Kiss Me in the Summer - Barbara Dunlop Page 0,13

obviously just co-opted me as extra labor.

I didn’t mind. I had to admire her for the strategy. And getting ready for a summer festival sounded quite appealing—a little manual labor out in the fresh air and sunshine to keep my mind off other things.

“I’d be happy to help out with that too,” I said.

I’d never been to a small-town summer festival. In fact, I was a little disappointed to know I’d be gone before it took place.

*

Becky Seymour was very pregnant.

I couldn’t help gazing at her stomach for a moment as Madeline introduced us.

“Coming up on eight months,” she said to me, smiling and rubbing her rounded belly. “My feet were swollen by ten this morning.”

“You look radiant,” Madeline told her.

“You do,” I agreed.

Becky’s cheeks were flushed pink, and her eyes were bright. Her pale blue blouse was fresh and crisp across her slim shoulders before fanning out over her stomach.

She eased herself down on an armchair in the law office’s compact reception area. “I don’t feel radiant.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” I asked, thinking it must be tiring to be that pregnant. “A glass of water? Something to put your feet on?” I wasn’t an expert on swollen feet, but I thought raising them usually helped. Didn’t it?

“Oh, I like her,” Becky said to Madeline.

“She’s also offered to help with the festival,” Madeline said.

Becky gave a pretty laugh, smoothing her blonde hair back from her dewy face. “I like her better and better.”

Madeline took the chair next to Becky’s, while I took one across the low table from both of them.

The law office was bright and airy, done mostly in ivory with wood accents and a tile floor that looked like marble. The four chairs were hunter green, and a couple of plants hung in the storefront window. We were on Main Street, just a few blocks from Madeline’s house, nestled between an ice cream parlor and an antique shop.

The occasional car passed by, and a few people strolled along the sidewalks. But it was mostly quiet outside. With the lower windows cranked open, I could hear birds chirping in the oak trees planted along the sidewalk while the fresh air blew inside.

“We have three real estate deals in progress,” Becky said, “one acrimonious divorce, and Melvin Crimson is doing some estate planning for his two sons, Edward and Neil, with his hardware store. He’s thinking of incorporating.”

“I can definitely help with the real estate deals,” I said. “And incorporation is right up my alley. I haven’t done anything with divorce since law school.”

“We’re representing both of them,” Becky said. “Mostly, it’s fine. But they’re fighting over the cats.”

“They’re fighting over the receptionist,” Madeline said.

“Humphrey’s keeping the receptionist,” Becky said, her smirk turning the statement into a joke.

“The no-good philanderer,” Madeline added. “Nellie gave him two kids and the best years of her life.”

“The cats?” I asked, curious about that one. It seemed like an odd point of contention.

“He gets the cottage,” Becky said. “She’s taking the house on Birch Avenue. She gets the china. He gets the toolbox. The kids are grown and moved away, and they’re splitting the furniture. But they can’t agree on the cats.”

“The cutest little white Persian,” Madeline said. “And Buffy, well she only has three legs, but she’s a sweetheart, all black with a white nose and ears.”

“Could they each take one?” I suggested.

“They’re best friends,” Becky said.

“You can’t split them up,” Madeline said. “They’d be heartbroken without each other.”

“Oh.” I definitely hadn’t thought about the cats’ feelings in the matter.

“Not a cat person?” Becky asked in a sympathetic voice.

“My mom was allergic.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Madeline said with a sigh. “I still miss Plato and Zeno.”

“You named your cats after Greek philosophers?”

“They were dogs,” Madeline said, as if that answered my question.

“Oh . . . okay.”

Becky obviously noted my confusion. “They were very smart dogs.”

“Chocolate Labs,” Madeline said. “You could see them thinking all the time.”

I had a hard time imagining a dog trying to reason out their place in the physical world. Not that I was an expert on that either.

I thought about Bangle for a minute. Nope. That dog had not been using logic and reason. He was just acting and reacting with emotions—dog emotions, more like a toddler than a philosopher.

“I’ll keep the divorce case,” Becky said. “Can you look through the real estate files?”

“Happy to.” I’d been away from work since Tuesday, and I had to admit I was getting a little twitchy. It felt strange