Page 9 of The Fixer

“You should give it to Eric,” I suggested as I followed her to the kitchen island, both trying to be helpful and hoping her fiancé would keep her from stopping by unannounced.

Brooke shoved the box on the counter, her face twisted as her eyes rose to the ceiling. “You know, I think maybe I did.” She shook her head and reached into the box, pulling items out one-by-one. “Either way, I’m here now and you needed to get off the couch.”

“I wasn’t on the couch,” I lied.

She gave me a pointed look before turning back to the box. “You have lines from the cushion on your cheek. Here.” She shoved a bucket of fried chicken across the counter to me. “You need to eat.”

“Oh. Yay. More chicken,” I muttered, walking with the bucket to the refrigerator and opening the door. Inside were three other buckets of chicken, four different kinds of casseroles, and two plastic-covered plates of Jell-O topped with everything from mayo to carrots, to black olives.

Brooke whistled through her teeth. “Wow. Your dad’s admirers are keeping you well stocked.”

My throat tightened and my knees shook. Brooke rushed to me and wrapped her arms around me, holding me close, giving me the support I so desperately needed.

“Sweetie, it’s okay,” she cooed, running a hand over the back of my head. “You’ll be alright. Just take it one day at a time. You know I’m here for you, all you have to do is ask.”

It was the asking part I had trouble with. I wanted to support myself. I wanted to handle what was thrown my way. I didn’t want to be dependent on anyone.

Not anymore.

As if I’d spoken those words out loud, Brooke gave a heavy sigh. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” My attention drifted to the counter, to all the things Brooke had pulled from her box. A carton of milk. A baguette poking out of its brown paper sack. And… “Is that French onion soup from Gaspard’s?”

She gave a quiet chuckle as she pulled away. “I’m pretty sure I ruined Old Fred’s day when I snagged that off the front desk with all the rest of this stuff. I think he gave me the evil eye when I packed it up.”

“It’s his favorite, too.” I took a step toward the other side of the counter, only to have my knee buckle as a wave of dizziness hit.

“’Liza!” Brooke grabbed me before I could fall, then hauled me around to the chair on the other side of the island. “When’s the last time you ate?” she asked once she had me seated.

Scratching at a piece of dried chicken stuck to the counter, I shrugged. “Probably when I fed Mr. Jingles last night.”

“Eliza.” There was as much pity as chastisement in that word. Brooke grabbed the bucket of chicken I’d just shoved into the fridge and brought it to me. “You need to eat.”

I scowled at the bucket but grabbed a lukewarm breast and tore into it with my fingers. “I’m sick of chicken.”

The bell that’d kept me from sleep earlier rang out again, and tiny feet pawed at my leg. I lowered my hand and the chunk of meat disappeared from between my fingers with two quick bites.

Brooke frowned at me, hands on her hips. “At least someone around here eats.”

Mr. Jingles eyed me cautiously, gaze darting between the chicken breast in my left hand and the empty fingers on my right. I leaned forward, my movement slow, but it didn’t matter. The cat scrambled away from me, hind feet skidding across the smooth wood floor, and dove underneath the old loveseat in front of the window.

With a sigh, I turned back to the island and my friend. “She misses him as much as I do.”

Brooke reached across the counter, her hand resting on my arm. “She’ll warm up to you, sweetie. Just give her some time.”

I forced a sad smile. The truth was, Mr. Jingles had never warmed up to me, even before Dad died. Dad was the only person she’d ever loved, or even tolerated. Now he was gone, and she was stuck with me.

A tear trickled down my cheek without me even noticing it had welled in the first place. Brooke came around the counter as the droplet fell to my lap and wrapped me once more in her arms.

“I miss him,” I told her, shoulders shaking. “I can’t believe he’s gone. And to make matters worse, he left me his company.”

My friend stilled, then pulled back. “He did what now?”

I wiped a knuckle under my eye. Took the paper towel Brooke tore from the roll and offered to me, drying my face. When I looked up at her again, her wide brown eyes were watching me, her dark brows raised.

“He left me the company. The entire thing. I’m now the proud owner of ninety-nine percent of Westbrook and Murphy Financial Services.”

“But…” Brooke blinked rapidly before shaking her head. “What about Niles?”