Henry

Brett and I leave a late lunch meeting with some pension fund people. Only the most important people get lunch with the Locke cousins.

I do my best to impersonate a seasoned professional who is fully engaged in the discussion, but deep down, I'm still reliving that kiss, reeling from the way it tore through my body.

I tell myself the kiss was a good thing, that I’m expertly reeling her in. The good-cop charm thing is working, right?

Yeah. Working on me.

I want to explore every part of her. I want to taste her skin, to hear her come with my name on her lips. Fuck her down to her toes.

Know everything about her.

I keep going back over our conversation, wishing I’d learned more about what happened back where she came from.

What happened in that town? How did she survive so young and on her own with a kid in a place like New York? How did she think up the Etsy thing? It was hugely resourceful.

Her Etsy bio suggests she also designs high-end human jewelry. Our PI thinks that’s part of what brought her to the city. Dreams of a fashion career.

After lunch, Brett and I head out to the site of an Olympic-sized ice arena and hotel complex in south Brooklyn that’s an important joint venture with our Canadian partners.

Brett and I still like to walk the sites when we can.

It’ll be a good thing to do. A walk through a massive construction site will center me, get my brain off pink tongue tips and soft sighs.

It goes well for a bit. We talk over plans for making up a rain delay and go over some plumbing issues.

Then I see the griffin on the side of the truck of one of the concrete contractors. I snap a picture of it, imagining texting it to Vicky. Imagining her face when she sees it, wondering where she is.

Is she making dog collars? Where does she make them? Does she listen to music while she works? I want in on her dreams, her keeper bookshelf, her playlists, her comfort TV show, her hated foods. I want in on her.

I turn off the phone and shove it in my pocket.

Kaleb shows up with the Canadians. We put on the blue Locke hard hats and head on in.

Brett’s side of the family was never interested in the Locke business—it was my dad and my grandfather who ran it.

But Brett got bitten by the building bug early, so he spent a lot of time with my dad and grandfather and me out on the sites when we were boys.

After things got busy, it was Renaldo we’d tag along with. Renaldo was the master builder, overseeing the superintendents who oversaw the projects.

We spent a lot of summers with hammers in our hands under the watchful eye of Renaldo.

While we’re out on the site, the partners ask about the Smuckers stunt—that’s the way they put it.

I catch Brett’s eye. “It’s been everything we could’ve imagined,” I say. “A unique way to honor Bernadette’s memory.”

“We’re having a ceremony where Smuckers endows a shelter,” Brett says. “We’ll normalize things after that.”

They look over at me and I smile. “But Smuckers is in complete agreement with us as far as a project like this goes.”

“Two paws up,” Kaleb adds, and everybody laughs.

Kaleb and the partners take off. Brett and I hit the falafel stand a few blocks down. “I can’t believe it’s working this well,” he says. “The Smuckers thing. It’s fucking brilliant. As long as you can keep her under control.”

“It’s brilliant as long as nobody talks,” I say, avoiding the keeping-her-under-control part.

Again I’m back there. I thought I’d die when she broke off the kiss.

But with Vicky, I actually am interested.

How did I get back to Vicky?

I update Brett on my efforts to reach out to everybody who was at the will reading, reminding them to keep the real story about Smuckers and my mom to themselves. “One drunken conversation with the wrong person and we’re seriously fucked.”

Brett turns to me. I know he’s thinking of my father even before he says it. “He’d roll around in his grave.”

Meaning, if he knew what Mom did.

“He’d kick right out of his coffin,” I growl.

We get our falafels and eat them side-by-side, leaning against the car, watching the workers. It never gets old. In some ways, Brett and I are still those boys who can’t get enough of diggers and cranes.

When I finish my falafel, I fish out my phone. I just need to send the picture and be done with it.

“Who are you sending a Morrison truck to?”

“Vicky. She has a griffin thing.”

He lays into his second falafel without comment.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“She’s handled.”

“Did I say anything?” he says.

“You were specifically silent,” I say. “So, yeah.”

He snorts.

I pause, thumbs poised, unsure what to say along with the griffin pic. I type Thanks for the trees. Then I change it to Here’s to griffins and mad forestry expertise, then I delete it.

I type Friend of yours? Then erase it. Then, Thinking about bow ties. Then I change it to This guy is asking where TF my bow tie is.

Delete.

This is all very disturbing, because I happen to be a master of texting the just-right thing to a woman, no matter what the circumstance, from pre-hookup banter to post-hookup emojis.

I don’t know what to text to Vicky. How can I not know?

But I do know. I really want to say, I fucking loved kissing you. I forgot what it was like to kiss somebody because it felt like the only thing in the world worth doing. I forgot what it was like to sit and make things with somebody who gives a shit how curlicues line up. I wish you were here.

“Soooooo,” Brett says. “How is operation good cop going? Operation hot cop?”

I bristle at the name. “Just concentrate on your part.”

More specific silence.

I look up. “What?”

He nods at my phone. “Cat got your thumbs?”

“If I’m going to do a thing, I’m going to do it right.”

“Okay, Uncle Andy,” he jokes, meaning my dad.

“It’s under control,” I growl.

“Fuck’s sake,” he says, not loving the growl. “You sure?”

I stare at the image. It’s a cartoon version, but fierce, protective. “She has a griffin thing. From when she first got to town.” I turn to him. “Did that PI ever say anything about any kind of bullying incident in her past?”

“No. Though bullying doesn’t always get reported. Her background is a little sparse. Her internet footprint is small for somebody her age.”

“Something big happened back in Prescott,” I say. “Somebody really did a number on her. Turned a lot of the town against her, it sounds like.”

“I can ask the PI about it.”

“Do it,” I say. “Somebody went after her, and I want to know who. I want to know what happened and I want to know who.”

I can feel his eyes on me. “Is this part of operation good cop?”

“Just get me the details.” I type Someone says hi and send it off.