At Wits' End - Kenzie Reed Page 0,104

I know,” Carrie says miserably, glancing back over at Heather, who’s stomping down the street shooting looks of pure hate in our direction. “I just–”

I interrupt her. “This is a friend of mine and Donovan’s, Constantine Galatos. I’m just going to be horribly blunt. Constantine thinks you’re enchanting.”

Constantine’s face goes brick-red.

“Constantine, this is Carrie, one of the most talented, stubborn, brilliant, pain-in-the-ass journalists you’ll ever meet. You’re widowed, Carrie is divorced, which means you’re both single. You can take it from there.”

“A writer!” His eyes are saucer-wide. “I love creative women. My late wife was a poet.”

“Creative? I mean… Well, I dabble.” She’s blushing too. “I mean, hello. Nice to meet you.”

Carrie holds out her hand, and instead of shaking it, he takes it and kisses it, European style. Carrie looks as if she might faint. She stares down at the spot he just kissed, and I’m willing to bet she won’t be washing that paw for a week.

“And now Pamela and Graham and I need to go get some cupcakes at the bakery. Sorry, hate to not eat and run,” I say, as the waitress approaches us with menus.

“We do?” Graham looks bewildered. “Who said anything about cupcakes? Why?”

Pamela and I grab his arms and all but drag him from the table.

“They’re about to totally fall for each other. This is going to be epic. They need privacy,” I inform him.

“Can we stand on the sidewalk and watch?” Pamela asks hopefully. “This is amazing. This is better than Netflix.”

“Yeah, can we?” Graham’s eyes light up. “I mean, look at them. It’s like a nature documentary.”

“No, I don’t want to risk jinxing it.” I shake my head vigorously. “Maybe he’ll take her on a cruise on one of his mega-yachts. Think how restful this town would be while she was gone.”

“Fine,” Graham says sulkily. “Then I want those cupcakes. And they’d better have chocolate.”

As we’re walking towards the bakery, Donovan calls me. I make a mental note: I need to change his ringtone from Billie Holliday’s “No Good Man”.

“Hello, husbeast. I’ll be home in an hour or two. Did you get my text?”

“I did. I already forwarded it to one of my attorneys, and we have an investigator who’ll look into it.”

“Is everything okay with the family?’

“Better than okay. I’m sorry to shoo you away like that, but we had a really good talk,” he says. “Everybody cried. My parents apologized for not naming me after Dad. Dad agreed to let Jamie learn how to operate the machinery, and we’ll officially move Toni into the position of hospitality manager. Dad and Mom asked me if I wanted to legally change my name to Montgomery Witlocke the Third, I said no a little too quickly, and they looked a little insulted. But, uh, yeah, looks like Jamie is leaving your employ. Sorry about that. What’s up with you?”

“Wait until I get home,” I say happily. “You would not believe what just happened.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

DONOVAN

It’s agreed by everyone that Sienna and I will stay at the Witlocke family guesthouse until we can come up with a better solution, and Sara will move into the barn-house to help care for Aunt Fernanda. Cleocatra, Aceto and Ducktape are forming their own weird little flock already, so they’ll stay there for now. Of course, I have visitation rights, and Fernanda has agreed not to try to murder me when I come over.

I have sternly ordered my mother and Aunt April to clear all their passive-aggressive “Witlocke Winning” décor from the guesthouse. Since the Greenvale Fall-fest starts tomorrow, and they’re all crazy-busy getting ready, they’re having their maids do it.

While the guest house is being de-Witlocked, I am taking my wife out to dinner. It’s a warm September evening, and we’re sitting at an outdoor table at Le Gourmand, perusing menus and watching the stream of people flowing past us. This year’s festival promises to be very successful. Every hotel for miles is booked, and tour buses from Portland are filling up all the parking lots.

“I can’t believe I only got here this morning,” I say to Sienna. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I can’t believe we’ve only had sex three times since you got back.”

“Patience, woman,” I growl. “I need to refuel, and then we can continue making up for all that time we lost when you refused to speak to me.” She kicks me under the table. “Because of my bad, never to be repeated, behavior,” I add hastily.

Sienna tips her head back and sniffs