Jesse Sinclair.Even his name was perfect.
Back then, she’d insisted to anyone who’d listen that her taste in men had matured to the extent that she held the word “discerning” in high esteem and wouldn’t fall for just any musician who showed an interest.
And yet…
Jesse showed an interest, and despite her new mantra, Molly fell hard and fast. Unfortunately, it was over as quickly as it began. She still had no idea why, but there was nothing she could do about it. The choice wasn’t hers to make. After all, when a person shows you who they really are, you should believe them—well, according to the voices of wisdom on social media.
And Jesse the Band Guy had definitely shown Molly who he was. Apathetic and obstinate, with a pinch of vanity for extra added spice.
Now Molly’s days of dating band boys were long over: her status—single by choice but still looking with mild interest. Drummers and guitarists need not apply. She sipped her latte, contemplating how the term “shitty love life” from her earlier years was still applicable today. Who would have thought?
“Anyway, he was just another dud in a long line of duds, so don’t worry about it. I did really like him, though. He was so damn sexy.”
CeCe chuckled. “Yes, I recall you mentioning that at the time. Actually, more than once.”
They sat and talked for the next half hour, and as the minutes ticked toward four and their conversation moved on from exes to more important topics, Molly relaxed. Because, while her friends had claimed Jesse worked here, there was certainly no sign of him.
With their plates and coffee cups empty, CeCe glanced at her watch. “Right, I think they’re about to close, and I have a movie date with my sexy husband at seven, so there’s a hundred things I need to do before then.”
They stood and made their way to the entrance, where CeCe opened the door. Molly was about to step outside when someone behind them called, “Excuse me?”
She turned. Dressed in chef whites, checkered pants, and a black cap with its bill facing backward, Jesse Sinclair stared down at her. “You forgot this.” His voice was soft as he offered Molly the manila envelope. He didn’t address her by name, but once again, his expression screamed recognition.
A swarm of butterflies stirred in her stomach and fluttered toward her heart. It wasn’t until CeCe cleared her throat that Molly released herself from his gaze.
“Of course.” She took the offered envelope and slipped it into her tote. “Thank you.”
When she looked back up again, his lips kicked up a fraction. It was a smile she didn’t recognize, but over the years, even mannerisms could change.
“You’re very welcome.”
As they hit the pavement, Molly outwardly kept her cool. It had been eight summers, and she turned twenty-nine in a few weeks; he should no longer affect her in that way. And yet…
“Holy shit, he does look kind of familiar now I know the connection.” CeCe grinned. “He’s aged well. Nice teeth too. You should definitely ask him out.”
“Stop it. He’s probably taken anyway.” Molly chuckled. Even so, she struggled to think straight as Jesse the Band Guy once again took up residence in her imagination.
“Just saying.”
Back home in her tiny house, Molly kicked off her shoes and settled at the two-seat island to read her brother’s text.
Patrick:Hey. Some legal firm called the folks’ landline today looking for you. Thought it was a scam so cut the call. I’ll let you know if they call back.
He went on to apologize for not sending her mail sooner, but without a single responsible bone in his body, Patrick had always done things at his own pace: slow and unsteady. Her parents had jetted off to North America for an Alaskan cruise six weeks prior and, rightly or wrongly, with Patrick between jobs and living at the family home for the summer, had left him in charge of their affairs. He’d probably driven around with Molly’s mail on the back seat of his Ford Ranger for weeks.
Molly reread the first part of his text, then picked up the manila envelope.
After opening the first envelope and confirming it was indeed her currency challenged credit card statement, Molly moved to the counter and poured hot water from the kettle into her special china teacup, the one and only Jesse Sinclair still muddling up her thoughts.
The outside of the second envelope gave no hint of its contents. A post office box address occupied the top lefthand corner, and on the right, an ordinary postage stamp, almost unheard of since email took over worldwide communication.
While her green tea cooled, Molly ripped open the flap, removed the letter, and skimmed over the firm’s letterhead. It wasn’t another statement after all.
Falls Legal. She’d never heard of them, but that didn’t mean much. Clifton Falls was a thriving provincial city, and as a recent semi-permanent resident, Molly was still finding her way around.
Dear Ms. Parker,
I’m writing in regard to a matter concerning one of our deceased clients.
