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“Can you get me those pills over there?” I ask.

He glances three feet beyond the coffee table to the bottle that’s rolled over there.

“Oh, hell no.”

“Please,” I plead. I’m sure I could work up some tears. They’re always at the surface.

“If you weren’t a widow…” I try to smile. He stands and pulls a perfect crease down the front of his pants and picks them off the floor. I reach out my hand.

He puts a finger up in the air. “Hell to the fucking no.” He’s reading the bottle. “Who gave you this shit?”

“Doctor Johnson,” I say defiantly. “A doctor prescribed them.”

He puts a hand on his hip and leans forward. “Did he prescribe it from his barstool at the Town Square bar?”

“Funeral,” I answer.

He tosses his head back and then breathes heavily. When he looks back at me, he’s pissed, I can tell. “He’s a blast of a man and a caring doctor, but this is fucking Halcion. Look, Judy Garland, pills are not your answer. You’re such a goodie goodie. What in the actual fuck with these pills?”

“I just want to sleep.” My voice ends in half equal parts sob and desperation. He does exactly what I think he’ll do. He dumps them into the sink and turns on the disposal. Then he lifts me weakly into his arms and carries me into the bathroom. I’m still in the same dress as I was four days ago. He sets me down on the counter and turns on the shower. Then he rolls up his sleeves. When the water steams up the room a bit, he turns back to me.

“Arms up, stinky.” A sob comes from me instead of saying yes.

“I’m so sad.”

“And you smell. Let’s deal with the things we can change.” I lift my arms. My best friend strips me and sticks me under some hot water. He washes my hair and gets his outfit soaked, and I cry the whole time.

“You soap all the bits I don’t want to touch, and I’ll find some tea and some semblance of lunch. Unless you want to go out?” He stares at me and then he laughs. “That’s a no?”

“That’s a no.” I blubber out.

“Perfect.” He kisses my forehead and leaves the room. I wonder how long I have to talk to him before I can go back to sleep.

Chapter

Six

Poppy

Day 13 (PS)

I’m awake. I don’t like it and I want to return to him, but it’s time to be on this side for a little bit. I’ve cobbled together a version of myself. I have makeup on, and I’ve been back at work for three days. I couldn’t sit around my house and listen to my mother explain why Sal was so dangerous and I’m better off.

I know little about my father. I collect the empty dishes from the table and move them to the bin on the chair. I’ve never cared, really. You could say that marrying a mysterious older man who heads a crime family might scream of daddy issues. Yeah, it probably does.

I don’t think my dad was a good man the way my mother ran back to Sonoma with baby me in her arms. We were in Tacoma. That’s all I know. Tacoma and then here. Those are the places I’ve lived. I can’t even call Sal’s Los Angeles fortress a home, really. I had closets full of things there and made sure to add some satin and chenille throw pillows around his way too masculine compound, but only Lou, his best friend, could possibly have ever known I was even there.

I reset the table, thinking about Lou.

“Poppy, I’ve got this. Those are dirty.” I notice the bus tub in my hand and, sure enough, I set a table with dirty dishes.

I can clearly see Elle joking with Lou and Sal. They taught her how to find her strength and handle a weapon. Seems like a lifetime ago, especially considering she’s the mother of four children now. Josh brought Sal into our lives by accident, but I think it was divine intervention. They were close, like brothers. We all needed Sal, and he needed us on some level. I pick up a set of glasses and deliver them to table four. They smile and nod and I know these are not their drinks. I walk away and a server corrects yet another mistake.

I’ll have to deal with all of Sal’s investments soon and Josh said he’d walk me through them. It was too hard to talk to Josh and Sam today as they slurped oysters at table nine. They tried to connect, but I’m still offline.

I drop a wet rag on the ground and pick it back up. I don’t know what to do with it. I throw it in the garbage with too much force. The only unsavory piece of his crime family business left are the ports. And I don’t know what to do with those. I’m a chef from freaking Sonoma, not a shipping tycoon. There’s a man who wants them and weaponized Sal’s nephew. But since he killed Sal, I don’t know what else they would need because no one is stopping them from using the ports how they like. I’m certainly not. I’m too busy serving people the wrong things to spot check containers and cargo. I don’t know who is doing that, but I have oysters to shuck and tables to wipe down.

I chop the onions and stir the sauce, clean the tables. Chop onions, make a salad, stir the sauce then clean a table. It might not be forward motion, but it’s motion.