The Petersons must always have their annual Thanksgiving party.
Grant sighs, wishing he doesn't have to do this. Sometimes, having a civilian cover just complicates things. But he must play the role of a suburbanite, as much as he loathes to. He looks up and down the street until his eyes settle on a familiar white sedan. Grant Ward walks over to his wife's car, and he knocks on her window. He waves at her, tugs at his tie, and says, "How did it go? The problem with the servers? Is it gone?"
"Fine, good. You?" Skye raises her eyebrow. She rolls up the window and turns off the engine. Skye picks up a white package on the passenger seat and gets out of the car. Together, the Johnson couple walk over to the Peterson's spacious home. They cross the street, and Grant puts his hands in his pocket.
"Good," he answers, his shoes hitting the sidewalks loudly. He can't quite get rid of that image. His wife. In someone else's arms. Instead of his. Defeating twenty—hell, maybe even forty—people like Lucky would be a cakewalk compared to his marriage. "Played some poker with the rich guy's lawyers. We played for about two hours. Maybe less."
"How did it go?"
He can't resist a smile, just thinking about the entire job. And the pun. He seriously can't forget about the pun. "I got Lucky."
Her eyes flicker up, towards the sky. And then she rings the doorbell. It's a gentle buzz, and then the door opens. A tall black man with kind eyes, Mike Peterson rushes at Grant and swiftly hugs him in a bear hug. He smells distinctively of peppermint aftershave, and Grant tries not to breathe in too much of it. Too strong. "Happy holidays, neighbors!"
Grant winces. He forgets how touchy Mike can get.
Then Mike's sister, Mindy, calls out, "Mikey, who is that?" She comes into view, wearing a white apron and a turtleneck underneath it. She smiles broadly and hugs Skye. "Skye! Long time, no see." And then she gasps at the white box in Skye's hands. "Oh, Skye. You shouldn't have!"
"But I did," says Skye, plastering a smile on her face. "Pot roast. It isn't much, but I'm sure that everyone would love to have some of it. I heard from the restaurant's reviews that it is absolutely excellent." She walks right in, and Grant follows her in. He shuts the door and ignores the announcing bells hanging on the doorknob. "It says that the vegetables are sourced from local farmers in New Jersey. Organic, of course. Little sodium. No preservatives like MSG. The taste is absolutely—"
"Grant!" calls out another neighbor. He wears a suit, just without a tie. His collar is slightly rumpled, and he smells a little bit like beer. And champagne. Grant, unfortunately not remembering his name, knows he works on Wall Street. An investment banker who works at Bank of America. Or something like that. Too many suburban couples to keep straight.
"Hi," he says back, shaking his hand. He and his wife part ways, and he can't help but try to keep an eye on her. Nowadays, it seems like he is watching his wife much more than looking out for suspicious figures and people. Offhandedly, he comments, "The stock market is going down. It must be an absolute disaster for you."
They head to the backyard's patio, and Grant sits down at an empty chair. Five other guys—all of them working in finance or medicine—group around the table and play Texas holdem with vigor. They all greet Grant with enthusiasm, and he greets them back with a hand shake.
He forgets how much he hates these things. The only plus is the food. Free food, but he can never resist tasting it for any poisons. Old habit, but there is no such thing as being too paranoid.
"How is your company, Grant?" says the suit on the right.
"Growing as usual," he answers, smiling. He watches the poker cards and immediately begins looking for obvious tells. "If it grows any larger, I'm afraid that the competitors will start paying attention. I'm already stealing their clients."
They laugh.
Bob, which is the only name Grant remembers because of some neighborhood scandal involving peanut butter and his grandson with peanut butter allergies, mutters, "Very good, very good. I heard that your stocks are going down, Rick."
"Absolutely," Rick confirms, loosening his tie. He takes a long gulp from his beer bottle and shakes his head. "But we will bring it back up next year." He raises a fist at the ceiling.
"We'll see about it." Grant nods, doubting his words. From the look on Rick's face, it's clear that Rick doesn't believe in himself or his company. He makes a mental note to check whatever company Rick is working at—just for the fun of it. "We'll see. I'll be watching you in the news."
Holding a plate of pot roast, Mike sets it down in the center of the table. He takes the last empty chair and says, "Grant, I heard about your company. Expanding into India and East Asia? You're building something over there for a construction company and a rich CEO? And that deal with Japan. It's really impressive." He takes off his mittens and smiles in admiration. "The firm has created a lot of beautiful buildings."
"Yes," he agrees, taking ahold of the poker cards and acting as the dealer. He passes out two per each person and then takes two for himself. He sets down the entire deck. "The firm is doing incredibly well. While the market takes a huge dip down into the hellhole, I'm surviving."
"And thriving," adds Bob. "Good luck to you, Grant."
Skye joins the gaggle of mothers and watches Mike's sister hold her child in her hands. She coos at her and then bops her nose. Skye smiles lightly, and for a second, she wishes she is good with kids. Mindy clearly is.
Then her child sneezes on Mindy's shirt. Drool drips onto the blue scarf, and Mindy gasps sharply. She quickly shoves Kisha into Skye's arms and grabs ahold of the stain. "Please hold her while I clean off." Then Mindy is gone, walking upstairs.
Skye opens her mouth in shock. Frightened for the first time in several years, she gently rocks Kisha back and forth and hopes that Mindy will be back as soon as possible. Like right now. She sits down on the white leather loveseat. Kisha turns her head around and stares at Skye for a long moment.
Resting on Skye's left, the mother with a baby boy says to Skye, "Babies see everything, you know. Almost as if they can see right into your soul."
Skye gulps and give Kisha a careful grin. Please like me, please like me, she thinks quietly. She smiles a little wider, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Grant staring at her with mild surprise. He then grabs a beer from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet and pops it open. He drinks a slow gulp and watches her with Kisha with an unreadable expression.
She turns back to Kisha.
And as luck would have it, Kisha smiles.
"Aww…" Mindy coos, picking up Kisha. She turns to Skye and rocks Kisha. "I think Kisha likes you very much, Skye."
Skye gives Mindy a relieved smile. "Yeah…"
She turns back for Grant, but he's already gone.
Back at home, she puts on her designer pajamas and walks into the bathroom. She picks up her toothbrush from the cabinet and then carefully brushes her teeth. Next to her, in his own sink, Grant gargles loudly. Raising her eyebrow, Skye brushes the sides of her teeth as she eyes his very exposed throat.
Too loud, she thinks.
An hour later, she sits in the living room. She flips through the iPad, playing some Angry Birds. They fly in the air and kill some green pigs. She smiles when all of them die. Pigs. Ugly green pigs.
A sudden crank draws her attention. She looks over to Grant and scowls at him. He doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to bring the armchair all the way back. He lays down and begins to type loudly on his laptop.
She grits her teeth. Too many sounds.
In the bed, Grant covers his eyes with his pillow. Why does she have to be reading a fashion magazine at this time? He wonders that question several times. Is there something in the magazine that really interests her? He flips to his side and groans. He sits up and then walks downstairs.
He fills his glass with water and then turns on his iPad. He goes through news, trying to find anything interesting or strange. Nothing at all. There is a tiny article about a few murders, but no one really cares. A few pimps die? No one cares or sheds a single tear. There will always be someone else who takes up the space they left behind.
He turns it off and then walks back up the stairs. It creaks, but he doesn't mind it too much. To his relief, the light in his bedroom is off. Skye is going to sleep.
He climbs back into bed.
Two phones ring.
Skye immediately wakes up and pats the dark gray nightstand next to her. Knocking the iPad on the floor, she finds her cell phone and says, "Hello? This is Daisy Johnson." She ignores the fallen tablet and listens very carefully.
"Skye, there's a problem," says DC. "I won't explain it to you right now, but I'm alerting you that there's a very serious issue. I need the best. The best of the best."
Next to her, she hears, "Grant Johnson. This is the second time this week you have called me. What is going on in France? There shouldn't be this many problems. Everything was supposed to be on schedule."
She turns back to her conversation, listening to Phil talk in her ear. Resisting a yawn, she says, "Dad, it's three in the morning. You couldn't call at a different time? Is everything alright?"
"This is important," replies Phil, his voice low and soft. Skye strains her ears to pick up every word. "A problem. Simmons will explain it at the office tomorrow. You're going to need to come in on Saturday. Understand, Skye?"
"Yeah. Of course. I'll be there. Bye, Dad," she answers, resisting another yawn. Rubbing her eyes, she hangs up. She leaves her phone charging.
"Right. I understand. I'll fix the problem myself. I'll even fly there if it makes you feel much better," says Grant, on his own cell phone. There is a beep, and he hangs up. He turns to Skye. "What's up?"
Skye ignores the pricks of her conscience. She decides to tell another lie. "Dad is not feeling well. My mother is freaking out. She thinks he has some cancer or something in stomach. Probably is just acid stomach, nothing big of a deal."
Grant places the cell phone on the nightstand. "Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow. Go and see your father in New Jersey. Your mother would be really happy to see you again."
Skye smiles, cursing herself for telling her secrets sooner than before. She slips underneath the covers and murmurs, "You're so sweet."
"I'm just thinking of your dad."
Then she frowns. I probably spoke too soon, she thinks. But she speaks. "Who was on your line?"
"Paris branch. Something was off. The dimensions of the mansion we're trying to build in a small town near Paris is incorrect. I might have to go and fly out to France to take an actual look," he replies, slipping back under the covers. "But we'll see."
"Yep." A pause. "Good night."
"Good night." And the lamp on the night stand winks out with a click.
Hahaha. If you squint hard enough, you'll find a bit of Brett Dalton in Grant Ward. But yay! Another chapter is up. I'm getting closer... A little closer to Grant and Skye finding out the elephant in the room. Stay tune. Oh, and please keep on reviewing. I always love a few comments. Critical or just plain "Dang it, Penelope. You need to keep writing!"