Page 31 of Just for Tonight

This afternoon, I realize how critically important it is to have something to look forward to.

My day at the house is all slammed doors and seething resentment. The atmosphere in the house could be sliced and served with gravy, but it still wouldn’t be very palatable. My father’s second family all hate me and have no qualms making sure I know it.

It’s awful. I’m accustomed to telling people things they don’t want to hear, and in denying them whatever they expect of me. It doesn’t usually bother me. Maybe that’s because, most of the time, I can walk away. I leave the meeting, end the call, go home from the office for the day. Que sera sera.

Not today. I’m trapped in this house until Mackenzie picks me up, no earlier than seven-fifteen, and it may kill me. Somebody tossed all my neat piles of paperwork onto the floor while I was at Rhodes Vineyards at lunch and kicked them around, eliminating all of the work I’ve done sorting and stacking. The cream in my coffee this afternoon was sour. Someone is listening to heavy metal music at full blast, the base thumping through the walls. Every time I initiate a conversation with anyone, they scream or shout in return.

It is hell in this house and I’m amazed that three people – four, if you count the housekeeper; seventeen, if you count Candace’s various service providers – could make my existence so miserable so quickly.

Of course, they’d probably say the same thing about me.

The noon reprieve of visiting Augustine Rhodes was necessary – otherwise, I might have murdered someone and been condemned to spend a sizable chunk of my future in jail. (I do not look good in orange.) Seeing Mackenzie was a gift. Lunch was civilized, the way I’ve always imagined other families had meals together. Augustine talked proudly of everything, including his grand-daughter, and it was sweet how she rolled her eyes and blushed a bit.

Imagine having a relation who is proud of you – and says so. It boggled my mind, in the best possible way.

And then there was Mackenzie herself. In a hundred little ways, she convinced me that we have the same hopes for tonight. A little sidelong glance. A brush of my hand when she passed the sandwiches, one that seemed inadvertent. Her gaze clinging to mine when I thanked Augustine for lunch and headed out.

Never mind the way she said thanks for finding the title when we were standing at the door. I really think she might have kissed me if her grandfather hadn’t been hovering nearby – and really, he didn’t need any encouragement to get ideas about family unions.

The prospect of seeing her again is the bright light on my horizon.

If there’s anything more than dinner, I may just die a happy man before morning. Ha. That would leave someone else to sort out my father’s garbage.

It’s tempting, but then I remember that I don’t even have a will. There’s no one assigned to pick up my slack. It might be entertaining to watch them argue over who gets stuck with the dirty work, but being dead and all, I’d miss out anyway.

Better to survive, even better with Mackenzie.

Whatever happens after dinner, if anything happens, will be her choice.

I hug the sight of her all afternoon. Jeans, boots, and a cotton button-down. Her hair was slept up in a ponytail and she wore no make-up. She came in with a mug of tea, looking all windblown and vital. She was everyman’s girl-next-door fantasy up close and personal. Her nose was even sunburned a little.

Perfection.

It’s after six when someone knocks on the door – 6:23 – and I’m surprised to find the housekeeper at the door. “There’s a call for you,” she says primly, even though I didn’t hear the phone ring recently.

I pick up the receiver, skeptical, only to have a woman chastise me. “Jake? Is that you? When are you going to talk some sense in that tart your father was fool enough to marry?”

Aunt Grace in Alberta. My father’s younger sister, every bit as blunt and opinionated as he was. She has an unmistakable voice, one that sounds like forty years of Scotch and cigarettes.

“What exactly is the issue, Aunt Grace?”

She snorts. “Cremation is the issue. How dare she even suggest such an option for Patrick?”

“Well, it’s in his will that he wanted to be cremated.”

“He never did.”

“He did.”

My aunt swears under her breath. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. My job is to fulfill his expectations, as laid out in his will. That’s what he wanted.”

She harrumphs again. “I guess there’s no rush for a funeral then.”

“I have no idea what Candace has planned.” I haven’t even thought about that, actually.

“What did he leave the boys?” she demands.