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My grip on the steering wheel tightens; the physical manifestation of my frustration. What I’d like to do is turn to this completely preoccupying woman and tell her that there’s nothing I'd like more than for her to come between me and my friends. If she’d let me I’d make her the number one person in my life in a heartbeat.
I’m not saying I’d turn my back on my friends, but, as all of them would agree, when you find your other half, that person’s wants and needs eclipse the wants and needs of anyone else in your life. They just do.
Still, I understand the sentiment behind what she’s saying, and, while ideally, putting her wants and needs above the guys’ wants and needs wouldn’t have included covering up a murder, this is where we find ourselves.
“It’s fine,” I grit out. “Any of them would do the same for the women in their lives and while you’re not exactly the woman in my life by typical romantic standards, you are, nonetheless, my wife.”
There, that was good.
“Right,” she says quietly. “And you’re my husband.”
This time the hand clenching has nothing to do with frustration and everything to do with stopping myself from pulling this car over and kissing my dang wife.
Chapter 15
Jack
IT’S ONLY WHEN I pull into my garage fifteen minutes of silent driving later, that I remember I wasn’t able to get all of the bloodstains out of Nora’s blouse. So now it’s soaking in a bucket of Oxyclean in my laundry room. Which is in the basement. So really, it shouldn’t be a problem. Why would any of the six people behind us go into my basement laundry room?
And even if they did, why would they go poking around in a bucket full of suds?
That’s right, they wouldn’t.
Probably. Honestly, with this group of people I can never really be sure what crazy thing they might do. One time I came into my house to find Stafford taking all of the storage bins out of my basement. “Don’t worry,” he said to me, “I’ll put them all back.” No explanation for what he'd be doing with them or how he’d even gotten into my house in the first place.
Thankfully he really did put them back.
Although I found a suspicious-looking powder residue in one of them that upon further inspection appeared to be Country Time lemonade mix.
I opted for the don’t ask, don’t tell policy on that one.
“You okay?” Nora asks, probably because I shut the car off a while ago and yet I’m still just sitting here, making no move to get out.
“Your bloody shirt is in a bucket in my laundry room,” I blurt and her eyes widen.
“Oh, okay,” she says. “Well, that’s okay. Why would anyone go in the basement?”
“It does seem unlikely,” I agree doubtfully.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” she dismisses my concern with a wave of her hand. “Nobody is going in the basement, let alone the laundry room.” Buoyed by her own words she hops out of the car, leaving me no choice but to follow her.
We go inside and I automatically head to the kitchen to prep some snacks. My mom instilled in me that a good host always offers their guests food and beverages.
“Don’t you forget,” she used to tell me with a tap of the Bible perpetually open on our kitchen table, “to show hospitality to strangers, Jack, because as it says in Hebrews, thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
These are my friends coming over, not strangers, so I already know none of them are angels (even if some of them seem to think their wives are), but the hospitality piece of her tutelage still applies. Which is why I’m setting out a plate of cheese and crackers (including the gluten free ones I keep on hand for Mel) and pulling out everyone’s drink of choice: a glass of water for Montgomery, hot chocolate for Mel, Coke Zero for Anderson, and a trio of pink La Croix for Emily, Lucy, and Stafford.
I hesitate over the burner knob on my stovetop, though, remembering last night when I automatically started making tea for Nora. Do you have coffee? she’d asked me, upsetting the carefully constructed list I keep in my mind. The list that catalogs all of her preferences and favorite things.
Yes, I’ve got a list like that for most of the people in my life.
But hers is the longest.
“Uh, you want some coffee?” I ask, my hand dropping off the burner.
There’s a beat of silence then she says, “Actually a cup of chamomile tea would be great.”
I’m happy she can’t see the pressure that eases in my chest as I nod and light the burner beneath my teapot. A teapot I only ever purchased so I could make this woman tea.
