The First Law of Love by Abbie Williams Page A

at me then, somewhere close by. I rolled to one elbow, groaned a little, and saw it on the small sheepskin rug near the bed. I leaned and caught it up, seeing a text from Camille.
    Drunk on your first night there. LOL.
    For fuck’s sake. I supposed I deserved this, behaving that way. Grimly I tapped the screen to respond, I know. It ’ s totally pitiful. Don ’ t need your shit right now too .
    I could almost hear my sister giggling, back in Minnesota. She wrote, They think its hysterical. Don ’ t worry.
    Talk you u later , I wrote, then dropped my phone and flopped to my back once more, crossing my forearms over my eyes. I supposed I couldn’t stay up here, hiding out.
    I needn’t have worried; Clark and the boys gave me a bunch of good-natured ribbing when I cautiously descended the stairs and shuffled to the kitchen ten minutes later, after a cursory examination in the bathroom I discovered down the hall. I looked like shit, but that was my own fault. What I wanted right now was a hot shower, preferably in the privacy of my own apartment.
    Clark called Al for me, asking him to meet us at Stone Creek Apartments in fifteen minutes, and then he and Wy elected to escort me there; they led the way in Clark’s truck, Wy driving. Back through town, right at the stoplight (my head was aching enough that I had trouble admiring Jalesville in the bright sunlight), and then only a few more miles, past a fairground and over a wide stone bridge that spanned the distance across the Stone Creek (so the sign proclaimed) that had clearly lent the apartment its name, and then into the gravel parking lot of the building I recognized from the pictures I’d found online.
    Ahead of me, Wy parked and hopped down, coming back to the driver’s side of my car to say, “There’s a spot for you, Tish, right over there,” and he indicated. “See, it’s got your name on it. And Al is here to meet us, right over there.”
    My heart jumped a little at this mention of my boss, Ron’s friend, the man who’d left Chicago for this place almost two decades ago. I pulled into the parking spot labeled ‘Gordon’ and climbed out into the beat of the midday sun, terribly conscious of my messy hair, last night’s clothes and un-showered state. Clark and a small, balding man were chatting on the sidewalk, in the shade of the building, but they interrupted themselves as I approached, putting a smile on my face despite my headache.
    â€œPatricia!” the man who was undoubtedly Al Howe said. He moved towards me at once and I took cautious stock of him, noting the seemingly-kind light blue eyes, the thin rim of cream-colored hair ringing his head, aviator-style sunglasses and casual dress clothes, khaki pants and a white button-down shirt, no tie. He looked like a grandpa come to visit his grandkids. He offered his hand at once, and I took it firmly into my own, recalling everything I had learned about the proper way to shake a hand, to indicate that you meant business.
    â€œHow are you?” I asked politely.
    Al pumped our joined hands twice, then patted the back of mine, offering me what I took to be a genuine smile; I had known enough lawyers to be wary. Even my own father’s face was rarely graced with a non-calculated grin. Al said, “I am most pleased to meet you. You come highly recommended, I hope you know.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, hiding overt pleasure at this statement, wanting to appear professional. Then I added, “I’m happy to be here.” And I actually meant that, a great deal more than I would have guessed even two days ago.
    â€œYou’re needing a day or so to settle in,” Al recognized, releasing my hand and digging a couple of keys from his breast pocket. “Though I would like to invite you to dinner this evening, if that works for you. My wife would love to meet you.”
    â€œThat would be wonderful,” I told