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“Are you serious?”

“What’ve you got in your freezer?”

“Two steaks.”

“I’ll bring the wine.” She glanced at the bouquet. “And flowers. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Chapter Five

“You call that half an hour?”

“Stop bitching and give me a hand.” Barrie, carrying the President’s bouquet, two bottles of wine, and a grocery sack, wedged her way through the front door of Daily Welsh’s house.

“You rob a new grave, or what?” he asked.

“Read the card, smart-ass.”

He plucked the card from the floral arrangement and gave a low whistle. “Pretty impressive.”

She smiled cheekily. “All in a day’s work.”

“What are you going to do for an encore?”

“Any other time, I’d offer a scathing comeback about your unfailing talent of throwing a wet blanket over everything good, but I’m tired, so I’ll just let it pass and open the wine instead.”

“That gets my vote.”

Together they went into the kitchen, which was the most appealing room by default. It was a singularly ugly house. Daily arm-wrestled a stuck drawer to get the corkscrew.

“How are you?” she asked, showing her concern.

“I’m not dead yet.”

But Ted Welsh—or Daily, as he was known to friends—looked like the next labored breath might be his last. He’d developed emphysema from smoking countless cigarettes during the countless days he had worked to provide the public with news.

Fresh out of high school he had begun working as a gofer on a daily newspaper. Hence, his nickname. He’d worked his way up the ranks and through several journalistic media to become news chief at a network affiliate TV station in Richmond, from which he’d taken an early retirement due to the rapid progression of his disease.

Not yet old enough to receive Social Security—and probably never would be—he lived on a modest pension. The “steaks” thawing on the countertop were actually ground meat patties. Fearing as much, Barrie had picked up two T-bones when she stopped to buy the wine. Daily sipped the Sonoma County vintage while she prepared their dinner.

As he rolled his portable oxygen tank closer to his chair and out of her way, he said, “Cronkite will get a hard-on when he gets a whiff of those bones.”

“Unlikely. He’s been neutered.”

“Oh, I forgot. You castrated even him.”

She slammed a jar of meat marinade onto the counter and turned to him. “Don’t start that!”

“But it’s true. You de-ball every guy you meet. It’s your way of rejecting a man before he can reject you.”

“I haven’t rejected you.”

“I don’t count,” he said on a wheezing laugh. “I’m too old and sick to get it up anyhow. I pose no threat. Which brings me to another point. You shouldn’t waste your evenings coming to see me. If I’m the best you can do in the way of male companionship, your life’s pretty pathetic.”

“But I love you, Daily.” She closed the distance between them and kissed his cheek.

“Cut it out.” He pushed her away. “And don’t overcook those steaks. I want mine bloody.”

Barrie wasn’t deceived by his gruffness. Her affection for him was reciprocated. Their friendship had gotten off to a rocky start, but it was now unshakable. They had reached a comfort level where deprecations were almost equivalent to endearments.