Chapter 2. A Dream Deferred

A cold blast of New England air accompanies Fitz as he walks into the small but tidy kitchen carrying his department-issued black bomber jacket over his arm. Mellie shivers as she stands at the small counter that houses the coffee maker packing her lunch for the day: a tuna salad sandwich, a Granny Smith apple, and a handful of raw almonds. Sitting at the round wooden table pretending to watch an online video Karen glance at her father from the corner of her eye. She knows immediately that he is not in a good mood this morning, which means everyone will suffer today.

The morning after, and, frankly, for many days following a night of disappointing and unsatisfying sex, the Grant household is always fraught. The lack of sexual and romantic intimacy in the marriage makes him hostile and grumpy. It frustrates Mellie, too. She often wonders if it ever crosses his mind that she may crave the same thing that he does.

Fitz hangs the jacket on the back of the vacant chair next to his daughter and his phone slides from the pocket, hitting the brown- and white-checkered linoleum floor in a thud. Karen quickly bends down, scoops up the phone from the floor, and slides it back into the jacket pocket. Eyes bright with admiration, she smiles up at her father, the way a daddy's girl does when she is seeking her father's approval and attention. With a wink and a weak smile, he tousles her hair then makes a beeline over to the coffee maker.

Secretly recording her parents' interaction, or lack of interaction, Karen watches her mother quickly sidestep her father so he can fill his mug with coffee. She watches her father silently scoop five teaspoons of sugar into the mug, the way he does every morning. She wonders if something happened at her father's birthday party last night to cause her parents to be more distant this morning than usual. She and her brother have been wondering if their parents are going to divorce.

"Do you want breakfast?" Mellie asks, not looking at her husband.

"No. Where's Jerry?" he says, raising the mug of steaming black coffee to his lips.

"He took the school bus," Mellie replies as she seals the lunch bag closed.

"Dad, can you take me to school today?" Karen says, no longer recording her parents lack of interaction. She has seen this movie more times than she can remember, and it is disappointing.

"Why didn't you take the school bus with your brother?" Karen rolls her eyes. She already knows where this line of questioning is going.

"I overslept," she says, flinging her phone onto the table and folding her arms across her chest like a five-year-old child. The discord in the marriage is affecting her as well.

"You oversleep every morning. Get to bed at a decent hour that way you won't miss the bus."

"If we weren't at your lame birthday party last night I would've gotten more sleep," Karen snaps. She kicks the chair that holds the bomber jacket, snatches up her phone from the table, then stomps from the kitchen. Fitz sighs, shaking his head from side to side.

"She's becoming more disrespectful. I'm ready to ship her off to a convent," he says, not bothering to look at his wife. Mellie sighs, thinking he is more bark than bite when it comes to his daughter.

"You know she's just trying to get your attention," Mellie says, setting the lunch bag on the table that Karen has vacated.

"Then she needs to be more creative," he says, taking another sip of coffee.

"She shouldn't have to find creative ways to spend time with her father."

"We're all trying to be creative around here, Mellie," he retorts.

"I'll drop her off at school on my way to the Center," Mellie says in a huff, leaving her husband standing alone in the kitchen.

Leaning back against the off-white countertop next to the refrigerator, Fitz slowly surveys the space. The house is always immaculate. Mellie keeps the house clutter-free and organized. Cleanliness is not enough. He looks around the kitchen and sighs. Like their marriage, the house is outdated and nonfunctional: knotty pine wood cabinets, formica countertops that don't provide sufficient space for small appliances, and a linoleum floor are a few things that reveal the age of the house. No amount of renovations can transform the house into anything more than what it was originally designed to be sixty years ago: a starter home.

They were only supposed to live in the Cape Cod-style house, which is similar to his brother's house, for five years. His plan was always to upgrade to a bigger house, in a nicer neighborhood, and with better schools. They certainly can now afford to live in a better neighborhood. Over the years, he steadily accumulated assignments and promotions that increased his income and moved them into a higher tax bracket. But year after year, Mellie resisted his pleas to move. She said family is important and wanted the children to live close to their extended family. In time, he stopped trying to convince her that another neighborhood would be better for their family.

Fitz sighs heavily, glances down at his watch, and frowns. He needs to get to headquarters. Ferguson, his personal driver, is probably wondering what is taking him so long to leave the house this morning. He rinses out the mug, sets it on the dish rack, then snatches the jacket from the chair and heads outside to the waiting black SUV that is parked in front of the house.

XXX

Ferguson stares in the rearview mirror at his passenger in the backseat. Face set hard and lips pressed in a thin line, the superintendent almost looks like he is pouting. There won't be any casual chit-chat about Boston's losing sports teams this morning.

"Good morning, sir. I hope you had an enjoyable birthday this past weekend."

"Let's get to headquarters, Ferguson. I have a busy morning," Fitz says grumpily.

"Right away, sir."

XXX

Olivia Pope trails closely behind Cyrus Beene as he marches down the long, tiled hallway with a tablet tucked under his right arm. He stops abruptly in front of the slightly ajar office door, causing Olivia, who is still moving with purpose, to collide with his back. Cyrus looks over his shoulder and eyes her with disdain. He has already decided that he does not like the woman.

"I hope you're prepared with your questions. The superintendent is a very busy man. All the superintendents are quite busy, Superintendent Grant more so than the others. He deplores wasting time. Got it?"

"I understand," Olivia says, silently chuckling at the man's sheer blonde hair that shoots from his head in every direction.

While Cyrus scrolls through the online calendar to review his schedule for the day, Olivia peeks over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the man she has been researching for months. She can only see a bowed head that seems to be reading something on the desk. Always aware of his environment, Cyrus' head snaps up like a dog that senses danger for its master. His beady eyes glare at her with contempt and disapproval. Olivia clears her throat and slowly backs away from him. Cyrus angles his body to prevent her from seeing inside of the office. A few minutes later, at exactly nine-thirty, Cyrus knocks on the office door.

"Sir, your appointment is here," Cyrus calls out from the hallway.

"In a minute, Cyrus," the gruff-sounding voice inside the office says. Cyrus smiles to himself, thinking the man is in a foul mood, which will not bode well for the Pope woman.

"Thirty minutes. Not a minute longer," Cyrus says for the second time. Olivia wants to roll her eyes. She is weary of the annoying man's unending admonitions.

"Come in, Cyrus," Fitz calls out again as he stands up from the chair and walks around the desk to the middle of the room.

Cyrus' eyes sweep over Olivia, frowning at the leather messenger bag strapped across her chest and the canvas tote bag she is holding by the handles in front of her with both hands. He walks in ahead of her.

"Sir, this is Olivia Pope," Cyrus says, intentionally eliminating her title. Olivia quickly steps around Cyrus with an outstretched hand. His eyes bulge at the women's forwardness.

"Superintendent Grant, it's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to sit for this interview."

Fitz accepts her handshake thinking she certainly is not the Coke-bottle-glasses-wearing historian he was expecting.

"Have a seat, Dr. Pope," Fitz says, motioning his hand toward the two uncomfortable-looking chairs placed in front of the desk.

Olivia sets the tote bag on a chair, pulls the navy-blue messenger bag over her head, and sets it next to the tote bag. She sits down in the other chair and waits patiently while the two men hover at the door speaking in hushed tones. As the men continue their tête-à-tête, she scans the office, hoping to get a sense of Superintendent Grant's personality.

Oftentimes, the décor of an office can tell a lot about its inhabitant. It advertises who they are and what is important to them. Some display lots of photographs of their families with beaming faces celebrating various milestones and enjoying vacations. Others fill shelves with books that provide insight into their political and personal views. Many proudly hang their various academic diplomas and certificates of achievement on the walls. Former jocks who never made it to the professional level, display on shelves and windowsills, trophies and other memorabilia from a time that has long passed.

But this office, with its stark white walls and glaring overhead fluorescent lights, is devoid of any personal items, except one family photograph on a small table behind the desk. For some reason, the photograph feels like an afterthought.

Olivia glances down at the gold Movado watch, a gift she bought for herself after the first book hit the bestsellers list. She sighs softly, thinking the men are chewing away at her meager thirty minutes. Surely whatever they are whispering about can wait until after she is gone. She continues analyzing the office, her eyes falling on the pristine desk. She thinks it is odd that in addition to the closed laptop, a cellphone, and an ink pen, he has a tin of Altoids perfectly placed in the left-hand corner of the desk blotter. She shakes her head in amusement thinking the man apparently gives the powerful mints the same weight of importance as the laptop and cellphone.

"Thank you, Cyrus. We'll talk later," Fitz says, closing the door and walking over to the desk.

Olivia watches him sit down in the chair that is covered in blue fabric. Back straight and stiff, he folds his hands on top of the white desk blotter. The gold Claddagh wedding ring, which represents love, loyalty, and friendship, sparkles under the harsh overhead fluorescent lights.

His heavily starched white shirt is the canvas for all the emblems that signal he is a member of a fraternity revered by some and despised by others, depending on one's experience with law enforcement. The gold-toned badge pinned above his heart, and three gold-toned stars pinned to each collar indicate his rank in the Boston Police Department. Two gold-toned ink pens that he never uses are inserted in the shirt's left breast pocket, below the badge. A patch with the department's logo is sewn on each sleeve at the shoulder. The black necktie, which he looks awfully uncomfortable wearing, completes the bland picture of Superintendent Fitzgerald Grant.

"You're from New York City," he begins without preamble.

"Brooklyn," Olivia replies and Fitz gives her what seems to be a look of disapproval.

"Tell me about your project, Dr. Pope," he says in a flat and clipped tone.

"I'm writing a book on the history of policing in Boston, and how policies — past and present — impact modern day citizens."

"Hasn't that already been done?" he says in a sarcastic tone.

"Excuse me?" Olivia replies, somewhat taken aback by the question that is clearly intended to belittle her work.

"Anyone who may have an interest in that sort of thing can look on the department's website — it's all there. You are aware of our website, aren't you, Dr. Pope?"

She stares into his cold and unblinking eyes for a moment, wanting to wipe that self-satisfied look from his face. Instead, she takes a few calming breaths and continues in an even tone.

"I have read every page of the department's website, Superintendent Grant. There is scant information on the site about the department's history — one paragraph to be exact. That hardly qualifies as academic research."

Fitz glances down at his watch and she thinks she sees a smirk on his face. "I guess we should get started," he says.

"Do you mind if I record our conversation? It helps me to fill in the blanks later when transcribing my notes," Olivia says, already digging inside the tote bag for the recorder.

"I rather you didn't," he says without hesitation or explanation.

Her eyebrows crinkle slightly, and she nods her head, letting the recorder fall from her hand back into the tote bag. Instead, she slides a large yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen from the bag. With less than thirty minutes remaining, she decides to focus on basic questions that do not require much explanation from him. There is no point getting into topics that he does not have time to answer today.

"You are legacy law enforcement — following in the footsteps of your grandfather, father, brother, and uncles."

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" he says tersely. After a disappointing weekend and a contentious morning with his daughter, he is not in the mood to answer stale questions about his family's history in the police department.

"Yes. Of course. What did your family members, who are former police officers, teach you about what it means to be a police officer?"

"They emphasized the importance of individual and family commitment to public service and public safety."

Pen poised over the yellow sheet of paper, Olivia waits for him to expound on his answer, but he does not. She moves on to the next question.

"You quickly climbed the ranks of the BPD: patrolman, sergeant, captain at two different precincts, before being promoted to superintendent."

"I know my resume, Dr. Pope," he says curtly.

"Of course, I just wanted to give you the opportunity to correct the information I have."

"It's sounds correct. Let's move on."

"While climbing the ranks, you managed to earn a law degree from one of the most prestigious universities in the country. When do you plan to put that law degree to work, Superintendent Grant?"

Olivia watches his eyes blink a few times as he twirls the ink pen between his thumb and forefinger.

"Ex — Excuse me?" he stammers, trying to formulate a response to the question that no one has asked him before.

"Your degree from Harvard Law? Do you have plans to practice law in the future?"

"I'm focusing on the job at hand right now, Dr. Pope," he manages to eke out. Olivia slowly nods her head up and down, then asks the next question.

"The Boston Police Department is the nation's oldest formally organized police force and the sixteenth largest in the nation."

He sighs, giving her a bored and uninterested look, but Olivia persists.

"The department has had some scandals in recent years that have gone unaddressed. If selected as the next police commissioner, how would you bring reforms to what some call an ossified department?"

"I love this city, Dr. Pope. I love this police department. I don't shy away from doing the hard things. I'm committed to helping the mayor make this city and the department better for all its citizens and businesses."

"Last month, the Police Academy graduated its largest class in five years. How do you account for this renewed interest in policing?"

"During our last recruiting campaign, we were laser-focused on engaging residents from underrepresented areas of the city. We've waived residency requirements. We've modified the entrance exam for the Academy. The increase in the starting pay has also helped."

"How do you think rookie police officers would describe your leadership role?"

He thinks for a moment. Again, she is asking him questions that no one has ever asked him before. Questions he has never really thought about.

"I hope they would say that I am experienced, committed, and forward thinking."

"Maybe you should ask them," Olivia says, staring at his placid face. "It's been my experience working with law enforcement leadership in cities like New York and Chicago, that it is beneficial for leaders to keep their finger on the pulse of the rank-and-file, especially rookie officers.

"Those leaders learned a lot about what works and what doesn't by talking to the young officers while they were still eager to serve. You know what they say about a dream deferred?"

The crease in his brow tells her that he has no idea what she is referring to.

"Langston Hughes' poem, Harlem (A Dream Deferred)? The poem asks questions about the aspirations of a people and the consequences that might arise if their dreams and hopes don't come to fruition."

He slowly nods his head up and down. Olivia continues.

"Superintendent Grant, young women and men joined this police department because they want to make a difference. They have dreams of changing how policing is done in this city. Unfulfilled dreams can lead to apathy and hopelessness."

Her words cut to the quick and the smug, self-assured expression on his face dissipates instantly. His chest and anus sphincter tighten, and his breathing slows down. He is struggling to tame the uncomfortable churning sensation that is in his stomach. He wants to reach for the tin of mints, instead, he stares at her unblinkingly. Innocent words have a way of reopening old emotional wounds that were supposed to be buried deep a long time ago. Olivia wonders if the man is having a stroke or some other medical event. He seems to have frozen.

The quick double-knock on the door jolts Fitz back to the present. He blinks his eyes repeatedly, trying to clear away the cobwebs. He glances over at Cyrus who is standing in the doorway wearing a grim expression on his face.

"Sir, your next meeting starts in five minutes," Cyrus says, touching the face of his watch with his hairy fingers. Fitz turns to Dr. Pope with a perplexed look on his face.

"I guess my time is up," she says, already stuffing the yellow notepad and ink pen back into the tote bag.

Fitz stands from his seat watching her pull the messenger bag over her head and adjust the strap across her chest.

"Thank you for your time, Superintendent Grant. I look forward to our next sessions when we'll have more time to discuss the important topics," Olivia says, extending a handshake.

Dumbstruck, Fitz silently accepts her handshake.

"Have a good day, Mr. Beene," Olivia says to the sour-faced gatekeeper. Halfway out the door, she stops and glances over her shoulder at the superintendent. Cyrus glares at her questioningly. "By the way, Happy Belated, Birthday, Superintendent Grant. I hope you enjoyed your special day," she says, flashing him a polite smile before walking into the hallway.

"She's pushy. I don't like pushy," Cyrus growls as he enters the office and closes the door behind him. "Is everything all right, sir? You look like you've seen a ghost. Did she hit you with hard questions? Did she ask about your family's dark, dark past?"

"She wasn't too bad," Fitz says, flopping down in the chair and reaching for the tin of mints.

XXX

Winding down in the evenings after a challenging day of work is a longstanding practice for Olivia. Her nightly routine of taking a hot bath, putting on a pair of silk pajamas and a long blanket-like sweater, and enjoying a delicious glass of wine or two while listening to relaxing music, is necessary for her health and wellbeing.

With the sounds of Robert Glasper's Black Radio, playing softly in the background, Olivia quickly types a text to Rev. Norcross, apologizing for canceling their meeting on short notice. She says she will reschedule for a day later in the week. She sets the phone down on the loveseat cushion, next to the handwritten notes from her meeting with Superintendent Grant. She groans at the thought of having to manually transcribe the notes. As she reaches for the glass of Merlot on the coffee table, the phone begins to ring. Her favorite distraction is calling.

"I found the most delightful wine store today," she says full of exuberance and smiling from ear to ear. "The owner and I are going to be best friends."

"One: Hello. Two: I thought I was your best friend," Abby retorts in her usual manner.

"Hello," Olivia says, swirling the red wine in the glass as she continues to rave about her new find. "Google found it for me, actually. This wine store has some rare and pricey vintages. They have bottles that are priced in the thousands of dollars. I didn't buy any of those, of course."

"I'm not a wine connoisseur like you, Liv. I'll just keep drinking my ten-dollar, bottom-shelf Pinot Grigio," Abby says.

"Maybe we'll treat ourselves to one of those expensive bottles when you come up for a visit."

"How was the drive to Bean Town last night?" Abby says, peeking in the refrigerator hoping to find leftovers she can eat that will not kill her. She has not eaten anything since lunch.

"Good. Not a problem. Mrs. Schoffener, my landlady, left the keys under the doormat so I could get in without disturbing her."

"An old lady leaves keys outside for a stranger in one of the most dangerous cities in America? Nice." Olivia rolls her eyes.

"What are you doing?" Olivia says when she hears what sounds like glass rattling in Abby's apartment.

"I need to get some food in this place. I literally don't have any real food to eat," frowning at the mold spores growing on what she believes is leftover Thai takeout she and David ordered two weeks ago. She drops the Styrofoam container into the trash can.

"You should keep popcorn in your pantry. That way you'll always have food," Olivia says, bringing the wine glass to her lips.

"Popcorn isn't food. I hate that stuff. Those little skins always get stuck in my teeth," Abby says, slamming the refrigerator door shut. "What's the apartment like?"

"It's a shoebox. When I open the front door, I can see straight through to the bedroom. I'm practically sleeping in the kitchen, if you can call it that. There's a small blue loveseat in the living room. I'm sitting on it as we speak. I hate the color blue," she says, pulling her bent knee up to her chest.

"There's a small coffee table, two side tables and one lamp. I'm going to buy a second lamp. It's pretty dim in here. I'll buy a few throw pillows to brighten up the place. I might buy a rug to put under the coffee table, but that means I'll have to buy a vacuum cleaner. I don't want to buy too many things while I'm here."

"You're rambling. What else is in the apartment?" Abby says.

"There's a refrigerator — the large kind that kids have in college dorms. There's a microwave oven — no stove," she says, looking over at the area designated as the kitchen.

"How are you going to cook? I'm not coming to visit if you can't cook. I'm already missing your fabulous dinners, Liv," Abby says as she pulls the jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers from an overhead cabinet. She looks at the box and wrinkles her nose. She doesn't remember buying the crackers.

"The bedroom is odd."

"What do you mean?" Abby says, unscrewing the lid from the jar of peanut butter.

"Somebody apparently thought it was a good idea to use French doors to separate the bedroom from the kitchen-living area. The bed is huge. I mean ginormous. It takes up half of the room. No headboard, though. It's pushed up against two walls. I can only get in it from one side. I keep hitting my ankle on the night table when I get in and out."

"It sounds like the good reverend found you a real winner. Do you have a bathroom or do you have to use the outhouse?"

"You're being bad," Olivia chuckles lightly as she takes another sip of wine. "There are two windows in the bedroom. That's a good thing. There's no bathtub, just a shower. That's a bummer. This place will have to do for the next nine months," she says, glancing around the tiny abode.

"You'll have to come back to your place to soak in that massive bathtub you just had to have for your wellbeing. And cook. Did I say cook? I'm going to be malnourished by the time you get back here, Liv. I can't afford to lose any more weight," Abby says, unscrewing the top from the bottle of white wine.

"I told you I would teach you how to cook. I'll give you lessons when I get back."

"Pfft. Ain't nobody got time for that. Remember, you cook, I bring the wine and dessert. You pack me leftovers in those little glass containers with the different color lids. You broke our agreement, Liv," Abby says, dipping a stale, salty cracker in the jar of peanut butter.

Olivia shakes her head thinking she's going to miss hanging out with her snarky friend.

"I don't know why you have to stay in Bean Town for nine months. There's a new invention called the Internet, you know?"

"Researching data and facts online only gets you so far. I need to immerse myself in the community. I need to look people in their eyes, observe their body language to see if they are being truthful. People are inclined to be more open when meeting face to face."

"While you're immersing yourself, I won't have anyone to drink with."

"You have David."

"He's no fun. He is, but you know what I mean," Abby says, quickly correcting herself. "How was your first interview?"

"Ugh. I met with one of the superintendents who's in line to become the next police commissioner. His name is Fitzgerald Grant. He could only spare a half hour today. Such an important man," she says in a sarcastic tone.

"He made it very clear he didn't want to participate. He sat there the whole time with an I-don't-want-to-do-this expression on his face. Can you believe he actually tried to compare what I do to the poorly written content on the department's website?"

"Doesn't he know that you're The Olivia Pope, bestselling author?" They both cackle.

"The man is insufferable — an idiot. He gave me a bunch of laconic, non-answers. When I asked him about using his Harvard Law degree, he didn't have an answer. It was like he'd never thought about it. Who doesn't think about their law degree from Harvard?"

"He can't be too much of an idiot if he graduated from Harvard Law," Abby says.

"Being intelligent and being an idiot are two different things."

"True. Everyone with a JD degree doesn't practice law," Abby says with her mouth full of peanut butter and crackers. "Some people want to teach. Others want to go into politics or business. Practicing law is not like going to law school."

"It just seems odd that he didn't have a ready answer."

"Who cares?" Abby says, already tired of talking about someone she doesn't know or care to know, but Olivia continues.

"Get this, he refused to let me record the interview. No one has ever had a problem with me recording a conversation."

"He sounds like a real a-hole," Abby says, taking a swig of the white wine straight from the bottle to wash down her dinner.

"I don't think he has a chance of becoming the next police commissioner," Olivia says, twirling her shoulder-length hair around her index finger.

"Why not?"

"For one I think he has ice water in his veins. Not a drop of blood. Two, he has a legacy problem. He's fourth-generation law enforcement. His family has a history of abusing citizens, primarily Black and brown people, of course. I don't think they'll accept him as their commissioner. He's reached his ceiling."

"Did you find any dirt on him?"

"Nothing. His record of service is impeccable. He appears to be clean."

"Keep digging. You don't come from a family like his without getting a little dirt under your fingernails."

"There's something else that's odd about him."

"What's that?"

"His office. It's bare. Nothing on the walls. No memorabilia. Nothing."

"Maybe he's moving out of the office or just moved in."

"I checked. He's been in that office for nine years. He does have a small picture of his wife and kids on a table behind the desk."

"There you go, he's a family man."

"Abby, the picture is kind of old. His kids are teenagers now. In the picture they're about eight or nine years old. He's not even in the picture."

"Somebody had to snap the picture, Liv."

"And get this, he keeps a tin of Altoids mints on his desk — the cinnamon kind."

"I hate those things. Does he have bad breath?" Abby chuckles.

"I wouldn't know," Olivia says.

"The man sounds like a weirdo, Liv. You better stay away from him."

"I made an offhanded comment about Langston Hughes' poem, A Dreamed Deferred, and the man froze. He looked like a deer in the headlights."

"You know that idiot has never heard of that poem," Abby says, taking another swig of wine from the bottle.

"His communications director isn't much better. His enmity toward me was so unprofessional."

"Nobody there is going to like you, Liv. They think you're going to stir up trouble. Wait, how does a superintendent get his own comms director?"

"He doesn't. Apparently, Cyrus Beene is on some kind of special assignment."

"Cyrus Beene from Bean Town," Abby says, the Pinot Grigio causing her to laugh at her own joke.

"I think I left my little buddy home," Olivia says somberly, ready to move on to a more important topic. "I thought I packed it."

"I saw that thing, there's nothing little about it. You can buy one in Boston."

"Are you kidding?" Olivia shrieks, beginning to feel the effects of the wine. "I don't want anyone to see me coming out of a sex toy store."

"Order one online. Amazon Prime. You'll have it in two days. Ask me how I know," Abby says with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

"I'll be back in New York in a few months. I'll get it then."

"A few months is a long time. What are you going to do until then?"

"I guess I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way."

The two friends laugh out loud, and Olivia leans forward and lifts the bottle of wine from the coffee table. She refills the glass.

"I had my annual GYN exam last week. I can't tell you how embarrassed I was to tell Dr. Maersk that I haven't been sexually active in months. Buddy doesn't count," she says sadly.

"Are any of those cops you're interviewing a possible candidate?"

"I told you, Grant is married, and an a-hole. There's Michael Shaughnessy, but he's married too, and not my type. He's on vacation so I won't get to meet him for another week. Then there's Edison Davis. He's not married. From the looks of his pictures, he's not too bad on the eyes."

"What are you waiting for? Jump his bones," Abby says, scooping up more peanut butter with a broken cracker.

"One: I've only been here for twenty-four hours. Two: I don't mix business with pleasure."

"Since when? I haven't forgotten how you immersed yourself with that captain while you were in Chicago. I think you have a thing for men in uniform."

"That didn't end well. Besides, I can't risk my reputation for a roll in the hay."

"Whatever," Abby says, waving her hand in the air. "I have court in the morning. I need to get some work done," licking peanut butter from her fingers.

"I miss you, too," Olivia says.

"One more thing. Did you happen to leave any leftovers in your freezer?"

"Goodnight, Abigail," Olivia says, shaking her head in amusement at her comedic friend.

Settling against the loveseat back cushion, Olivia turns up the wine glass to her mouth and drains the last of the wine. She savors the intense red fruit flavor with hints of chocolate and spices on the back of her tongue. She closes her eyes thinking Boston might not be such a bad place after all.