Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

A FUNERAL WOULD BE MORE FUN

Holly

M onday morning rolls around entirely too soon for my taste. I wake up on the couch, unwind my cramped limbs, and crack my back. I pad into the kitchen in the fuzzy slipper socks I stole from Noelle, start the coffeemaker, and open the refrigerator.

After the tree-trimming extravaganza on Saturday, Noelle and Dad sent us home with two giant bags full of neatly packaged leftovers and two wholly unnecessary bottles of wine. The wine is stashed in the wine fridge built into the island and the food, along with Merry’s desserts, fills the refrigerator. Unfortunately, none of it screams “healthy breakfast.”

We could have, should have, gone to the market yesterday, but we spent our Sunday in our pajamas, lazing in front of the fire and reading. It was a reasonable approximation of how I planned to spend my solo anti-Christmas month—with the notable addition of Jack.

The coffee finishes brewing and I pour myself a mug. After a moment, I pull down a second mug and pour Jack one, too. Even though it pains me, I paw through the fridge until I find the bottle of eggnog-flavored creamer that Noelle slipped with the leftovers and splash a healthy dollop into Jack’s mug. Then I cross the living room, shifting the second mug from my left hand to my right, and rap on the bedroom door.

“Hrmph.” He sounds like a bear. Or maybe a Yeti.

“Are you decent?” I call. “I have caffeine.”

“Give me a second,” he responds in a more human-sounding voice.

I listen to the rustling through the door and can’t stop myself from wondering if he sleeps naked. Thankfully, before my thoughts wander too far down this path, the door swings open. Jack stands in the doorway, blinking. His hair is a shock of thick honey sticking straight up. His smooth chest is bare, but, praise Santa, he’s wearing a pair of buffalo plaid fleece pajama bottoms.

“Here.” I thrust the sweetened coffee toward him.

“Uh, thanks.” He takes it and gives me a bemused, sleepy smile.

Before he can close the door and shuffle back to bed, I step over the threshold. He opens his eyes wider. I laugh and put a hand on his chest, then realize what I’ve done and pull my hand back like he’s a hot stove.

“Sorry. I know you don’t have anywhere to be this morning, but I kind of need to use the bathroom and get ready for work.” I glance at the alarm clock by the bedside and add apologetically, “Nowish.”

Understanding dawns on his face and he scrubs a hand over his beard. “Right. Of course.”

He shuffles out into the living room, clutching the coffee between his hands, and I make a beeline for the bathroom.

When I emerge thirty minutes later, I look like Lawyer Holly. I’m wearing a black sheath dress with white piping and matching suit jacket, a pair of low-heeled pumps, and a strand of pearls. I’ve tamed my hair into a sleek bun and applied minimal makeup. Jack, still shirtless, lounges on the couch with his coffee and a sticky bun.

“Are you going to a funeral?” he asks around a mouthful of cinnamon dough.

“So close. I have a meeting at the DA’s office.”

He swallows. “About my case?”

I gulp down my last mouthful of room-temperature coffee. “Yep.”

His feet hit the floor as he straightens. “Should I come?”

I shake my head and walk into the kitchen to fill my travel mug with more coffee. “No need. This is just a preliminary meeting to hammer out discovery issues. You should do something less boring. Do you have any plans?”

He joins me at the counter, and the kitchen suddenly feels extremely close, cramped, and crowded. Probably because his bare chest is three, maybe four, inches away from my face. He reaches across me for the coffee carafe. I wheel around and yank the refrigerator door open. I plunk the creamer down on the counter near his mug and take a giant step backward like we’re playing a silent game of Mother, May I.

“I’m going to work on the banned booked bingo with a committee from the library over lunch. But aside from that the only thing on my schedule is our first Christmas event.”

He says this in a deliberately casual tone.

“What event?” I squeak.

He walks past me, brushing my arm with his, and points to the calendar I stuck to the freezer door with a whimsical snowman magnet. “Christmas Karaoke at the Tipsy Turnip.” He taps today’s block with his finger for emphasis.

“Christmas karaoke?” I bleat.

“Sure. It sounds like a blast. Besides, I heard you singing while we were decorating the tree.”

My cheeks flame. “The family tree. In private. I don’t sing in public.”

He cocks his head and studies my face. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not good enough to sing in front of people. I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“It’s karaoke, Holly. Nobody expects a professional performance.”

But I do. What’s the point of doing something poorly? What does that accomplish? Other than humiliating myself and undermining my credibility, of course. While Jack waits patiently for me to explain my reluctance, I’m reminded of Pedro’s painting. What had the judge said? Wabi-sabi celebrates the beauty in the imperfect and broken. Something along those lines.

I fill my lungs with air and exhale slowly, almost disbelieving the words I hear come from my own lips. “Okay, sure. Why not?”

He grins a thousand-watt smile that warms my whole body. “Bells, yeah!”

“Did you just say … bells, yeah?”

His mouth twitches. “Keep workshopping that one?”

“Uh, yeah.” I screw the lid on my travel mug and grab my coat. “One more thing, I have one condition for karaoke.” I lean in and give him a serious look. “Tell no one.”

T he day crawls by. Whenever I have an appointment in the afternoon—whether it’s something I’m looking forward to or, as in this case, something I’m heartily dreading—time seems to slow down and drag. Given the option, I’ll always schedule meetings for first thing in the morning. Because Anderson knows this, I assume the two o’clock time for our meet and confer at his office is an intentional power play. I resolve not to let him get in my head but find it nearly impossible to concentrate.

This is how I end up running “Jack Bell,” “Jack Bell Florida Keys,” “Jack Bell Sam Bell,’ “Jack Bell nomad,” and, finally, “Jack Bell witness protection” through every public and private search engine the public defender’s office has access to. The fact that my searches turn up nothing does distract me from the impending showdown—er, negotiation—with Anderson, but not in the way I’d hoped.

Who is this guy? And why is he a cipher?

Ruminating over these two questions consumes my afternoon until it’s time to leave for my meeting. But once I walk into the district attorney’s office, I put Jack’s nonexistent internet footprint out of my mind. I’m battle-ready when I present myself at the reception desk.

“Hi, Chantal.”

She gives me a knowing smile. “Hey, Holly. Twice in two workdays. Lucky us, and unlucky you.” Her voice drops. “They’re ready for you in Conference Room B.”

“Thanks. Wait—they?”

Her right eyebrow twitches upward. “Tabitha is sitting in. She had me move a conference call.”

I take a beat to process this news. My initial reaction is that being double-teamed by the DA dream team is a blow, but once I think it through, I realize there’s exactly one person who will be less pleased than I am by the district attorney’s involvement in this case. And that person is Anderson Wilson Carson, Esquire. My day just improved by about one million percent.

“Hello,” I chirp as I walk into the conference room.

“Holly.” Anderson pops to his feet, trying and failing to hide his sour expression.

Tabitha stays seated but extends her hand.

I ignore him and reach across the table to shake her hand, then pull out a seat and snap open my briefcase. Anderson drops back into his chair.

I make two decisions: one, to take charge of this meeting and, two, to address Tabitha rather than Anderson as much as possible. It’s an appropriate course of action—she is the chief DA, after all. The fact that it’ll leave Anderson silently seething is simply gravy, thick, delicious gravy.

“To begin,” I say, focusing exclusively on Tabitha, “I’d like to schedule Vicky Swanson’s deposition as soon as possible.”

Tabitha holds my gaze. “Before we start scheduling discovery, you should know that there’s been some outside interest in this case.”

Neither of us so much as glances at Anderson, but her tone leaves no doubt that she’s displeased with him.

“What kind of outside interest?”

“Vicky’s hung up flyers advertising a public meeting to discuss the books she deems inappropriate. She’s apparently planning to form a group.”

I nod. Noelle told me about this. “I’ve heard. Her choice of name for the organization is …unfortunate.” I want to say classic, hilarious, or over-the-top, but I keep my composure.

Tabitha chokes back a laugh. “Yes, well. Thanks to its name, her flyers announcing Citizens Upholding Normal Traditions went viral on social media.”

“How viral?”

“Think pandemic viral. Kids are stitching the image, creating songs, sharing it everywhere.”

A giggle escapes me. I can’t help it.

“The problem for your client and my office is that it caught the attention of a well-financed, nationwide coalition of book banners, either as a result of all the social media posts or through some other channel.” She pauses to shoot Anderson a displeased, somewhat distrustful look. “However they learned about, they’re about to descend on the town during the height of the holiday season—with the media in tow. It’s not ideal.”

I shoot a glance at Anderson, who can’t manage to hide his smug grin.

“It’s not ideal for most of us,” I agree. “Anyone with political ambitions is probably thrilled, though.”

This observation wipes the grin off his face. I don’t stop to wonder if he shared his five-year plan with Tabitha because I frankly don’t care. Because I know him. He’ll use the publicity to advance his career any way he can, no matter who he hurts in the process.

“This is an important issue,” he interjects. “Communities all around the country are dealing with it. We have the opportunity to contribute to the conversation in a meaningful way.”

“Spare me. The only contribution this case will make is as a textbook example of prosecutorial overreach.” I turn my attention back to Tabitha. “Do I need to ask Judge MacIntosh for a gag order?”

“I’ve instructed my staff and the Swansons not to comment publicly on the case. So I don’t think a gag order is necessary.”

I shift my gaze back to my ex-fiancé. “Bet that stings, huh, Anderson?”

His nostrils flare. “I have told you I go by Anders now. It’s disrespectful not use my preferred name and?—”

“You’re right. It is. And ordinarily, I would respect someone’s preferences. But when that someone disrespected me by having sex in a closet with our boss six months before our planned wedding, they’re not entitled to my respect. You’re lucky I don’t call you something much worse than your stupid given name.”

I close my briefcase. “I take it we’re not scheduling discovery today?” Even though my heart is thumping, my voice is steady as I address Tabitha.

“No. I wanted to give you a head’s up about the media,” she says. Then she holds my gaze. “About the other thing …”

I wait. She shakes her head and finally says, “I’m sorry it happened the way it did.”

I stand up and walk out without another word. Tabitha’s apology rings hollow. It’s far too little, far too late. But she’s right—the way it happened was worse than necessary. Not that there’s a good way to discover your fiancé’s true character.

Although maybe if I’d been honest with myself earlier and admitted that every compromise I made to keep the peace chipped away at who I was, I would have been able to walk away with my dignity intact. Instead, I was so opposed to admitting I made a mistake that I let Anderson shape me into his ideal district attorney’s wife until I was nothing but a shell wearing pearls and drinking wine spritzers.

I take a steadying breath as I push through the heavy door into the stairwell so I can go out the back way and avoid Chantal’s scrutiny. Looking back, all the signs were there—as obvious as blinking Christmas lights. I just closed my eyes to them.