in front of him that he should have been enjoying. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to enjoy the peach cobbler, either. So he’d save that for later.
The phone continued to ring as Gus finished his dinner, packed up the leftovers, and tidied the kitchen. He turned on the dishwasher and sat back down to enjoy his after-dinner cup of coffee. Just as he brought the cup to his lips, the phone shrilled for the umpteenth time.
“That’s it!” He picked up the phone and barked a single one-word greeting. “What?!”
“When I call you, Mr. Hollister, you WILL answer the phone. I can’t represent you if we don’t communicate. Is that clear?”
Gus grimaced as he pictured the fireplug venting her venom at him. “Tell me how to answer the phone when I’m not here. If you don’t want to represent me, then quit. This world is flooded with lawyers. I can take my pick. I faxed you the papers I was served. I included a message saying it was all lies. Do you want me to repeat the message? It is all lies. Now it’s your turn to do whatever the hell it is Barney pays you to do. Now, here’s another message for you. You only need to ring this number once and leave a message, the way normal people do. Now here’s my third message. Sit on a pointy stick and twirl around until it comes out that mouth of yours. Good-bye, Miss Jackson, have a nice evening.”
Gus sipped at his coffee as he waited for Barney to call him. He knew in his gut that the fireplug would have called Barney as soon as she hung up, to tell him she was quitting, then Barney would call him and ream his ass. He waited as the minutes crawled by.
When the only phone call that evening was the one from Elroy Hitchens, Gus was almost disappointed.
With nothing else on his agenda, Gus went upstairs, showered, and changed into warm sweats. He returned to the family room, made a fire, and sat down to watch reruns of NCIS, his favorite television show. The dogs were snoring contentedly by the hearth.
Tomorrow is another day.
Chapter 11
GUS BOLTED UPRIGHT IN THE RECLINER. HE WASN’T SURE WHAT had woken him. A bad dream? The pain in his neck from sleeping in the recliner? He looked over at the hearth, where Wilson and Winnie were snoring. Maybe the last log that fell over, shooting sparks up the chimney? He was inclined to go with the bad dream. What the hell was it? Nothing came to mind. He looked at his watch: three a.m.! He must have dozed off around eight, which meant he’d slept seven or so hours, his regular sleep pattern. It also meant he was done sleeping for the night, so he might as well get up, shower, shave, make some coffee, and get a head start on the day and whatever it was going to bring his way.
Gus leaned his head back and closed his eyes, not to sleep but to think. His last conscious thought before falling asleep had been that he had to call the fireplug and apologize for his rudeness. They needed to start over from square one and stop with the one-upmanship. Like Barney said, he didn’t have to like her. All he had to do was let her do what she does best, represent him. Well, he could do that. Or die trying.
He made a mental list of things he wanted and needed to do for the day. First, he had to arrange contracts to bring with him when he picked up the seniors. Next, he had to get a bus from somewhere to pick them up and take them to Blossom Farm. Then he had to come up with a work plan for everyone on his grandmother’s staff. A daunting job to be sure, but he was good at organizing, or at least he thought so. And he needed to call Barney again at some point today. And he had to get in touch with a Realtor to find him a place of his own. Otherwise, he was going to have a neurotic dog on his hands. Wilson liked routine—his own place, his own things—and for sure he did not like to be shuffled from one place to another. He understood that because it was exactly how he himself felt.
Gus heaved himself out of the recliner and looked at the dogs. Wilson cracked one