He stood, finally, reaching down a hand for her. “I’ll help you.”
Together they went into the fifties-era kitchen, clean and white, as he’d left it just over five years ago. Mercy pulled the heavy cast iron skillet and the large pasta pot from the overhead rack, while Ava cracked eggs into an empty casserole dish to use for the egg wash. When his phone rang, he braced a hip against the counter and answered it, watching – pleased, delighted, a touch surprised – as Ava carried on without him, filling another casserole with seasoned flour and crumbled parmesan cheese, defrosting the chicken breasts.
“ ‘Lo?” he said, without checking the screen first.
It was Ghost, his brusque voice unmistakable, even over the phone like this. “You got home alright?” he asked without preamble.
“Making dinner right now,” Mercy assured. When Ava cast him a quick glance over her shoulder, he said, “Helping make dinner, actually. Chef Little Missus wants me to be clear about that.”
Ava smiled and turned back to her work, slicing into the chicken package with a knife.
“Everything was in order?” Ghost said, not amused by the joke.
“It was fine.”
“How’s Ava?”
Mercy rolled his eyes. The show of concern was nice, but he knew what this was really about for Ghost. He’d had the same thought Mercy had: Ava alone in the rented room above the bakery, no one to cry out to for help if the waitress-murderer showed up at the door. “She’s a little tired,” Mercy said, “but yeah, she’s fine.” Then, to ease the man further, he added: “I leave an arsenal with her every day, and she’s a smart girl. She’s not gonna go opening doors and letting people in.”
Ghost made a muffled sound. “Yeah, well, you make sure she knows to be careful. Scare her real good, if you have to, so she’s more alert.”
Mercy grinned. “There’s the sweet dad coming through. How do you manage all that sugar you dole out, Papa T?”
Ghost said, “Shithead,” and hung up, knowing full well, on his end, that he didn’t need to worry about Ava while she was in Mercy’s care, but unable, except on rare occasions, to ever say anything that came close to a compliment.
“Papa T?” Ava asked, as she poured oil into the skillet.
Mercy stepped up alongside her at the counter, and picked up the first chicken breast, dredging it in flour, then egg wash, then the crumbled parm. “I’ve been testing out grandpa names for him. Whatdya think?”
She made a considering face. “I like the Papa part. Not sure about the T.”
He shrugged. “Not like the kid’ll have two sets of grandparents to distinguish from, so it won’t matter.”
Ava gave him a sideways look, part-reprimand, part-anguish on his behalf. “We’ll tell him about Remy, though, sweetheart. He’ll know he has two grandfathers.”
“He?”
“I’m just guessing. I don’t like saying ‘it’ if I don’t have to.”
“Hmm.”
The oil had to be warm, so he passed over the chicken and she laid it in the skillet. Then he washed his hands, moved around her to dump the pasta in.
“Dad let you go from the shop on time today because of the girl who got murdered,” Ava said, not a question.
“He might have.”
“You guys were that worried?”
He gave her anoh, honey, pleaselook. “Girl gets murdered a hundred feet from our door, and I’m not supposed to come home a little early?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m glad you did.” She bumped his thigh with her hip as they stood together at the stove. “It’s just…” Her brows plucked together. “It hasn’t frightened me, not the way it has you two. I think because we’ve lived through so many threats that were directed toward us, this random one can’t get under my skin. I have to draw the line on the worrying at some point, or I’ll go nuts.” She turned a suddenly serious, appealing look up to him.
Mercy picked up on all the little unspoken cues, and felt his stomach clench. “What else are you worried about?”
Her hand, coated with flour, fluttered toward her stomach. “The doctor says everything’s fine–”
“Do you feel alright? Does something seem off?” His hands lifted and he was prepared to scoop her up, carry her straight to the hospital.
