Page 51
At the mention of his name, I look up to the office window and catch the devil himself staring down at me. I can’t imagine a serious man like him high on drugs. With a slight smile, I wave.
He merely continues to stare down at me, and all that moves is the upward curl of smoke from his cigarette.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
“Oh, my word, look who decided to grace us with his presence! Patrick Boyd.” Laura’s voice snaps me out of my trance, and I turn to see an older man, perhaps in his sixties, with graying hair and a matching gray suit, stroll toward us. Slightly handsome for his age, I can almost hear Aunt Midge referring to him as a silver fox, as she sometimes says. He adjusts his glasses and extends a hand toward the woman beside me.
“Laura Blackthorne, you are, and always have been, a sight for sore eyes.” Taking her hand, he bends just enough to kiss her knuckles. “I wondered why the sun was shining so brightly today.”
“Oh, you charmer. Enough with that.”
His gaze falls on me, and for some reason, my stomach curls. Deep-set blue eyes carry a dull weariness, while his lips stretch in a too-bright smile. “And who might this be?”
“My companion, Isadora. This is the former Mayor Boyd.”
“Soon, I’ll have a fresh new title that sounds more impressive.” He holds out his hand, and I hesitate to offer him mine.
With reluctance, I allow him to kiss my knuckles, just as he did Laura’s a moment ago. “Nice to meet you.”
“My, my. You must be … eighteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“You remind me so much …” Lips slamming together, he shakes his head, his grip tightening around my fingertips. “Of my Amelia.”
Jesus. It’s then I remember he’s Amelia’s father. I was so focused on his appearance, I forgot who the hell he was.
“I’m sorry. For your loss.” I’ve always been terrible with these things. Words of sympathy and gratitude. While Aunt Midge always seems to know the right thing to say, probably from working so many years as a bartender, I’ve always stumbled in awkward silence.
“She was a …”
“Vision of grace and beauty,” Laura finishes. “Is she resting now? I swear that child sleeps all hours of the day.”
Mayor Boyd’s hand slips from mine, his brows crinkling. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“She’s, um …” A quick glance to the side shows Laura staring up at me, and I offer a subtle shake of my head, hoping to implore him with my eyes. “Might be time for another … dose.”
His gaze flicks to mine, then hers, and back to mine. “I see. It was good to see you again, Laura.” He takes her hand in his, wearing a smile that even I can see is fake. “I’ve got lots of work to do.”
“Well, let me fetch Roark so you can say goodbye. Roark! Roark!”
Wrenching his hand away, he pushes his glasses up onto his nose and strides off in the other direction.
“Well … how rude. Do you have any idea how much Roark misses his grandfather? Well, he hardly gets to see the man, and this is how he acts? Griffin would’ve been furious. After all we’ve done for that man.”
Would’ve?
“Where is Griffin now?”
“You can’t be serious. He’s been dead for a few years now.”
Interesting. She recognizes that her husband is dead, but not her daughter-in-law and grandson.
“I have to admit, I was never a child person. Yes, Lucian was my sweet baby boy, but I didn’t flock to children, the way some women do. They made me uncomfortable most times. Lambs of Satan, I called them. But Roark. Roark is my little angel. My delicious little ball of sunshine.” There’s a fondness in her chuckle, and her eyes seem to sparkle as she speaks of him. “I wonder if he’s awake from his nap.”
With a sigh, I lower my gaze. “No. Not yet.” I don’t know if it’s wise to play into her confusion, or not. My understanding of psychology is about as extensive as my understanding of microsurgery. It’s only having lived with an addict that I know to change the subject when things start getting squirrely with them. “Hey, what if I plant some flowers. Clean out these flowerbeds for you.”
“What’s the point? They’ll die. Everything dies here.”
