to take upstairs. In the third bedroom, one her mother had redesigned into her office, she set the mail on the L-shaped counter that served as a workstation.
Café au lait–toned walls here, and chocolate leather for the desk chair. Ruthlessly organized shelves held awards—her mother had garnered quite a few—books, all work-related, and some framed photos, also work-related.
Breen opened the trio of windows behind the workstation and wondered, as she always did, why anyone would put their back to that view. All the trees, the brick buildings, the sky, the world.
Distractions, Jennifer told her when she’d asked. Work is work.
She opened the two side windows as well, the ones flanking a—locked—wooden filing cabinet.
Wide windowsills held thriving green plants in copper pots. She’d water those and the rest after she opened the other windows. Then she’d sort the mail, and wait out the timer. Close all the windows again, lock up, be done.
She opened them in the perfect, welcoming guest room—where she had never slept—in the guest bath, in the simple elegance of the master and its en suite.
She wondered if her mother ever took a man to that lovely bed with its summer-blue duvet and plumped pillows.
And immediately wished she hadn’t wondered.
She went back downstairs, started for the patio door, then backtracked as the phone in her bag rang.
She glanced at the readout—never answer unless you know who was calling—and smiled. If anyone could make this crappy day a little better, it was Marco Olsen.
“Hi.”
“Hi your own self. It’s Friday, girl.”
“I heard that.” She took the phone outside to the patio, with its stainless-steel table and chairs and the tall, slim pots on the corners.
“Then get your well-toned ass down to Sally’s. It’s happy hour, baby, and the first round’s on the house.”
“Can’t.” She turned on the hose, began to water the first of the pots. “I’m at my mother’s dealing with all that, then I have papers to grade.”
“It’s Friday,” he repeated. “Shake it loose. I’m on the bar till two, and it’s Sing-Out night.”
The one thing she could do in public without anxiety—especially after a drink and with Marco—was sing.
“I’ve got another”—she checked the timer on her wrist—“forty-three minutes here, and those papers won’t grade themselves.”
“Grade ’em Sunday. You’ve had the brood on, Breen, and that Grant ‘Asshole’ Webber’s not worth it.”
“Oh, it’s not just that—him. I’m in, you know, a kind of slump, that’s all.”
“Everybody gets dumped.”
“You haven’t.”
“Have, too. What about Smoking Harry?”
“You and Harry decided, mutually, your relationship in that area had run its course, and are still friends. That’s not getting dumped.”
She moved on to the next pot.
“You need some fun. If you’re not here in—I’m giving you three hours so you can go home and change, put some sexy on your face—I’m coming to get you.”
“You’re working the bar.”
“Sally loves you, girl. He’ll come with me.”
She loved Sally, drag queen extraordinaire, right back. She loved the club where she felt happy, loved the Gayborhood. Which was why she lived in the heart of it in an apartment with Marco.
“Let me get done here, then see how I feel when I get home. I’ve had a headache for the last couple hours—not making that up—and I had a stupid anxiety attack on the bus here that made it worse.”
“I’m coming to pick you up, take you home.”
“You are not.” She moved on to the third pot. “I took Tylenol, and it’s going to kick in.”
“What happened on the bus?”
“I’ll tell you later—it was just stupid. And you may be right—I could use a drink, some Marco, some Sally’s. Let me see how I feel when I get home.”
“You text me when you get there.”
“Fine, now go back to work. I’ve got one more pot out here, the plants inside, the stupid mail, and the damn windows.”
“You oughta say no sometime.”
“It’s not that big a deal. I’ll be done in under an hour, catch the bus home. I’ll text you. Go pour some drinks. Bye.”
She went inside, carefully locked the patio door before she filled the watering can to deal with the inside plants.
A breeze kicked up, had her standing by the window, eyes shut, letting it blow over her.
Maybe it would rain after all, a nice, steady spring rain.
It kicked up harder, surprising her because the sun continued to beam through the glass.
“Maybe we’re in for a storm.”
She wouldn’t mind that either. A storm might blow the damn headache away. And since Marco had given her three hours when two would do, she could spend