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Dad gives a groan. “I’d kill for a real cup of coffee. The stuff they have here is terrible.”
“I can get it. I saw a café across the street.” Lindy shifts to stand.
“No, no. You sit. Damian will get the coffee,” Dad says. “What do you want? It’s on me.”
Lindy’s coffee order is complex and sweet, just like her: a hot latte with almond milk and vanilla, sprinkle of cinnamon. Dad wants a large black coffee, extra hot. I start to leave, but can’t tear my gaze away from them, in awe at how comfortable they are in one another’s presence.
Dad, wanting his coffee, dismisses me. “Leave us. We’re good.”
“Take your time.” Lindy gives me a long look, as if trying to communicate to me it’s okay to take a moment. “We’re good.”
Dolores returns, saying hello and stepping in as I leave the room, pausing long enough to ask what she would like from the coffee shop.
“I run on sunshine and Jesus.” She winks. “Thanks, but no caffeine for me.”
I stroll across the street, enjoying the peace-filled moment. I do take my time, knowing they’re both safe, her on a Bachman floor with guards, Dad finally up and talking with his nurse at his side. I order a black coffee, pull a wooden stool up to the counter at the window, and watch the world go by as I sip on the hot, fragrant drink.
When I’m done, I get their takeout orders and grab myself a refill. The barista nestles the paper cups in a cardboard tray for me. I carry it in my hand as I make my way back across the street. The caffeine and Lindy’s company are making the visit to Langone seem light, social. I return to the hospital room feeling refreshed.
We sip our coffees and chat. After our visit, Dad is clearly fading. “He needs his rest,” Dolores tells us with a soft smile. She gives us a wink. “We’ll have him home in no time.”
We say our goodbyes. I hover in the doorway of the room, making sure he’s settled and falling asleep before I leave. The Benz-E waits for us out front. Happy to have transportation in my control and wanting a moment alone with Lindy, I give my driver the rest of the day off.
And take us to the Village.
She stares out the window as we pass the brownstone businesses. She takes a little breath as we pass Bachman’s Jeweler. Her eyes go wide as she finally goes behind those double black gates she’s heard so much about.
“Welcome to the Village,” I say.
“Thank you,” she murmurs as she takes in the neatly laid out rows of townhomes. The green expanse of grass in the center, the stone patio dotted with tables and chairs. Couples dining together in the sunlight.
I pull up to the one with the bright orange door. “This is us.”
I give her a tour of my house.
She loves the hardwood floors, the massive all-white kitchen that consumes almost the entire first floor. I explain that Bachmans love to eat, to entertain, often gathering over meals. Maybe that’s why I find our dinners so special. She fawns over the soft blue paint on the walls, the small garden off the kitchen patio.
There’s an office, guestroom, and living room on the second floor, the master taking up the entire third floor. We end the tour in my bedroom, sunlight streaming through the massive picture window that overlooks the street.
We hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, voices and laughter. A few of the younger brothers appear in the doorway, carrying her trunk between them. They set it beside the dresser.
“Thank you!” Lindy brushes a hand over the top of the trunk, happy to have her things. They ask her where to put the other bags they brought up. Funny how they totally bypass me and look to her for direction.
I’m itching to get back to the training facility where I’ve got fifteen sweaty dudes doing cardio till I can get there. Before I go, I’ve got one last task to take care of. While she’s busy, I go deeper into the room to find her surprise.
I pass through the bathroom to get to the closet, where I instructed Boss and Ashely’s people to have Angel’s things set up. Ashely, being the animal person she is, insisted on delivering the cat herself while we were with my dad at the hospital.
Is that a litter box? In my pristine bathroom? God, I’ve gone soft to allow a wild animal to live in my house.
I open the closet door, the familiar high-handled basket the first thing I lay eyes on.
“Come here, you little furball,” I whisper, closing in on the basket.
I look inside the sherpa blanket. There’s a circular indent and a bit of cat fur in the spot where Angel normally sleeps, but no cat.
My heart pounds.
Where’s she gone?
