THIRTY-THREE

A lighthearted fact about chronic depression: One of the first things to bid you adieu is your sex drive. When you don’t have the energy or drive to get out of bed, the last thing you want is someone in the bed with you, especially when they’re advocating a vigorous skin-to-skin workout.

I am in a cemetery (aboveground, fortunately) pondering my sex drive. This is probably one of those thoughts to keep to myself.

He finished sorting the items in his trunk and turned when he heard the car roar in past the gates, dart around the parking lot, swing into a spot, and there was Angela, trying to get out of the vehicle before she unbuckled her seat belt. Or turned off the ignition.

How can you help but admire the woman’s drive to vindicate her uncle? She nearly strangled on her seat belt in her rush to get to the truth. Outstanding.

She waved and came over in a hurry, blowing her delightfully tousled bangs off her forehead. “Good morning almost afternoon.”

“Angela.” Ah. She’s here, so it must be time for me to stiffen up and display my lack of interpersonal skills. “Hello.”

“Not that I mind, but why did you want to meet here?” She looked around the beautiful cemetery while simultaneously avoiding the gaze of the Eternal Silence statue. “We’re not due at ICC until four o’clock.”

“I thought—”

She had slowed as she got closer and was only a couple of feet away. “Oh. Hey! Oh.”

He blinked, glanced down. He was in jeans and a short-sleeved dark green button-down. Loafers with socks. Most definitely with socks. “Something wrong?”

“No-no-no. I’ve just always seen you in suits. It’s nice. You’re nice. It looks nice, is what I mean. You do. Look nice.” She smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh, my God, I’ve got to start getting more sleep.”

He laughed. “That seems to be a common theme this month. I suspect the only one getting a full eight hours per is your uncle. And possibly your mother.”

“I promise I don’t always babble this much.” She looked down at herself. “But now I’m wondering. Am I overdressed?”

“Not at all.”

In fact, she was perfectly dressed in crisp black capris with a white blouse and over that, a deep rose sweater with whatever those wide necklines were, the cut that showed off her slender shoulders. Shiny black loafers completed the look, which was practical and lovely for the mild summer weather.

“You look—” Beautiful. Perfect. Cemetery-friendly? No. “You’re fine.” Oh, for . . .

He pulled his keys out of his pocket and hit the button to open the trunk, then stepped aside so she could see. He’d asked for, and gotten, permission to bring his car through the gates and park on the side road less than thirty feet from Donald Drake’s grave.

She looked. And looked. Five seconds in, his nerves started to jangle. Does she think I’m going to kill and bury her? Which is why we’re in a cemetery? That would be disastrous.

“This is—” She stopped, then started again. “It almost looks like you brought a lot of cleaning supplies and brushes and paint remover and garbage bags and the like. To my dad’s grave. Which was defiled. And which no one’s had a chance to clean up.”

He looked at her. Well. Tried. She was still staring into his trunk. “You said, ‘We’re gonna have to clean this up.’”

Her pale cheeks were flushed. “I didn’t mean you and I should clean it up. I meant the Drakes.”

You overstepped. Again. “Oh.”

She must have seen something in his expression because she reached out at once and seized his hand, then stared up into his face. This was startling and wonderful. She had never touched him outside of a handshake; she had never looked at him so intently. “You set up another visit with my uncle where he’s likely to insult you, and then you arranged to meet me here so we’d have time to clean up my father’s grave so my little brothers and cousins wouldn’t see it.”

“Yes. But I see now that—”

Her small hand clamped down on his, and he swallowed a yelp. Yeow! Stronger than she looks. “This is, no shit, one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

Oh, thank God. “It is? Really?” He could hear the delight in his tone and resigned himself to constantly making an ass of himself whenever he was in Angela Drake’s presence. “I mean, that’s nice. That you like my idea. And don’t feel I exceeded boundaries.”

“You’re not exceeding anything, I promise.” She paused. “Uh, I’ll rephrase.”

“And after, if you like, I was thinking we could have a picnic. If you want.” If you don’t think I’m a presumptuous freak with lustful designs on your body. Only one of those things is true.

Her grin was sunshine bright, and almost as warm. “Jason, I would love that. Which is weird. But I don’t give a shit. Also, I swear more when I’m nervous.”

“I make you nervous?” That came out pretty neutral. At least he didn’t say “I make youuuuu nervous????” with an accompanying flabbergasted expression.

“You, cemeteries in general, pending trips to prison . . . y’know, the usual.” She released his hand and he massaged the feeling back into his fingers when she wasn’t looking. She rummaged around in the trunk and brought out brushes, a pair of bright yellow dishwashing gloves, and one of the buckets. “Well, then. Let’s get to it. Also I might use one of those big Hefty bags as a smock.”

She did.

It was adorable.