was there a Thanksgiving celebration with a regular mom, dad, and kids. It was always just her, Daddy, and Reed. The food was sometimes thrown together at the last minute, and a couple of times, she recalled frantic searches for cranberry sauce and pies.
Renewed antipathy for Marie Warren flared inside her. Becoming a mother gave Summer a new perspective—one in which she felt fully justified judging her detached and indifferent parent. What her so-called mother did by running off was unconscionable. Arianne was a treasure, a living, breathing connection to Arnie—and no way in hell would she ever willingly be separated from her child.
Nuh-uh. No way.
Gazing at the inky sky glittering with a thousand dots of light lifted her spirits. She searched for the constellation Orion and smiled. Way back in her high school days, she had written a bullshit paper for science class about Orion. The teacher, having seen through her cut and paste report, challenged her to point it out in the night sky.
She had a hard time lying. Kidding around for fun was different, but intentional, deliberate, conscious fibbing was simply not how she rolled. When put to the screws, she folded like a cheap suit, blubbering nonsense and hoping the teacher showed mercy.
He didn’t. She barely passed the class, but she goddamn well knew where Orion was from then on.
Before long, she was humming. Ari wiggled her tiny hands free from the blanket and waved them. She often wondered if her daughter would be athletic and in near constant motion like her mama.
“Shall we dance, hmm?”
Reaching into the front pouch of her Yankees hoodie, she took hold of her phone and went to her curated playlists.
“How about this one? Soft dance. Not quite lullaby music but close enough.”
Keeping the volume low, she started the playlist, stood, and put Ari on her shoulder. Rocking and swaying to the first track, “Good Night” by the Beatles, she hummed softly and felt her emotions surge.
Love was a good thing—in any form.
Kissing the baby’s head, she inhaled Ari’s sweet baby scent spiked with lavender and gave herself to the moment.
Stan was out picking up food supplies, leaving Arnie alone to amuse himself. They decided to forego staying overnight in the empty house, but they still needed drinks and sandwich makings.
He noticed a pad of paper covered with drawings and measurements and picked it up. His eyes moved around the space, visualizing Stan’s ideas. Say what you wanted about Aloha Designs being just a cover, but it didn’t change his brother’s eye for design and impressive handy-guy talents.
Dropping the pad, he continued puttering. Fanning a collection of paint samples, he held them up against the living room wall and decided he was the last person to have an opinion about the five different shades of white, which all looked the same to him.
Noticing a forgotten duffel bag shoved in the corner, he fished around in his stuff and located a zip case holding a container of pain medicine, assorted antacids, a tube of antibiotic ointment for his bruised knuckles, and some over-the-counter allergy tablets.
Dumping two painkillers into his hand, he searched for something to wash them down with only to realize his options consisted of three mini bottles of alcohol. Souvenirs of airplane flights left inside a bag he rarely emptied.
“Jägermeister, Canadian Club, and Bacardi Limon. Hope I have an iron stomach,” he complained in a flat voice.
He needed the painkillers for the ache in his back from the weighted body suit, and the water from the faucets tasted awful, so he didn’t have another choice.
“Add a water cooler to the supply list.”
Downing the tablets with Canadian Club was less than pleasant. He gagged and shuddered, “Blech, ugh,” and gave a full-body shake.
“I know what this situation needs,” Arnie mumbled to an audience of no one.
Returning to the duffel, he pulled out a very cool leather cigar case—a Christmas gift from Darnell Senior. The old guy gave him and Stan identical monogrammed cases plus a box of Padron Coronas to share.
Arnie and his brother learned the cigar ritual growing up. His father and grandfather were avid cigar aficionados. Stan wasn’t a fan, but that was then, and a lot had changed. Now they relaxed together with a cigar from time to time.
Stuffing the Jägermeister and Bacardi Limon into a pocket, he headed for the backyard where a couple of old-school folding lawn chairs sat next to a propane fire bowl.
Not wanting to set himself on fire, he hesitated to use a