"Hopelessly." There was no shame in his tone. In fact, it was edged with pride. "She keeps me honest, keeps me on my toes. And if you ask me, you could do with a little fire-walking yourself. You're far too comfortable in your misery, Dante."
Dante grunted, swirling the amber liquor in his glass. The lights from the ballroom flickered behind them, a muffled waltz floating past the glass doors.
"Comfortable, maybe. Miserable, no. I just prefer solitude over small talk and sycophants."
Jackson regarded him quietly for a moment, gaze shrewd.
"That assistant of yours, what's her name? The one you've been scowling about all week. She's got you off balance."
Dante shot him a glare, but Jackson only grinned wider.
"Don't look at me like that. You've barely muttered a word about anyone in years, but I've heard her name twice today. Once from you, once from Magda, who is plotting your demise as we speak."
Dante snorted.
"Magda will survive. She always does."
Jackson leaned in, conspiratorially.
"So, are you going to do something about it? Or just moon about, gazing at the water like a tragic poet?"
The question hung in the air, mingling with the scent of rain and distant brine. Dante let the silence stretch, the memory of his assistant's sharp wit flashing unbidden through his mind. He took a long drink, letting the scotch burn its way down.
Jackson clapped him on the shoulder.
"Come on, man. Let's at least pretend we're enjoying ourselves. For Jerri's sake, if not yours."
Dante hesitated, then nodded. Perhaps the night wasn't completely lost. And maybe, just maybe, he'd let the idea of possibilities linger a little longer.
Chapter 6
Courtney wasn't having the very best day. It had started early this morning right after she had the great idea of treating herself to some grits and shrimp. She could not tell if it was the grits or the shrimp that had gone against her.
She was almost three months pregnant and was just starting to feel it. The queasy stomach, the dizzy spells, the lethargy and the tender nipples were symptoms she had read about in the books she had bought. It was taking her an enormous amount of effort just to get going and in her estimation, she knew it was going to get worse.
She was going to have to reveal her condition to her boss and risked losing her job. She could not bear to think about it. She enjoyed her job: the challenge of it, the variation each day brought and the fact that it kept her on her toes, literally.
She was just drinking her second cup of tea when he walked in.
Placing the cup carefully in the saucer, she rose automatically as he wandered in.
"They sent me straight up." His old weather-beaten face had a defeated look about it and the light green eyes were a bit dazed. "My name is Ian McLean." He had a hat in his hands; the rim crumpled from his fingers. "I don't have an appointment, but I need to speak to Mr. Livingston. It's about my store on Penn Street."
"Mr.--"
"They're planning on tearing down all the shops and making way for a mall." He swayed and had her rushing around to take his arm.
Guiding him to a chair, she pressed him down and went to pour some tea and brought it to him.
His hands trembled as he accepted the cup, the hat now resting forgotten in his lap. Courtney noticed his nails, rough and rimmed with the dust of long hours, decades, spent tending shelves and sweeping his own floors. She sat across from him, folding her hands in her lap, trying to steady her own nerves for his sake.
"Thank you, miss," Ian said quietly, gazing into the tea as if it held answers.
Courtney nodded, offering a reassuring smile. "You're welcome. Mr. Livingston's on a call just now, but I can let him know you're here. Can you tell me a bit more about what's happening on Penn Street?"
He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping further. "It's the city council. All the old shops: mine, the bakery, even Mrs. Brown's laundry. They say it's progress, but it feels like the end of something." His voice wavered, thickened by worry, nostalgia, and a trace of bitterness.
Courtney glanced toward the window, the city's hum muffled by the office walls. She wondered how many stories like his threaded through the blocks and avenues, quietly threatened by blueprints and bulldozers.
