She was different.
As Jack would say, You gotta do what you gotta do.
She climbed out of the car and tucked her phone into her back pocket. Watching her step, on the lookout for snakes, she trudged through the ankle-deep grass to reach the porch. Jack’s lawn service must have taken a couple of weeks off. She banged on the door. Listened to the silence on the other side for about ten seconds, then banged again.
When no response came, she went to the pot of dead flowers that sat next to the steps and dug around for the spare key. She wiggled it out, unlocked and opened the door, then tossed the key back into the pot and dusted off her hands.
The instant she crossed the threshold, the odor of fresh paint assaulted her senses. Bright-white walls and ceilings gave the old cabin a cottagey look. The too-quiet stillness and warm temperature set her on edge. Why wasn’t the air-conditioning on? Then she noticed all the windows were open. Maybe for the painting. She relaxed the slightest bit and wandered deeper into the space.
On the coffee table in front of the ancient sofa sat an open bottle of bourbon and a tumbler. The good news was the bottle remained full.
Finley relaxed a little more. Maybe he hadn’t jumped off the wagon. Then again, there was heart attack, stroke. She shuddered. He may have fallen off the ladder while painting.
“Just find him,” she muttered.
Heading into the short hall, she noted the bathroom was clear, as was the first of the two bedrooms. Jack’s was the one at the end. Door was open, but the room was dark.
“Jack?” She walked in, flipped on the light switch—and there he was in all his glory, stretched across the bed, facedown, wearing nothing but paisley boxers. She watched for a moment to see if he was breathing.
Oh yeah. He was breathing. Relief rushed through her, but it was short lived. Why the hell was he in bed at this hour of the afternoon?
She scanned the room for one or more empty bottles. None to be seen. The walls and ceiling, like the rest of the house, had been painted. She checked under the bed. Only dust bunnies.
“Jack.” She leaned down closer to his head and shouted loud enough to wake the dead. “Jack, what the hell?”
He didn’t move. “Keep it down,” he murmured, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“It’s after four o’clock in the afternoon, Jack,” she said a little quieter. “Nita sent me looking for you.”
A couple of swear words disappeared into his pillow. “I was up all night.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. Bringing her voice down a couple of decibels, she asked, “What the hell happened?”
He raised his head and shoved his long hair out of his face. He flopped onto his back and glanced up at her, his eyes seriously bloodshot. “The place needed painting.”
Okay. “You need coffee,” she suggested.
His eyes closed. “Yes. Please.”
“I’ll make coffee,” she said as she pushed up from the bed. “I expect you to join me in the kitchen, which means you have to get up and get dressed.”
“Give me five minutes.”
“Right. Five minutes.” Finley was guessing it would be at least ten.
After rummaging through the cupboards, she located the tin of coffee and a couple of mugs. The process of brewing coffee took a while, since she couldn’t quite bring herself to use the machine until she’d thoroughly washed it. Clearly Jack had not been here in a while. By the time the scent of coffee filled the room, he’d shuffled slowly in from the hall. His shirt wasn’t buttoned, but he was wearing pants and he’d fastened his long hair into place at the nape of his neck. His blond ponytail, now streaked with gray, had been his trademark hairstyle since he graduated from high school. He plopped down in the nearest chair, propped his elbows on the table, and rested his chin in his hands.
Even with no sleep, his long hair a little messy, and his face unshaven, he was still a good-looking guy. He remained fit, was mostly charming. The ladies liked him, maybe a little too much. His colleagues, on the other hand, did not. They called him clever and cunning and other things that didn’t bear repeating.
For Finley, he was her mentor and her friend. He was family. Always would be. She was named after him. The Fin in Finley was from Finnegan. How could she possibly cut him out of her life? Finley wasn’t like her mother; she couldn’t pretend he no longer existed.
Eight months ago when she’d taken the job with Jack’s small firm, the Judge had basically disowned her. It wasn’t like they had been on good terms anyway. The most noteworthy trouble had started when Finley met Derrick. Marrying him had made things worse. Apparently going to work for Jack had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, the cardinal sin.