a crazed surgeon perform open-heart surgery.”
“The postman always squeaks twice,” muttered Carmela.
Shamus’s grin expanded across his handsome face and, inside, Carmela felt a twinge of deep longing.
That was one thing Carmela still adored about Shamus. His sense of humor and whimsy. His quick laughter.
He was also an easy mark, she smirked to herself. Shamus could be taking a slug of Coca-Cola and if she laid a zany one-liner on him quick enough . . . presto . . . he’d hiccup and laugh and Coke would suddenly froth from his nose. It was one of those weird, gross, secret things they did to each other. Try to make Coke spew from each other’s noses.
“Listen, babe,” said Shamus, suddenly looking intense. “We gotta get together real soon and talk.”
Carmela lifted her head and studied him. We do? she thought, her heart suddenly stalling a beat. Really? Does this mean Shamus finally wants to sit down and talk about us? About our marriage?
“We do?” she finally said. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her palms seemed suddenly damp.
Shamus assumed his serious mortgage banker look. The look that said We’re not convinced your financial underpinnings are quite up to snuff. “Absolutely,” he responded. “The sooner the better.”
“And we’re going to discuss . . .” she said, trying to lead him.
“The photo show,” he said, a bright smile on his face. “We’ve got a good shot here to have a joint show. I’ve got my portfolio all pulled together, now it’s your turn to get it in gear. You’ve dragged your feet long enough, honey. We can’t keep stringing the Click! Gallery along forever!”
As fast as it had flipped over, Carmela’s heart thudded inside her chest. The photo show. The stupid photo show is his big, fat burning issue.
Carmela had done some fashion photography for a ritzy day spa by the name of Spa Diva. Clark Berthume, the owner of Click!, had seen her moody black-and-white shots and offered her a show. In a gesture borne out of guilt and graciousness, Carmela had asked Shamus to be part of it. He’d been dabbling in photography for a couple years now and was actually quite talented.
And here I thought that maybe, just maybe, Shamus wanted to talk about us, fumed Carmela. About our marriage. Or total lack thereof .
Carmela launched herself out of the chair and headed for the kitchen.
“Carmela,” called Shamus. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” she called. Nothing that a really nasty divorce lawyer can’t fix.
Chapter 5
“ W REN,” exclaimed Tandy. “I can’t believe you really came in again.” Scrapbook bags slung across her slight shoulders like a pack animal, Tandy chugged her way to the battered table at the back of the store.
Wren, who was sitting next to Gabby, helping her sort out packages of stencils, ducked her head shyly. “This is the only place I feel safe,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Where do you live?”
“In Jamie’s house,” said Wren.
Tandy slid a pair of red half-glasses onto her bony nose and peered quizzically at Wren. “And where might that be?”
“Big old house over on Julia Street,” said Wren. “I think it used to be a girl’s school or convent or something.”
“Good grief,” responded Tandy. “Please tell me you’re not referring to the old Benedictine convent. I didn’t think that place was even habitable. Certainly not for people, anyway.”
Gabby immediately dove to her cousin’s defense. “Jamie bought that place eight months ago and was working very hard to renovate it. You’d be surprised, Tandy, it’s really quite updated and livable now.”
“Just livable or comfy livable?” asked Tandy, looking skeptical.
“Jamie got a special grant from the Preservation Foundation,” explained Wren.
“So it had been scheduled for the wrecking ball,” said Tandy. “I thought so.”
“He got a special grant?” asked Carmela, her ears suddenly perking up. She’d been camped nearby
“The postman always squeaks twice,” muttered Carmela.
Shamus’s grin expanded across his handsome face and, inside, Carmela felt a twinge of deep longing.
That was one thing Carmela still adored about Shamus. His sense of humor and whimsy. His quick laughter.
He was also an easy mark, she smirked to herself. Shamus could be taking a slug of Coca-Cola and if she laid a zany one-liner on him quick enough . . . presto . . . he’d hiccup and laugh and Coke would suddenly froth from his nose. It was one of those weird, gross, secret things they did to each other. Try to make Coke spew from each other’s noses.
“Listen, babe,” said Shamus, suddenly looking intense. “We gotta get together real soon and talk.”
Carmela lifted her head and studied him. We do? she thought, her heart suddenly stalling a beat. Really? Does this mean Shamus finally wants to sit down and talk about us? About our marriage?
“We do?” she finally said. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her palms seemed suddenly damp.
Shamus assumed his serious mortgage banker look. The look that said We’re not convinced your financial underpinnings are quite up to snuff. “Absolutely,” he responded. “The sooner the better.”
“And we’re going to discuss . . .” she said, trying to lead him.
“The photo show,” he said, a bright smile on his face. “We’ve got a good shot here to have a joint show. I’ve got my portfolio all pulled together, now it’s your turn to get it in gear. You’ve dragged your feet long enough, honey. We can’t keep stringing the Click! Gallery along forever!”
As fast as it had flipped over, Carmela’s heart thudded inside her chest. The photo show. The stupid photo show is his big, fat burning issue.
Carmela had done some fashion photography for a ritzy day spa by the name of Spa Diva. Clark Berthume, the owner of Click!, had seen her moody black-and-white shots and offered her a show. In a gesture borne out of guilt and graciousness, Carmela had asked Shamus to be part of it. He’d been dabbling in photography for a couple years now and was actually quite talented.
And here I thought that maybe, just maybe, Shamus wanted to talk about us, fumed Carmela. About our marriage. Or total lack thereof .
Carmela launched herself out of the chair and headed for the kitchen.
“Carmela,” called Shamus. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” she called. Nothing that a really nasty divorce lawyer can’t fix.
Chapter 5
“ W REN,” exclaimed Tandy. “I can’t believe you really came in again.” Scrapbook bags slung across her slight shoulders like a pack animal, Tandy chugged her way to the battered table at the back of the store.
Wren, who was sitting next to Gabby, helping her sort out packages of stencils, ducked her head shyly. “This is the only place I feel safe,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Where do you live?”
“In Jamie’s house,” said Wren.
Tandy slid a pair of red half-glasses onto her bony nose and peered quizzically at Wren. “And where might that be?”
“Big old house over on Julia Street,” said Wren. “I think it used to be a girl’s school or convent or something.”
“Good grief,” responded Tandy. “Please tell me you’re not referring to the old Benedictine convent. I didn’t think that place was even habitable. Certainly not for people, anyway.”
Gabby immediately dove to her cousin’s defense. “Jamie bought that place eight months ago and was working very hard to renovate it. You’d be surprised, Tandy, it’s really quite updated and livable now.”
“Just livable or comfy livable?” asked Tandy, looking skeptical.
“Jamie got a special grant from the Preservation Foundation,” explained Wren.
“So it had been scheduled for the wrecking ball,” said Tandy. “I thought so.”
“He got a special grant?” asked Carmela, her ears suddenly perking up. She’d been camped nearby
Similar Books
