Author Note: These really lead into It's Five O'clock Somewhere. I hope you're wanting to see more of Tristan's parents. 'His parents? Not great' usually means they are supervillains. But I don't know. Maybe they have their own stuff going on. And have feelings.
Part 3
3.16: October 31, 2016
"Okay," Tristan said as he poured a cup of coffee. He returned the pot to the appliance and leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossing his legs at his ankles. "I know what we should be for Halloween this year."
"This year? You mean tonight?" Rory asked.
"Mm-hmm." Tristan stirred in some sweetener before taking a sip.
Rory picked up an empty cup to pour her own coffee. "You want to dress up?" she deadpanned.
"I do."
"In a costume?"
"Yes."
Rory eyed him over her cup as she took a long sip. "Let me guess," she said. "You want to go as Jack Nicholson from Chinatown. Which means you're going as a detective—which means you aren't going as anything."
"Wrong. I thought of the perfect couple costume for us."
Rory's cup of coffee stopped before it reached her mouth for a second sip. "Really."
"Really."
"Halloween is today," Rory protested. "And you want to dress up as a couple—which implies a theme." She crossed the kitchen to the pantry to take out a box of Pop Tarts. "We don't even have time to make costumes." She opened the box and sat it on the island.
"Not a problem," he said as he went over to root through the box. "Do we have any without icing?"
Rory's face screwed up in confusion. "Why would we have those?"
"For a healthier breakfast option," he answered. "I like the blueberry kind—for future reference."
"Anyway," Rory said, opening her own tin foil package. "What do you want to go as?"
"Adam and Eve."
Rory chewed a bite of Pop Tart and stared at him. "So you want to wear leaves in strategic locations?"
He shook his head. "No, I was thinking Adam and Eve, pre-Original Sin," he said. "Before Eve ate the apple, they didn't know they were naked yet. So they didn't cover up."
"You want to dress down for Halloween."
"Yup." He grinned. "Trick or treat."
"We wouldn't be able to go anywhere."
"I know. It's win-win," he said. "It'll be just us in our own Garden of Eden."
Rory finished off her cup of coffee and went to the cabinet to retrieve a travel mug. She poured herself more coffee. "I'm going to be downstairs in the gallery handing out candy with Olivia. And you're going to be working late." She took the empty pot to the sink to rinse it out.
Tristan switched off the kitchen light and pointed at her. "Just be in your costume when I get home, and I'll catch up." He followed Rory to the apartment door.
"Are you sure you want to be Adam?" she asked. "You'd probably be more suited to play the snake."
3.17: December 19, 2016
From the passenger's side seat of Tristan's car, Rory glanced up from her book as he checked his blind spot and changed lanes, passing a blue car—not for the first time that day. "That car's cruise control is more consistent than your Tristan control," she commented.
He finished passing the car and returned to the lane he'd been in. "I like to stay stimulated."
Rory went on reading as they continued to zoom down the interstate, passing a few other vehicles. She finished the chapter she was reading and clicked on her book light as Tristan transported them closer to Hartford.
He abruptly took his foot off the gas to decelerate. "Damn it," he said, focusing on something in his rear view mirror.
Rory frowned as Tristan exited several miles early. As he shifted gears to slow down and park, she put her book down on her lap and peeked over her shoulder.
With his jaw ruefully clenched, he kept his eye on the mirror. "State trooper. I didn't even see him." He reached over to the glove compartment and took out an envelope.
Rory looked over at the speedometer and then to Tristan. "We weren't even late," she said. "Why the hurry?"
"Your mom will eat all the apple tarts before we get there. You know Emily only serves them at Christmas dinner."
"She serves them after dinner, not before. So Mom can't eat them all."
"Unless she snuck in the kitchen and stuffed her purse," Tristan said. "And you know she would."
Rory glanced out the back window again. Twilight was falling over Connecticut, but she could make out the Stetson-style hat of the state police officer as he approached the Camaro. She looked back at her husband. "Do you want me to flirt our way out of a ticket?"
He gave her a doubtful look. "Do you consider yourself an effective flirt?"
"I can flirt," she insisted.
"Let's not make it worse." He adjusted in his seat to pull his wallet out of his back pocket and lowered his window.
The state trooper had made it to the car. He leaned down to peer inside. "License and registration," he said.
Tristan wordlessly handed over both and the officer walked back to his patrol car.
"Do you think he'll let you off the hook?"
"Probably not. Speeding is speeding." He put the window up to keep the cold air out.
"Maybe he'll make an exception since you're in the same business."
Tristan scoffed. "And maybe I should drop my last name and act like it means something," he said. "I'm sure that would add to his enjoyment."
"Why?"
He turned to her. "I love arresting rich people. It's awesome."
Rory gave him a perplexed look as she thought about this admission.
He helped her out, "They think they're above everyone else, but they aren't above the law."
"They can buy their way out of trouble."
"Not before the perp walk."
Rory stared at him a second. "You're a dangerous combination, aren't you?" she asked rhetorically. "You wield authority and you're in their club."
He made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Indignantly, he said, "I am nothing like those people . . . and yes." He glanced up at his rearview mirror. "Here he comes."
Rory glanced. "I think that walk would be considered a saunter."
"He probably thinks he's really hot shit."
Rory snorted.
He glanced back at her. "What?"
"No comment."
Tristan let the window down again.
The officer leaned down to peer in the window as he asked, "Any idea how fast you were going?"
Rory muttered, "Your average is 85."
"Oh," Tristan said, "uh, about ten over?"
"Fifteen. And you're out of jurisdiction, detective. So you can't be rushing to an emergency." The officer smirked.
"No, sir," Tristan admitted.
"Why don't you go ahead and step outside the vehicle."
Tristan suppressed an eye roll as he reached for his seatbelt.
"Wait," Rory said, placing a hand on his arm and leaning over enough to face the state trooper. "I don't understand. Why does he have to get out?"
The trooper leaned down a little more to get a better look at Rory. "What?"
"Why does he have to get out?" she said again. "Is it really because he was speeding? Or is it because he's in law enforcement too?" She took out a pad of paper and a pen from her purse. "As a journalist, I'm interested."
Unimpressed, he turned his attention back to Tristan. "Step out of the car."
Tristan complied, leaving Rory indignant.
A minute later, Tristan got back in and took the ticket the state officer was handing him.
"It's a matter of safety," he said. "I'm sure you understand."
"Mm-hmm," Tristan said.
The officer tipped his hat. "Have a nice evening," he said before walking back to his car.
Rory took the ticket and frowned down at it. "I thought he said you were going fifteen over." She pointed to the slip of paper. "This says sixteen."
Tristan put his seat belt back on and let the state trooper be the first to drive off. "I guess he decided I was going faster."
"It's just a mile. Why'd he raise it?"
"Probably because it'll raise the fine by another hundred dollars." He gave her a pointed look before pulling away.
Her jaw dropped.
"And here I thought flirting would make it worse," Tristan said. "Maybe you should have complimented him on his hat instead of threatening him with your pen," he said as he looked over his shoulder and joined the other cars on the interstate. "This must have been humbling for you."
"You were the one to get the pat-down," Rory said. "Can you get it taken care of?"
He glanced at her with a raised brow. "Taken care of? Look who wants to avoid consequences now."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm a hypocrite. So can you?"
"We're in Connecticut. I don't have much pull here. I doubt they'll look the other way." He continued, "However, his radar gun might have been a little off, so I should be able to argue the fine back down to the original amount."
"So, a loophole?" she asked.
"Yup." He tapped the side of his head a few times. "Knowledge is power."
3.18: February 25, 2017
Rory entered her apartment and tossed her keys on a table near the door before taking her coat off. She hung it in the closet and then headed down the hallway. If she hadn't seen his car parked on the street below, she wouldn't know her husband was somewhere in the building. It wasn't until she walked into their bedroom on the second floor that she found him, lying on the bed with his eyes closed. She kicked off her shoes and joined him. "Hey," she said softly. "Are you awake?"
He breathed a deep sigh and opened heavy lids to look at her. "Mmm."
"What time did you get in last night?"
"Four," he answered, voice low.
"Did you guys find what you were looking for?"
He shook his head. "No," he said. "How were your sisters of the American Revolution today? Old?"
"They were okay. And they aren't all old, they've been recruiting," Rory answered. "Your mom says hi. We were seated next to each other."
"I'm sorry." He closed his eyes again.
"Me too," she said. "I heard more than I bargained for."
"Let me guess," Tristan said. "She wants you to talk me into taking a nice job at a big law firm in Hartford. I could make six or seven figures a year and she could finally admit to people I'm related to her."
Rory scoffed. "No."
Tristan opened an eye and asked, "No?"
She shook her head. "You're not even close. You really do think the world revolves around you, huh?"
"What did she talk about then?"
"She complained about that woman the whole time."
Tristan buried his head into his pillow and groaned. He turned his head enough to say, "Not that woman. Which room in Mom's house did that woman redecorate this time? Is the study a hideous shade of puce now?" He shook his head. "Not that it should matter, she never went in that room."
"You make it sound like 'that woman' is her interior designer," Rory said.
"That's misleading. It isn't even her house anymore. It hasn't been for a long time." Tristan asked, "Is she between husbands? God love her, but she's always worse when she's on the prowl."
Rory shrugged. "She didn't say, and I didn't ask." She continued, "But according to Eileen, your step-mother isn't as young as she used to be. She's past her prime and your dad will be looking for someone new soon. Your mom was pretty smug about it." She thought for a moment, then asked, "Why would she care about what your dad is up to?"
"Because it sounds like bad news for his wife. And if there's one person Mom hates more than Dad, it's that woman. She took everything that was Eileen's."
"I thought it was a mutual divorce."
"It was. They mutually hate each other."
"Why did she keep his last name though?"
"To annoy him. And it's easier to remember," Tristan answered. "If people called her by any of her other husband's last names, no one would know who they were talking about. That's probably why you had to sit by her—you were alphabetically stuck next to her."
"DuGrey is only my name socially."
"Mmm, technicality," he mumbled, burrowing back down into his pillow and closing his eyes again. "I'm still holding out hope you'll love me enough one day to take my last name." She laughed a little and swatted his arm. He wrapped it around her to pull her next to him. "So," he said, his mouth near her ear, "your world revolves around me, right?"
"Of course it does," she said sympathetically as she rubbed his forearm and snuggled closer to him.
3.19: March 9, 2017
On a cold Thursday evening, Eileen DuGrey breezed through the doors of an imposing downtown Hartford office building. The matronly receptionist was behind the large front desk, stationed as the office gatekeeper. Her head was bent over a large calendar and she did a double take when she saw who'd walked in.
"Evening, Sandra," Eileen said pleasantly. "Harry's in, I'm sure?" She didn't stop for an answer, instead continuing past the desk and down the hallway. She knew where she was going and wasn't going to sit and wait to be admitted entrance. It wasn't as though any clients were around. All the sane people of the world were finished working for the day. Her ex-husband was not to be mistaken for one of those people.
Though they hadn't talked candidly in years, it was inevitable they'd be thrown together socially. It was always with a twinge of annoyance for Eileen to be seen at the same function as him and his young wife. Everyone could plainly see he'd traded his older model in for a new one. That woman was half his—and Eileen's—age. She knew people silently compared the two of them, every outfit and mannerism, the way they talked and carried themselves. Striving to come out ahead for all these years was exhausting. She knew everyone anticipated the two women to publicly face off, as though a woman of good breeding would stoop to such levels. Eileen wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. Besides, that mouse of a woman wasn't her equal opponent anyway.
Perhaps nostalgia brought her here, or even just boredom. Or—more likely—she was just fed up with it all. She was tired of caring what people said about her. She wanted to throw caution to the wind, come what may. Whatever her reason for coming here, it no longer seemed important as her heart quickened upon seeing her destination. She wrapped the door smartly and didn't wait for a response before letting herself in.
At she predicted, Harrison DuGrey sat behind his desk, concentrating on a document in front of him. He wore a shirt and red striped tie. His suit jacket had been discarded at some point, after his last client, no doubt. He'd aged well, she noticed, as she always did when she got a glimpse of him in passing. His graying hair only made him look more distinguished.
"You should wear your reading glasses, Harry," Eileen said from the door. "Squinting will give you terrible crow's feet."
At the sound of her voice, he froze before looking up, cool and collected.
"Too late," she said, taking a few steps in and glancing around the office. It looked the same as it had the last time she'd seen it. "Have you ever considered redecorating?" She took a seat in front of the desk, resting her arms on the cold leather.
"It's fine the way it is," he answered. "Some things don't need to be improved upon." His steely blue eyes roamed from hers—lifted—to her full lips—collagen injected—down to her breasts—surgically enhanced. His eyes lingered, giving her a little thrill, before dragging them back to her eyes. "Not that you'd understand."
The corner of her mouth lifted. "I'm flattered. You prefer the old imperfect me." She cursed herself for her word choice.
He snorted. "Imperfect is right. The old you put a toaster next to the bathtub. Subtle, Eileen."
"What?" she said with a slight shrug. "Did you ever think I just wanted toast when I was getting ready in the morning? Not everything is about you."
"Hmm," he grunted.
She laughed a little. "Did I really do that?"
"Yes," he answered, not as tickled by it as her. "And it was plugged in, all ready to 'accidentally' fall into a tub full of water while I was in it."
"What kind of grown man takes baths, anyway?"
"Maybe I was hoping you'd join me."
She scoffed. "That's doubtful. You were thinking of how quickly you could get rid of me so you could move on with your paralegal."
He raised a brow at her allegation.
"You don't deny it."
"Your mind is set, and I don't feel like arguing over it. Not anymore." He leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands together, giving her a pensive look. "What are you doing here?"
She stood and slowly walked around the desk, taking a seat to face him at his side. Her leg touched his and neither moved away. "I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see you."
"Now you have."
"Yes, and I don't want to be where I'm not wanted. Just say the word and I'll be out of your way. I know you have work you'd rather be doing."
She stared back at him for a long silent minute as his eyes stayed on her. Her heart sped up when he stood. Though he wasn't remarkably tall, he towered over her from her perch. "You think so?"
She nodded. "I know so." She was aware his hands were moving toward her chest. Her breath hitched at his touch.
"Who paid for these?" he asked, kneading with his palms. "It wasn't me."
Eileen's eyes fluttered and closed, her head fell back as his thumbs teased where he knew it was sensitive. "I don't hear you complaining." She let go of the desk to hold onto his wrists.
"No," he admitted. "If I remember correctly, it was husband number three. How fast did you get bored with him?"
She was having too much difficulty concentrating to answer. She had the sudden urge to shove everything off his desk.
His phone rang loudly and they both froze. To Eileen's dismay, he let her go, so she loosened her own grip. She straightened her cardigan over her shoulders, recovering as Harrison reached for the intercom button. She hoped it was the little woman at home.
"Yes?"
Eileen wasn't disappointed.
"Your wife is on the line," they heard Sandra explain. She quickly added, "Your, uh, other wife."
Eileen smiled smugly as her ex-husband cleared his throat. "Tell her I just left," he said, and promptly ended the call.
"We could have all had a nice chat," she said, not moving from her place on his desk. "I want to ask her what she did with my fine china."
"You threw it against the wall in a jealous rage one day," Harrison said dryly.
"That maid couldn't keep anything to herself," Eileen said. "I don't know why you never let me fire her."
"Good help is hard to come by," he muttered. He reached for his pen and a business card, jotting something on the back. She was satisfied to see his hand wasn't completely steady. When he looked back up, he passed her the card. She turned it over to read what he'd written. Without responding, she lifted the card to the opening of her low cut dress for safe keeping, letting him watch as she did it.
She lifted herself off the desk, coming eye to eye with him momentarily before turning toward the door. Without a look back, she waved a hand behind her. "Goodnight, Harry."
3.20: March 14, 2017
Harrison DuGrey swirled the ice in his scotch as his eyes strayed to the seat next to him. It was still empty. She was late. He wasn't surprised, she always had liked to make an entrance. She craved attention. Perhaps that's what drove them apart, he mused, she wanted attention and he was never around to give her any.
Well, it was that and her wild imagination. She could come up with tales of fiction so convincing, she believed them to be true. Still, he hadn't exactly been sensitive to her insecurities. And he knew that was her problem.
He hadn't wondered if coming tonight was wise. In fact, he'd decided to meet her here when she took a seat on his desk. She'd come sweeping through his door like she owned the place, intending to start trouble. He wasn't able to take his eyes off her, like he hadn't been able to when they first met. And just like then, a little trouble with Eileen was too enticing to pass up.
He heard the clicking of high heels and knew they belonged to his ex-wife. She quietly took the seat next to him, and he motioned to get the bartender's attention. "She'll have a martini, with an olive."
"Maybe I drink sidecars now," she said, slight indignation in her voice.
"You don't," he said dismissively as he reached into his pocket. He retrieved a key card and sat it on the bar, sliding it over to her.
It sat untouched for a couple minutes. When her drink was served, she took a sip and slid the card back over to him.
He briefly glanced at it with a frown. "Did I miscommunicate something?"
"Oh no," she answered, an indulgent smile slowly overtaking her features. "You thought I'd meet up with you in a shady motel, like a common hooker."
He scoffed. "I hope you weren't expecting payment." He added, "This is a nice hotel. Five stars."
"It can have ten and I still won't be comfortable at a hotel," she said, raising her nose an inch. When the bartender turned, she snapped her fingers to get his attention.
The man looked at her, slightly annoyed.
Under his breath, Harrison told her, "You really should learn how to treat the people who serve you."
"We'll each have a steak," she told the bartender. "I'd like mine rare." She jerked her head toward Harrison. "He wants his burnt to a crisp."
"Well done will suffice," he corrected. When the bartender walked away, Harrison looked over at his ex-wife with a brow raised inquisitively.
"What?" she asked innocently. "You were going to buy me dinner tonight, weren't you?"
"That's when I thought we would make use of the room I got."
She smiled cheekily as she picked up the small plate of nuts from the bar. She poured some into her hand and tossed them into her mouth in unrefined glory.
Harrison studied her from his place. She had a long pearl necklace that dipped down to her V-neck blouse—once again, low cut. Her long blonde hair fell in soft silky curls at the ends. It had always been her best feature, and even now didn't need any altering or 'improving'. It'd been years since he last ran his fingers through that hair. And he apparently wouldn't be doing so tonight.
He took a drink of his scotch and asked, "Where, exactly, would you be comfortable?"
Eileen took a long sip of her martini, as though she was really thinking about it. She put her glass down and gazed straight ahead of her, eyes softening. "My house."
Harrison didn't say anything. He knew where she lived, but thought she'd wanted to be more public about it. He glanced over at her left hand. She was wearing an enormous diamond ring on her third finger. She was looking for a way out. She wanted to get caught, and only needed a willing participant.
He turned away from her with a scowl and brought his tumbler to his lips, draining it. Curtly, he replied, "Fine."
3.21: March 15, 2017
"Do you want these shirts separated a little more?" Rory asked, timidly looking at a stack of clothes on Lucy's bed.
"No, they can all mix and mingle," Lucy answered from her place next to her dresser as she emptied a drawer full of sweaters. She tossed them into a box unceremoniously, not even refolding them to fit the box.
"Okay," Rory said, getting to work packing, ignoring the urge to organize the shirts by color.
Olivia appeared at the bedroom door then. She leaned against the frame and sighed. "I can't believe you're moving out. What am I supposed to do with this room?" She walked in and sat on the bed, helping Rory empty the dresser.
"Rent it out to a student," Lucy suggested. Then she glanced at Rory," That is, if it's okay with the landlord."
"You could use it for storage," Rory suggested. Then to Lucy, she said, "Don't forget us little people when you hit it big in Hollywood."
"Of course I won't," Lucy said. "I wish my agent had set up auditions a few days later, I hate that I'm missing Paris's baby shower."
"Don't worry," Olivia said. "Your name is on the card."
Lucy went to her bookshelf and started taking down books. "Make sure Paris knows I thoroughly cleaned the found objects before you made the mobile." Seeing there was still room in her sweater box, she shoved the books in.
Rory cringed and looked away from Lucy's packing technique.
Tristan joined them, breathing heavily. "The boxes from the living room are loaded. Are you ready for your bed to be taken apart?"
"Oh, yeah, go ahead," Lucy answered, moving her box to the floor.
He glanced from the unmade bed to Lucy. "Aren't you going to strip it first?"
"Sure." She grabbed the blankets and tugged the sheets off the corners, balling them all up and tossing them in an empty corner.
Tristan grimaced. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He looked over to his wife, who wasn't watching. "Are you okay in here?"
"What I don't see, can't hurt me," she answered as she continued to carefully place shirts into the box.
Tristan maneuvered the mattress off the frame, and Olivia helped to keep it steady so he could drag it out to the hallway. He returned and went to work on the frame with a screwdriver.
"When you find a new roommate," Olivia said, "you have to let me warn them."
Lucy turned to give her best friend an incredulous look. "Warn them about what?"
"You," Olivia said, picking up the discarded blankets to fold them before Tristan and Rory suffered aneurysms. "There's a whole list of things a person should know before they live with you."
"Such as?" Lucy asked, taking framed photos down from the wall.
"When you drink the last of the milk, you never write it on the list so I know to get more."
"That's not that big of a deal."
Tristan muttered from his place on the floor, "Rory would beg to differ."
Olivia continued, "You always control the remote when we're watching TV."
"You and I like the same shows," Lucy protested.
"But sometimes I like the volume lower."
"So what else makes me a horrible roommate?"
"Well," Olivia said thoughtfully, "now that you're moving out, I can finally tell you. You're kind of a bitch."
Lucy's jaw dropped.
"I'm totally messing with you," Olivia said. "I'm going to miss living with you so much."
3.22: March 17, 2017
Harrison stood outside a monstrous house and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chimes ring on the inside, it sounded like cathedral bells. A minute later, the maid opened the door.
"Is the lady of the house in?" he asked. "She's expecting me."
"I'll let her know," the maid said, stepping aside to allow him entrance.
He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. As he waited, he shrewdly looked around the house—though it was more of a museum. There were large paintings on the walls and the ceiling was about a mile above him. It was rather excessive, he thought with a glower. He glanced up to the grand staircase when he heard someone descending.
"Harry?" Eileen said, frowning at him as she approached. She was only wearing a soft bathrobe, and her hair was damp and uncombed.
With difficulty, he ignored the sudden pounding of his heart.
"What are you doing here?"
"What do you think?" he asked as his answer. He casually pushed his shoulder off the wall to stand up straight. As he took a few steps, he unbuttoned his wool coat. "Where's your bedroom?"
He headed for the stairs, but she quickly blocked his path.
His brows furrowed. "Or did you want to go to the study? That would be more direct." He stood a few inches in front of her and untied the knot of her robe. He admired what the opening revealed for a moment before returning her gaze.
She glanced down and back to him, eyes wide. "The study?"
"What time will he get home?" Harrison asked.
"Who?"
"George," he answered. "You know, your latest husband." He glanced around the house. "Maybe the dining room table would be better." He focused back on her again and pulled on the ends of her drawstrings so she'd take a step closer. His vote was on whatever room was closest. "How many square feet is this house?" he mused. "He has to be compensating for something."
With no space left between them, Eileen inhaled in surprise. "Did you take a little blue pill before you came over? How thoughtful."
He shook his head. "Not necessary."
"I heard you have to have it chopped up and mixed in your food."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "We both know you started those rumors."
She smirked. "Then you're just very happy to see me."
To see her, to have her pressed against him, he thought. She wasn't wrong. All the blood in his body was flowing south.
She put her hands on his chest and leaned back to put space between them. "We've had a misunderstanding, Harry."
"No we haven't," he said, sliding his hands to the small of her back to keep her where she was. "You didn't like the hotel, so now I'm at your house. Just like you wanted."
"Not this house," she said, miffed. "You weren't supposed to come here."
"How else were you going to get caught?"
"Who's getting caught?"
"You," he answered. "With me. You're finished with George and need me to help you out."
"When have I ever needed you for that?" she asked, nonplussed, as she reached behind her back to take his wrists. Applying a bit of pressure, she got him to let go of her. "I don't need you to do me any favors."
He paused. "You don't?"
"No." Eileen laughed a little. "No wonder you sulked over your dinner last week. You thought I was using you."
"You're not," he stated.
"Well I am," she admitted. "But not for business. It's strictly pleasure."
It was enough for him. He grabbed her wrist without another word and started to pull her toward the stairs.
Eileen yanked her hand back and swatted at him. "I'm not going up there with you. You got the wrong house."
"What?"
"This isn't what I wanted. You were too busy pouting to figure out what I meant."
"It doesn't matter what you meant," he said, trying to take her arm again. She jumped out of his reach. "I'm here, you're here. Let's go."
"No," she said firmly. "Not tonight, I'm not in the mood."
"That's not a problem, I'll get you in the mood."
"As tempting as that sounds, no," she said again. "Not here. It's time for you to leave." She took his arm and steered him to the foyer.
"But—"
"Does your wife know where you are?" she asked, as though she cared. "What would people say if they knew you were here?"
"It depends on what you tell them," Harrison countered.
She'd gotten him to the door and opened it, pausing for a second and inclining her head within an inch of his. "I don't have to tell them anything," she whispered, her breath warm on his neck.
"You're going to be sorry about this cat and mouse game you're trying to play," he told her from the front stoop.
She gave him an impish look. "I don't think I am," she said, as she closed the door and left him out in the cold.
3.23: April 1, 2017
Eileen sat at a large desk in a dimly lit study. She opened the top drawer and scooped up the office supplies. Then she deposited them into a lower drawer. She proceeded to switch the contents of the upper left drawer with the lower right one. Opening the last drawer, she left the files, but rearranged them so they were in backwards alphabetical order. She closed the drawer and leaned back in the leather chair, looking around the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, and there was a couch along the wall adjacent to the desk. It was such a dull room. She never had figured out how anyone would want to spend so many hours locked in here, alone.
Eileen glanced around the top of the desk and picked up her ex-husband's reading glasses. She stood up and sat them on the highest shelf she could reach. When she returned to the chair, she heard the doorknob turning. She faced the door expectantly.
Harrison walked into his study, but stopped as soon as he noticed the lamp on and Eileen sitting in his desk chair.
"You are so predictable," she complained. "It's been years, and you still come running to your study as soon as you get home from the office."
"How the hell did you get in here?" he asked.
"The maid."
"Isn't here and doesn't like you."
"Fine. I let myself in."
"The locks have been changed," he argued. He stepped all the way in the room and shut the door behind him.
"Yes, but the garage uses a numerical code. There are only so many important numbers in your life, Harry. It wasn't too hard to guess the right one. Although, I am surprised by the one you use."
"Everyone knows we hardly speak to each other, why would anyone think I'd use his birthday to get into my house?" He took his suit jacket off and tossed it on the couch, then loosened his tie to discard it as well. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you I would only be comfortable in my house. So here I am."
"It's my house."
"Says you."
"Says the deed—and the divorce settlement. I'm sure you received your copy in the mail."
"I think I may have accidentally dropped it in the fireplace at some point," she said, pretending to think back. "Either way, I know that woman and your little brats are at her mother's. It's just you and me. And I forgot to put on undergarments today." Playing innocent, she added, "I'm so absentminded sometimes."
"It's been over two weeks, Eileen. Did you expect me to wait around for you to re-engage this little tate-a-tate? I can't set a clock to your whims."
"You just got back to town yesterday," she replied. "I was the one waiting."
"Business called."
"And you're always quick to answer."
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Harrison broke the silence, "It was enough time to come to my senses. I've reconsidered. Tangling with you again is a bad idea."
She arched a brow, not concerned. "Of course it is, or you wouldn't have considered it in the first place. Now take off your pants and I'll make it too hard for you to turn me away." It was liberating to say whatever she wanted to him. She didn't have to strive for perfection when he already knew all her flaws.
"I have work to do," he said, rounding the desk and jerking his head toward the door, trying to shoe her out of his chair.
Eileen didn't move. Instead, she reached out to slowly run her hands up his thighs. "All work and no play makes Harry a dull boy." She deliberately raked her eyes over him and her hands stopped at his waist to unbuckle his belt—she had to do everything herself. She lowered his pants and looked back up to fix him with a lustful gaze. "Do you still want me to leave? Or do you want to know what happens next?"
NNNNNNN
Harrison flicked a lighter with his right thumb and lit the cigarette he held in his left hand. Before he let the flame die, he reached over to the other side of the bed to light the cigarette his ex-wife had ready in her long silver cigarette holder. She had the bed sheets pulled up around her, leaving only the expanse of her collarbone to tempt him. He looked away and took a drag on his cigarette to distract himself.
Eileen did the same and blew the smoke out, watching the cloud float away. "Why didn't you ever give me your mother's ring?" she asked.
Harrison frowned and looked back over at her. "What?"
"The ring your father gave your mother—her engagement ring. Why didn't you propose to me with it?"
"It doesn't suit you," he answered, returning to his cigarette. "You needed something uniquely your own." She blew out more smoke and shot him an unimpressed look. "Dad had it made for her," he continued. "And I had one made for you. Why would you have wanted rubies on your ring?"
"It doesn't matter what's on it. The appeal is that it's the DuGrey family jewels," she explained. "And I never got them."
"If you got the family jewels, I would have gotten them back," he reminded her. "You got to keep yours. It doesn't matter anyway, Richard Gilmore's granddaughter has it now."
"Mmm, and she hasn't even changed her name," Eileen said glumly. They sat in silence for a couple minutes. She held her cigarette away from the bed to tap away the ashes. When she brought it back to her lips, she paused to somberly ask, "What kind of boy doesn't invite his mother to his wedding?"
"The kind who elope."
"Your father was there. Richard and Emily Gilmore were there."
"I wasn't."
"No," she said. "But that's not surprising. Tristan resents you. And you antagonize him every chance you get."
"He's so mulish around me. It's the only way to get him to say anything beyond hello."
She glared at him. "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard."
He shrugged. "It's how we communicate." Plus, he added silently, it was what Tristan anticipated, so he obliged. Living up to other people's expectations—even the low ones—was a bad habit of Harrison's.
Eileen continued, "At least he talks to your father. I hear things third hand at committee meetings." Her gaze lowered to the bedspread. After a second, she looked at him fiercely to say, "I swear to God, the day Constance Betterton asks me about a grandchild I didn't know I have will be the day I strangle Emily Gilmore."
Harrison couldn't help but grin a little. "You're too young for anyone to believe you'd have a grandchild anyway."
Calming slightly, she said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He added, "I'm sure he'll tell you in person when that day comes."
"I doubt it. He thinks I'm embarrassed by him."
"Are you?"
She paused guiltily. Then hesitantly, she said, "When people ask about him, I tell them he works in law in Manhattan and leave it at that."
"Ah, so it's up for interpretation."
"A lot of good it does. Emily tells everyone her granddaughter is married to one of New York's Finest." Eileen exhaled a puff of smoke. "She must have low standards."
"Considering her daughter, probably."
"Daughter? Who cares? Her granddaughter turned down Mitchum Huntzberger's son years ago. A girl would have to be crazy to pass up that offer."
Harrison scowled at his ex-wife. "Then you and our daughter-in-law have something in common," he said. "I've heard you turn down Mitchum every time he hits on you."
"Of course I do," she said with a scowl of her own. "Shira's too weak to leave, and I don't want anything from him." She shuttered. "I don't care how powerful he is, I'm not going near that snake in the grass."
Harrison brought his cigarette back to his lips, satisfied.
"Tristan isn't living up to his name," Eileen said, returning to the previous topic. "And don't pretend it doesn't bother you." She faced, accusingly. "He went to Harvard and Yale for God's sake. And for what? To chase criminals just so you can put them back on the streets?"
"Not literally," he said, amused. "I don't defend bottom feeders."
A burst of laughter escaped her lips. "That's what you think."
"He lives on the Upper East Side and is married to someone we know," Harrison said, comforting her with what mattered to her. "He's doing well enough for himself."
"So we should cut our losses? Give up on him?"
He rocked his head back and forth in consideration. "I think of it as waiting him out. He can't run from who he is forever. He's just proving a point."
"It's been eight years," she said. "He isn't going to turn around and work as a defense attorney, much less work for you. No one wants to be your puppet, Harry. You shouldn't have threatened him."
Harrison remembered when he issued his ill-fated ultimatum. He saw his son's eyes cloud with the disappointed realization he was being bought. "I miscalculated," he admitted. "I'm usually better at thinking on my feet." Tristan's ridiculous idea had caught Harrison off guard. The determination in his son's eyes that day was enough for Harrison to know he'd lost him.
"You both overreacted," Eileen concluded smartly. She stamped out the last of her cigarette in irritation. "Now you're at an impasse. You're in a battle over who has the hardest head, and there are no winners."
Harrison frowned and got himself another cigarette. He sat in thought for a while as Eileen got up from the bed, letting the sheet and blankets fall away. She walked over to the vanity and looked at herself in the oval mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair, which he'd tussled earlier.
"Tristan is a member of the bar in New York," he told her. "Membership requires upkeep."
Without a glance toward him, she shrugged. "So?"
"So, he puts in the time and effort. If he doesn't need it, and is content doing what he does, then why wouldn't he just let his license expire?"
She stopped and turned, frowning at him.
"When I was a boy, my father taught me the difference between wants and needs. If you don't need something, why would you work so hard to keep it?" Harrison asked rhetorically. He smirked. "I'm winning."
"You're not winning."
"I've always been winning," he said confidently. Tristan had proven his point, he was fine on his own. But Harrison was more than a little curious to see what his protégée was capable of. Tristan was his son after all. Almost to himself, he said, "It's been eight years, he isn't going to switch sides."
"I know, I already said that. Why don't you listen to me?" Eileen said impatiently as she checked her reflection, studying every perceived imperfection.
"Your cheekbones are fine," he absentmindedly told her when she patted her face.
"Fine isn't good enough," she muttered. She left the mirror to rummage through the closet. She pulled out his robe and put it on.
"Where are you going?"
"To look for my dress. It isn't in here."
"I think it's on the stairs." Quickly, he said, "You don't have to go."
She turned slowly. "You want me to stay?"
"Want. Need. I can't say for sure which."
She considered him for a second before asking, "When will your replacement family get back?"
He raised a brow. "You tell me."
"No, I want to hear from you." She stared at him, daring him to cut the time shorter than it was.
"The beginning of next week."
"I heard the end of this week," she countered.
His gaze steadily trained on her, he said, "Something came up, so it's going to be a few more days."
Eileen's eyes darkened and her lips curved at the corner in triumph. Thankfully, she let his robe fall off her shoulders on her way back to the bed.
3.24: Just Like Anything
This short story can be found on my profile page.
3.25: August 19, 2017
Eileen stood with a small group of finely dressed people who laughed at a joke that wasn't funny. She took a sip of her cocktail to avoid adding her own fake chuckle. She was slightly anxious this evening as she gazed around the hotel ballroom. Her eyes fell on one of her former step-daughters, who was smiling at something George had just said. Eileen had introduced them at a charity function months ago. Ever since then the two sought each other out to discuss art and rare orchids. Having an interest in neither, Eileen never minded the younger woman occupying George's time. In fact, she preferred the arrangement.
She glanced at the other familiar faces. It was always the same people at these things, and they were all so dull. But she was one of them, and she had to put on appearances. She continued scanning the room until her gaze reached the entrance. A small grin pulled at the corner of her lips. Her evening just got more exciting.
Her heart sped up and her mouth went dry. She took a sip, but she'd already drained her glass. She excused herself from the group and went over to the bar. "Vodka martini, with an olive," she told the bartender.
The man prepared her drink and sat it on the counter in front of her. She unzipped her clutch and pulled out a key card, handing it to the barman. Turning to the crowd, she pointed and said, "Do you see that man there? The one with the gray suit and dark blue tie? Give that to him when he comes for his scotch, and tell him seven thirteen. He'll know what it means."
The man across the counter narrowed his eyes. "And what if his wife comes to order his drink?"
Eileen narrowed her own eyes and acerbically said, "Then tell her to pass the message along." She stood up taller and raised brow. "For your information, his wife isn't here. That's his secretary, Sandra. Did you have something you wanted to say?"
The man held up his hand and rubbed his thumb against his finger. Eileen rolled her eyes and opened her clutch again. She pulled a twenty out first, but remembering to treat the help better, took out a fifty instead. She handed it over to the barman, who put the bill and the key card in his front shirt pocket.
She floated back through the crowd then, sneaking covert glances at the object of her attention. Object of her affection, if she was feeling sentimental. Object of attraction, if she was being most honest. That's all it was, she'd just remained mildly attracted to her ex-husband through the years. And yes, maybe she'd originally been on a vengeful quest to reclaim what was taken from her. Or maybe they'd been the ones to push each other away, she mused, both free for the taking.
Eileen joined a group and pretended to be interested in their topic of discussion—real estate in the Hamptons versus Martha's Vineyard. She loved to get away as much as the next person, but for whatever reason she wasn't concerned with the location anymore.
Her eyes flitted to a pod of people that included Harrison. He was much better than her at listening intently to the speakers around him. She had no doubt he'd even remember what they said and pull up the information when it would be most useful to him. He was strategic like that.
Her pulse kicked up a few notches when he parted from his group. He smiled charmingly as he shook hands and greeted friends as he passed them on the way to the bar, cool and calm as per usual. He looked perfect in his suit, though she could only count the seconds until it was off. She took a sip of her martini and told herself she shouldn't be staring at him like this, but she couldn't take her eyes away. The bartender, seeing Harrison approach, had his scotch ready by the time he reached the bar. When the key card was offered, he pocketed it and lifted his tumbler to his lips.
Eileen knew tonight was risqué. Someone could notice them disappear at the same time. And George was among them. Occupied though he was, he was a good man who didn't deserve an unfaithful wife. He was always away on business, she thought, aware she was making excuses. She didn't even mind when he was out of town. She hadn't minded with most of her husbands. But with Harrison, it unnerved her for him to be gone.
She stole another glance his way, and catching his eye, she made a move for the exit. She sat her glass on a table and proceeded out to the elevator terminal, pressing a glowing Up arrow. When the doors opened, she stepped inside and a second later Harrison joined her. She hadn't realized he'd been at her heels. Without a word, he stood beside her, facing the doors. She grinned at him and took his hand, lacing their fingers. He shot her a smile and squeezed her hand.
NNNNNNN
From his seat on a balcony overlooking Hartford, Harrison pulled a cigar and his Duponte lighter out of his jacket pocket. He lit the cigar and sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at his ankles. He heard the sliding door behind him open and close, and his father joined him.
"I thought I saw you come out here," Janlen said. "You came in and then you were gone earlier. Where did you disappear to?"
"Nowhere." Harrison slipped his hand in his pocket again to offer a second cigar to his father.
"Is that new?" Janlen asked with a frown, accepting a light.
Harrison looked down at the silver lighter in his hand. "No. It's old. I've had it forever."
"Oh." They were quiet for a few minutes, each smoking their cigars and observing the lights of the city. Janlen spoke up again, "I see you brought Sandra rather than your wife."
"Mm," Harrison muttered. "I think we're separated."
"You think?"
"I'm being passive aggressively avoided at home."
"Would this have anything to do with the other woman you're allegedly spending time with?"
He blew out a puff of smoke and watched it float away. "Reading the gossip columns?"
"When our name is mentioned, yes," Janlen answered. "Especially when it's in a negative light." Harrison didn't answer. His father assumed his silence was confirmation, and warily said, "I like to think I raised you better."
"Don't we all?"
"It's not your paralegal again, is it?"
"That was a cliché the first time," Harrison answered. "And I might not have done anything if I hadn't been accused so many times. I may as well do what's expected of me."
Janlen scowled at the reasoning. "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard."
Harrison shrugged indifferently. He wasn't one to let his father's judgment bother him.
Janlen lifted his cigar to his lips and inhaled. Then he shook his head. "That does sound like Eileen though. Always one for theatrics."
"That she is," Harrison said, thinking back to their rendezvous. A smile played on his lips.
"That explains where Tristan gets it."
At the mention of his son, Harrison snapped out of his reverie. Janlen had tried to persuade him for years to end his feud with Tristan. 'Get over it' he'd been told. Harrison had yet to receive a pat on the back for relenting. He supposed Tristan had gone shy about his new wealth. It was probably better this way though, the last thing he wanted was his father prying and telling him what he should and shouldn't do.
Harrison gave the elder DuGrey man a sideways glance. "What does the good detective know these days?"
"He has vacation time coming up. I'm taking him and Rory to the house in Cape Cod," Janlen said.
"Will New York City be able to function without him?" Harrison asked dryly.
"I think they do fine. But we don't have to tell him."
Harrison pondered the information for a moment. He'd been wondering how close to the sun he'd have to fly to tempt his son into taking action. Surely Tristan felt a brotherly bond with his brothers at arms. "That might work," Harrison said to himself.
"What will work?" Janlen asked.
Harrison stamped out the last of his cigar and stood up. "Nothing. Be sure to take them to the lighthouse in Provincetown." He opened the door, and before slipping back inside, he added, "Tristan always liked going there when he was young."
3.26: October 21, 2017
Rory picked up her wine glass that had just been filled by their waiter. She raised it and smiled across the table at her husband. "To us. Happy anniversary."
As she tapped her glass against his, Tristan frowned. "Is that what we're celebrating?"
"Yeah," she said, her shoulders dropping a bit. His brows furrowed in thought. "You do know when our anniversary is, don't you?"
"Yes," he said slowly. "Which anniversary are you referring to?"
"Our wedding anniversary."
For a moment, he was silent, afraid to voice his thoughts. Slowly, carefully, he said, "That was September."
"Did your voice lift at the end of that sentence?" Rory asked. "Like you're asking?"
"No?"
"You had to work on our actual anniversary," she reminded him impatiently.
"In September," he said, more confidently this time. "Right. I had shift duty that night."
"I guess it's fitting," Rory said. "Just like our wedding day, you spent most of it with Mark."
He argued, "It's not like I chose work over you. And you and I still celebrated—a little."
"Your way."
"I'm going to be honest, I'm planning to celebrate some more my way tonight."
The waiter returned to their table to take their dinner orders. Tristan gestured for Rory to go first before ordering his steak well-done.
After the waiter left, Rory took a sip of her wine. She asked, "What did you think we were celebrating?"
Tristan shrugged. "I don't know. You just got an article published from your coverage of the UN last week. That could have been it."
She waved a hand. "That's not the first time."
"This isn't our first anniversary."
"But it's an anniversary, like a birthday or a holiday. You celebrate it every time it comes around," she explained.
"We should make tonight count. What else should we celebrate?" he asked, tilting his head in thought. "It's still your birthday month."
"That it is," she agreed, picking up her wine glass to clink it against his again. She took a sip, and then said, "Jimmy's not celebrating my UN article. He's not it's biggest fan right now."
"Me neither. Traffic in lower Manhattan is a bitch when all those diplomats are in town." Hastily, he added, "But I'm happy for you, to be a part of it. It's been a while since you've been in the same room as the president and world leaders."
"The metro section has been a little short handed this week," she said. "I've been out, and Kyle took vacation time to go to Comic-Con."
Tristan snorted into the wine he'd been drinking. "Of course he did," he said, wiping his mouth on his cloth napkin. "Please tell me he dressed up for the occasion."
"He wouldn't say. So, obviously yes."
Tristan nodded. "Silence usually does mean guilt of something."
"He might as well have lawyered up," Rory agreed. She took another sip of wine and then gasped. "You know what I'm really looking forward to?"
"For Kyle to show up on the five o'clock news dressed in cosplay as a vigilante?"
She chucked. "No, next week. Mark's promotion to second-grade detective."
"Why are you looking forward to it?"
"Because when we go to the ceremony you'll wear your official uniform jacket," Rory said with a smile. "It's a very good look for you."
"I'm suddenly very appreciative for all the ass-kissing he had to do this past year to get that promotion."
Rory tilted her head musingly. "You're well versed in the art of brown nosing when you want something. You haven't been doing the same?"
Tristan shrugged a shoulder lightly. "Mark wanted to make first grade within fifteen years."
Rory stopped herself from mentioning the pay raise that would accompany a promotion if Tristan were to go after it. That probably wouldn't be the best course with him, seeing how he'd made a point to not be tempted by money. Instead she only asked, "What did you want to do?"
"Make detective," he answered. "Mission accomplished." He emptied his wine glass and picked up the bottle to pour himself more. He leaned in toward her and raised a brow suggestively. "I could put my jacket on when we get home."
NNNNNNN
Rory grasped Tristan's arm as they exited the restaurant a couple hours later, and he swayed into her slightly. They walked down the sidewalk toward his car.
"Do you think you can drive?" she asked him. "You've been drinking."
"Maybe I shouldn't," he said, feeling the sides of his jacket for his keys. "Do you want to?"
"No, I had as much as you. And I can't drive stick in the dark," she said.
He snorted and started to laugh. "Dirty."
"Hey, weren't we arguing over who ate the last Pop Tart the other day?" he asked.
"It was you," Rory said indignantly. "What about it?"
He shook his head. "No it wasn't. The last one I had was blueberry, and that was a box of strawberry, so it couldn't have been me."
"Well I didn't eat it."
"See this?" he said, waving his finger back and forth between them. "We're fighting. We should stop so we can make up."
"So we're celebrating and making up?" she asked. "That's going to take all night."
He nodded and then stopped suddenly. "We should get a cab," he said in a Eureka moment. He looked down at her. "Then we'll both be free to do whatever we want." He quickly added, "I know what I want to do."
"You can't do that in a cab."
"I can get started," he said, raising his hand to call a taxi. When one pulled up to the curb, he opened the door for her to climb in first. He gave the driver their address before pulling Rory closer to him in the dimly lit back seat. His lips dipped toward hers, but she met him halfway, pressing herself against his firm chest. He reclined back a bit, allowing her to cover him. He pulled the tail of her blouse out from her skirt so his fingers could graze the soft skin underneath. He smiled against his lips at her intake of breath from his touch.
They didn't hear their driver grumble from the front seat, and had to clear his throat extra loud to signal to them they'd stopped in front of their building fifteen minutes later. Rory went ahead and got out, going to the door to type in the security code. Tristan quickly handed over too much money to the driver and followed her to a back room of the art studio.
3.27: November 23, 2017
Rory slouched farther down into the love seat and snuggled under her warm blanket. Adjacent to her, Tristan was stretched out on the couch under a blanket of his own.
"Just think," she said, eyes on the television as the NYPD motor brigade crossed the screen. "That could be you."
Tristan shook his head, and with his voice still heavy from sleep, said, "No thanks. This is better." The fireplace provided the room with gentle warmth and a softly lit ambiance.
"But look how happy everyone is to see the police. How often do crowds of people cheer for you?"
"All the time, in my head," he answered. "Right before I fill out the proper paperwork. It doesn't count if you don't do the paperwork."
After the first giant balloon floated down 34th street, she commented, "I can't believe Mark and Hannah leave town the one day of the year giant balloons can be seen from their apartment."
"Sounds like the best time to get away from here."
"You're like the Grinch who stole Thanksgiving."
"I'm perfectly happy today," he argued. "I get to watch the parade on TV here in the comfortable, warm living room with you."
"It is pretty cozy."
"And the only homicide victim I'll see will be the turkey."
Said turkey was in a crock pot over on the kitchen counter. They'd already made the rounds in Connecticut the prior weekend. They were having a low key Thanksgiving this year. Just the two of them and a turkey that wasn't lucky enough to be pardoned by a government official. They were having just a few sides—the few they decided were the most important—and a store-bought pumpkin pie.
Rory had to admit it was a pretty relaxing way to spend the holiday. She was looking forward to copious amounts of napping. They hadn't fought their way out of the city with the rest of its inhabitants during their mass exodus, and wouldn't have to fight their way back in at the end of the long weekend.
She'd had her share of marathon Thanksgiving days, but she had a feeling she could get used to their intimate alternative.
"Did you know they used to let the balloons go after the parade?" Tristan asked. "They'd float around the city for a few days."
"I would love to see Snoopy lurking outside my window."
"It was the small balloons. But you could get a gift card if you returned it."
"Ooh, too bad they don't do that anymore. A gift card could come in handy when Mom comes to go Black Friday shopping. She wants to hit Herald Square," Rory said, nodding toward the television.
Tristan shook his head. "That's such a terrible idea. It's going to be a zoo out there. I'm staying in."
"It won't be that bad," she said. "We aren't going when the doors open. Everyone will be back home taking naps by the time we hit the stores."
"Maybe you haven't heard, but they say this is the city that never sleeps."
"'They are mistaken," she said. "Probably because 'they' have never been in this apartment. I plan to sleep at least half the day away."
"I'm right there with you," he said. "Or I would be, if I had any intention of leaving this couch."
