her lips to Jackson’s cheek. “I’ll see you around.”
His father was on time, pacing by his car and having an intense conversation on his cell when Jackson pulled up in the parking lot of the Branning Lake Country Club. He caught the tail end of it as he approached.
“As long as they think he’s one hundred percent onboard, I don’t care how he plays it. Get him to promise whatever’s needed. He’ll be out long before he has to come up with the goods.” His dad’s eyes cut to Jackson’s face. “Got to go. Let’s speak later.” He hung up without another word.
“Everything OK?” Jackson asked.
“Yes, all good. Just Florian with some queries.”
Caught in a drowsy interval between the afternoon post-golfing drinkers and the incoming evening clientele, the bar had emptied out by the time Jackson and his father walked in.
Only a couple of tables were occupied. Four guys, straight off the course, bickered noisily over their score cards. A combination of cigar smoke and self-importance hung in the air. Jackson suppressed a grimace. This kind of setup wasn’t his thing. The majority of members were twice his age and, although he could hold his own on a golf course or tennis court, neither sport interested him. His parents, on the other hand, loved it all, their social circle as entwined with the club as ivy on the bricks of an old mansion.
