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Chapter Two

Two

I spent an extra day down the shore. It meant I had to leave on Monday before dawn to get home, shower, change, and go back to my office at a reasonable hour, but it was worth it. I loved Asbury Park in December—the windswept beach, the absolute quietness of it, the Christmas tree Richie and I passed every day during our long walks by the water—a scraggly pine bedecked with painted seashells. I loved the cold, the way it made us huddle together, and the fact that the Jersey Shore's population thinned by more than half during the offseason, making it possible to get a table at any restaurant we wanted, no matter the time.

And the sunsets. Always, the sunsets.

By the time Rosie and I got back to my apartment, I was already deeply homesick for New Jersey. I listened to Springsteen on Spotify as I got ready for work—changing out of my comfy sweats and into a Brunello Cucinelli sweater dress—replaying scenes from the weekend in my mind. I thought about everything Richie and I had said to each other—and everything we didn't say. Beyond that brief exchange outside his apartment, we'd never gotten around to answering the dreaded "Where do we go from here?" question. But maybe that was for the best. When it came to relationships, I'd never done well with road maps. It was better to take things one day at a time. And on this particular day, at this particular time, anything felt possible—even moving away from Boston.

Once I was dressed and Rosie was fed, I stretched a canvas. After work, I planned to paint the view from Richie's bedroom.

"What do you think, Rosie?" I said as I eyed the blank white cloth. "Winters on the Jersey Shore? Summers? The whole year?"

Rosie barked.

"You're right," I said. "It might be difficult to move in with Richie right away with his son there every other week. I mean…Richard Junior is great, but am I ready to be a stepmom?"

Rosie barked again.

"Find a place of my own down there? That could be very expensive, Rosie. Especially if I want to keep this loft."

She followed me into the kitchen. I tossed her a treat and thanked her for listening.

My phone dinged. It was a reminder that, at five p.m., I had an appointment with Susan Silverman. It couldn't have come at a better time.

When I arrived at work at ten a.m., my new-ish receptionist, Blake James, was sitting at his desk, taking a selfie. Once an influencer with hundreds of thousands of followers, Blake had deleted his Instagram account four months ago following a family tragedy. But in his case, apparently, old habits died hard.

"Morning, Blake," I said as I walked in.

"Morning," he said. "I was just trying to get a look at this…this wound."

"What wound?"

"This one." He pointed to his jaw. "I cut myself shaving this morning. I think it might be infected."

"I don't see anything."

"You sure?"

I moved closer. From this distance, I could make out a tiny scratch in Blake's otherwise flawless skin. "It doesn't look infected," I said. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Then it's probably not."

Blake's face relaxed. I was used to this. Blake was a very young twenty-two. He'd grown up mostly without a mother and had been through a lot of trauma within the past year. And so, as muscular and self-assured as he appeared on the surface, he was continuously showing me his ouchies. "Thank you, Sunny," he said.

"Don't mention it."

He put down his phone. "How was your weekend?"

"Fantastic."

"Did Rosie have fun?"

"She did."

"I wish you'd brought her in. I miss her."

"She was pretty tired this morning," I said. "But I'll bring her in tomorrow."

"Cool," Blake said. He loved Rosie. I appreciated that. I also understood his need for a job, and, following the uptick in business, my need for a receptionist. But still, it was hard getting used to anyone in my office every day—especially on those mornings when I wasn't in the mood to talk. Blake was always in the mood to talk. Always.

"I made coffee," Blake said. "It's really good. I saw this TikTok where a girl put a teaspoon of nutmeg and a teaspoon of cinnamon in with the grounds. She said it makes the coffee less bitter, so I tried that and it worked. You want some?"

"Maybe later," I said. "Thanks." I started toward my office.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Blake said. "You have a customer…Sorry. Client," he said. "I'm still learning this private investigator lingo."

"Potential client? Because I haven't taken on anybody new."

"Right. Potential," he said. "Anyway, she's in your office."

"I don't remember scheduling any meetings."

"Yeah, it wasn't on the calendar. But she said it was urgent."

"Who is she?"

"Dylan's mom."

"Dylan Welch?"

"Yeah."

"I said no to his father."

"His mom said ‘no' wasn't an acceptable answer."

I let out a long, draining sigh.

"Rich people," Blake said. "Am I right?"

"Why did you let her in?"

Blake's cheeks reddened. He picked at a nail. "You know how pushy Bill Welch was?"

"Yeah?"

"How he kept having his assistant call about his son over and over again after you said no and recommended other PIs, and how he sent you all those emails telling you that the names you sent were unacceptable, and we were both like, ‘What the hell is his problem?' Remember all that?"

"I remember, Blake," I said. "It was a week ago."

"Well, his wife, Mrs. Welch. Lydia."

"Yeah?"

"She's worse."

On cue, the door to my office opened. A tall blond woman stepped out, sporting head-to-toe Chanel, a fresh blowout, huge but tasteful diamond stud earrings, and a look on her face like she wanted to speak to the manager—and rip her limb from limb if she didn't get her way.

Blake shuddered, noticeably.

"Lydia Welch?" I said to the woman.

"Sunny Randall," she said. "We need to talk."

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