Just for This Moment

  Twyla stepped past her, eyes skimming the living room, which, while comfortable, still very much said ‘bachelor’. “Have you gotten any of your stuff properly moved in?”

  “Clothes, toiletries, some kitchen stuff. The essentials that could easily be gotten out of the floor. I’ve been going to my place a little bit every day after work to keep packing things up, but it’s slow going. I’m so tired. I feel like it’s been go go go go go since we got engaged, and it’s all starting to catch up with me. As soon as everything’s packed up at my house, we’re getting actual movers. But we still have to sort out what’s staying, what’s going and all that jazz, since there’s not room here for everything from my house and everything he has.”

  Twyla made an elegant sniff of disapproval, but let the subject drop. “What will you be doing with your house? Selling or trying to rent it out?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” She wasn’t quite ready to let go of her place. She didn’t really know why. Myles had the bigger house, so there was no question where they’d live. And he’d given her carte blanche to do whatever she needed or wanted in order to feel more at home in their place. But she felt strange making decisions about the house without him.

  They’d decided so fast that this marriage would be something real, and there’d been no bumps in that road, so that rather than feeling real, it felt…surreal. She didn’t want to acknowledge the niggling sense of doubt and she sure as hell didn’t want to examine it. But it was there, keeping her from fully investing in the marital reality of household meshing. So she hadn’t done that much to move in, which meant she felt more like she was on an extended stay-over rather than actually living here. The whole thing left her unsettled.

  Not that there’d been time to talk to him about it. After all the intense one-on-one time during the honeymoon, she felt like she’d barely seen him the last week. She couldn’t help wondering if their honeymoon period was already over and worrying about what that might mean. But she’d go to her grave before admitting any of that to her mother.

  “Well, it’s a lovely house. These counters are beautiful. What are they? Soapstone?” Twyla set her enormous purse on said counters and began to rummage.

  “I believe so,” Piper said carefully, struggling valiantly not to remember exactly what she and her new husband had been doing on that spot the night before. The composition of the counters had been far less a concern than the convenience of their height.

  Twyla produced a small binder. “I wanted to bring you this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s all the cards from your reception.”

  “What cards?”

  Exasperation flickered over her face. “We had a station, remember? Where all the guests could write their well wishes or advice for you. I organized them in an album.”

  Piper had missed that entirely. Then again, Myles had completely stolen the show. “That was really thoughtful, Mom. Thank you.”

  She flipped the book open and read the first card, written in her mother’s familiar, looping script. Recipe for a happy husband: Leave discussion of your bad days and personal problems to your friends, be a cheerful, happy harbor for your spouse, and always have a hot meal ready and waiting.

  “How very 1950s,” Piper remarked, unable to rein in the sarcasm.

  “My mother gave me that advice when I got married, and it’s solid. Your father and I have been happily married for thirty-five years. You’d do well to emulate it. The last thing Myles is going to want to hear about when he gets home from a long day is whatever gross thing you had to deal with at work.”

  Healing being such a messy business and all. But this time she managed to keep the thought to herself.

  “Home should be a pleasant, non-stressful place for him, and he’ll always be happy to come back to it, no matter what he’s been dealing with.”

  The whole thing sounded like a recipe for denial of reality to Piper, but she was past the point where she tried to get her mom to see another viewpoint. She’d just be wasting her breath. “Well, thank you for the advice. I’m sure the rest of the album will be interesting reading.”

  She dug back in the purse. “I also wanted to bring you this. It’s a collection of all our family recipes, including all the ones from Nanna and Grandma Sylvia.”

  Now this Piper could show genuine pleasure over. She pounced on the box in excitement. “Does this include Nanna’s recipe for Beef Concern?”

  “It does.”

  Piper had been trying to duplicate the casserole for years, but her grandmother had held on to some secret ingredient. Getting the full recipe was a rite of passage in her family. “Thank you!” Piper hugged her.

  Her mother’s pleased expression shifted to mild exasperation as she pulled back and looked into Piper’s face. “Heavens. Did you put on any makeup this morning?”

  And we’re back to the norm. “That was quite a few hours ago, Mom.”

  Twyla stepped back and picked up her purse. “You ought to freshen up before Myles gets home. And maybe put on something other than your scrubs. You smell like antiseptic.”

  Piper sighed. She didn’t have the energy for this fight today. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once her mother was safely out the door, Piper opened the recipe box and began flipping through, looking for the one she wanted. Plucking it out, she skimmed over the ingredient list. Miracle of miracles, they actually had everything on hand, so she set about pulling the casserole together for supper. Not because she thought Myles was Ward Cleaver but because she’d had a crap day and she wanted comfort food. Once it was safely in the oven, she did go shower and change—for herself, not because she thought Myles cared—then summoned some determination to empty a few more boxes.

  “Piper?”

  “Back here!” she called. She’d just finished up putting the last of her paperbacks onto the bookcase they’d moved into the guest room when he stuck his head through the door.

  “Something smells amazing, other than you.” He tugged her up off the floor and into a warm kiss that untangled some of the knots of stress from the day.

  “It’s Beef Concern.”

  Myles made a comical face. “Should I be concerned?”

  “It’s just called Beef Concern. I don’t know why. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I guess because it’s the casserole she makes whenever she’s concerned about somebody.”

  “Are you concerned about somebody?”

  She started to mention the seemingly endless string of non-compliant patients, who’d decided to take attitude and blame their lack of responsibility on her, which had left her waspish and hangry. But then she stopped herself. “I just wanted some comfort food and I figured you’d appreciate a meal that wasn’t take out after all the hours you’d been putting in.”

  He beamed at her. “You are the sweetest thing. I’ve been looking forward to coming home to this smile all day.” He kissed her again, but Piper’s mind was circling back to her mother’s questionable advice.

  “How long until dinner?” Myles wanted to know.

  “Maybe another twenty minutes. I was going to unpack a few more boxes.”

  “Well you could do that,” he conceded. “Or we could put that time to other use.”

  As it was exactly what she’d wanted when she got home, Piper wasn’t about to say no to that. “That, Mr. Stewart, is an excellent idea.”

  Chapter 12

  “Omar sent po-boys.”

  Myles pulled his brain out of the inDesign template as Simone set a bag of takeout on the edge of his desk. The scent of grease and spice wafting from the containers had his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling. A clear reminder that he hadn’t had more than a pack of crackers from his drawer for lunch.

  “I figured you weren’t leaving any time soon, so I’d better put food in front of you before you keeled over.”

  He took off his reading glasses and tossed them next to his keyboard. Stubble rasped against his palms as he rubbed both hand
s over his face. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six.”

  He hadn’t even noticed when the rest of his staff left the office. “I need to call Piper and tell her not to wait dinner on me.”

  “Her car was still at the clinic when I drove by.”

  Well, that was something. At least she wasn’t waiting on him. Had he been home anywhere approaching a reasonable hour at any point in the last two weeks? Barely. He’d been so damned busy with the paper, there’d hardly been opportunity to do more than sleep in the same bed. Something had to give, and he sure as hell didn’t want it to be his nascent marriage.

  “Just as well you came back. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Simone braced herself. “It something going wrong with your access to the trust?”

  “What? No. Everything’s fine there. I should be granted access in a few days.” Thank God. He needed that burden off his shoulders. “No, I wanted to talk about some of the issues that came up running things while I was gone. You’ll need to make some changes in how you handle things if you’re to take on more responsibility around here.”

  “Myles, with respect, you’re a good friend, and I love you. But I don’t want more responsibility around here.”

  “What?” Oh, dear Lord. Was she quitting?

  “If your honeymoon taught me anything, it’s that I’m a reporter, not an editor. I never had that desire to mold and create a publication like you did. At least not the same way. I took this job in part because I wanted to get a chance to explore a different kind of journalism than I got in the city. But I also took it because it would be less demanding in a lot of ways and would give me the chance to actually have a life.”

  Ironic, since his position here meant he had less of one.

  Because he needed something to do with his hands, Myles unwrapped one of the po-boys and bit in. Fried shrimp. The breading was light and crunchy, the spice and salt a glorious counterpoint to the crisp lettuce and creamy mayo. God bless Omar. “And would that life be including seeing Omar Buckley on a more personal basis?”

  “It would. As you well know, since you’re not blind. But he’s only part of it. I’m writing.”

  “Well, yes, of course you’re writing. You handed in two stories this morning. The markups are in your email.”

  “No, I mean really writing. Fiction.” Her eyes shone with excitement.

  Despite the fatigue, Myles felt his interest pique. “Yeah? What genre?”

  “Romantic suspense at the moment. Though I’ve got several other things kicking around in my brain.”

  “I didn’t know you had aspirations in that direction.”

  Simone laughed, her rich voice like a bubble of caramel. “Neither did I. But I love it. Really love it, the way you love running this paper. And I don’t want to take on anything that’s going to interfere with pursuing that. I certainly don’t mind helping out, when necessary. I know a paper like this means a lot of cross-training and interchangeability, but this isn’t about having a sub so you can go on a proper honeymoon. You’re really wanting someone to take over a lot of the responsibility for the paper on a more permanent basis.”

  “You’re not wrong. I want an assistant editor.”

  “It won’t be me.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Well, shit.”

  “Is that a dealbreaker for my position here?”

  “Of course not. If it were, I’d have brought all of it up when I hired you in the first place. But I’ve got to figure something out. I can’t keep working like this.”

  “Won’t things settle down once you pay off your investor?”

  “I’m afraid we’re a long way from settling down, period. For good reasons. The paper’s having a growth spurt, and that’s great. But I need more help to manage it. I could outsource some of it, but that would defeat the purpose of what I’m doing here. I want to keep my business here in the community, as much as possible. To do that, I need a proper assistant editor. You were the closest to qualified of all the staff to do what I want, and if you don’t want it, I have to find someone else.”

  “Is there anybody locally who might suit?”

  “No one with the necessary experience, even if there might be interest. And I’m inclined to be choosy in who I bring in from the outside. Not everyone would appreciate a community like Wishful.”

  Simone considered as she worked her way through her own po-boy. “You need a Clark Kent.”

  “How’s that?”

  “A reporter with small town roots, who went off to the big city like we did and is ready for a change.”

  The wheels in Myles’ head began to turn. “No...not a Clark Kent. A Vanessa Clark.”

  “Who?”

  “Vanessa Clark. She’s a reporter I worked with at The Times in Seattle. Originally from a little town in Nebraska. A real hot shot. Bright, capable, with a definite eye for climbing the ladder. She left about the same time I did for Philly. I wonder where she landed…”

  “What makes you think she’d be a good fit?”

  “Because she was just as disgusted with the corporate politics as I was, and she was interested in moving to a smaller paper.”

  Shoving his food away, Myles grabbed his keyboard and pulled up Facebook. It took a few minutes to sort through the results, but he finally tracked down his former colleague—now Vanessa Clark-Ellis—in Baltimore.

  “Let’s see. Got married three years ago. And...apparently had a baby a few months ago. Working at the Baltimore Sun now. Definitely not the smaller paper she talked about.”

  “What’s she working on?”

  He clicked over to the Sun’s website and searched out her work. “Some political stuff most recently, with a gap when she was probably on maternity leave. Looks like the crime beat before that.”

  “Not exactly the kind of thing you want to mess with if you’ve got a little one,” Simone observed.

  “It’s probably a long shot since she’s married, but worth a phone call, at least.”

  “What’s the husband do?”

  “Wife.” He shifted the monitor to point out the Facebook cover photo showing two smiling brides, then clicked a few more links. “Looks like she’s some kind of artist. Metalwork. Sculpture. That kind of thing.”

  “The Chadwick is always looking for new exhibits...”

  Myles grinned at her, liking that she was thinking along the same lines as he was. “So they are.”

  Simone balled up her wrapper and made a three pointer into the trash. “Well, good luck. I leave you to your sleuthing now that I’m confident you aren’t going to pass out of starvation at your desk.”

  “Thanks for dinner, Sim.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  He was already eyeballs deep in a plan by the time she walked out the door.

  ~*~

  “Dear God, it’s worse than last year,” Shelby groaned. “When will someone manage to find a way to vaccinate for the stomach flu?”

  “Sadly, it doesn’t work that way,” Miranda said.

  “Please tell me we’re done with everything,” Piper begged. “I don’t want to think about how many bodily fluids I cleaned up today. I just want to go home, have a bath, and face plant straight into bed. Maybe with a brief detour for food, if Myles put on dinner.” Not that he’d been home early enough for that at any point, but surely the Universe would see fit to grant her a miracle after such a shitty day. It was only fair.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ve disinfected every centimeter of the building,” Keisha replied.

  “Good call on the hydrogen peroxide wipes and spray,” Miranda added. “Maybe it’ll help keep us from getting it.”

  “Hope springs eternal,” Piper muttered. “See y’all tomorrow.”

  She drove home on autopilot, head feeling swimmy from exhaustion. Myles’ car wasn’t in the garage. Of course. Why should she have expected otherwise? That likely meant there wouldn’t be dinner. Given the fresh roiling in her stomach, she n
eeded to put something in it.

  The fridge was embarrassingly bare. Two lonely eggs, some spinach past its prime, a half package of lunch meat that smelled off, and coffee creamer. The pantry wasn’t much better for ready-made fare. Cereal was about the only option. There wasn’t even canned soup.

  Sighing, she called Myles.

  “Stewart.” It was his editor-in-chief voice, which meant he was deep in work mode.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  There was a pause, during which Piper heard the clatter of a keyboard. “Hey you. What time is—oh crap. I meant to call you an hour ago to say I’d be late.”

  “I just got home myself. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” She could hear the whine in her own voice and couldn’t muster enough give-a-damn to stop it.

  “What happened?”

  “Stomach flu epidemic. You don’t want to hear the gory details. Just be sure to wash your hands after touching anything in public.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He lapsed into a silence that she’d learned meant his brain was already half back on his work. Given how much he loved his job and how hard he worked, Piper was working on not being offended by that. But just now it was kinda hard.

  “I didn’t actually call to gripe about my day. I wanted to beg you to pick up take out on your way home.”

  “Oh. Maybe you should call for Chinese. I’m not sure you want to wait on me.”

  “You’re going to be a while, then?”

  “Working on something that could be huge for the paper.”

  She held in a sigh, missing the guy who’d juggled everything in his schedule to spend every spare moment with her before they got married. “Okay. I’m pretty wiped. I may be asleep by the time you get home.”

  “Yeah, don’t wait up on my account. You sound half dead on your feet. If I don’t make it home before you crash, I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

  Piper swallowed down her disappointment. She’d wanted some comfort and support tonight. It had been a blanket fort and foot rub worthy kind of day. She waited to speak until she could keep her tone even. “Be careful on your way home.”