“Jesus, Sophie.” Jason awkwardly tried to balance his phone while shifting his computer case and the oversize painting he held. He managed to shove his key in the lock of his front—well, actually side—door. The house did not technically have a front door. There was a side door accessible through a wooden gate. The only other exit was a pair of large French doors leading into the backyard and facing the canal. “Will you stop saying things like that?”
The door swung silently open on a kitchen as quaintly cozy as one of his eldest sister Charlotte’s store layouts. Because it was one of her store layouts.
“I’m being realistic,” Sophie said. “Dad’s eighty-five. Mom’s eighty.”
“I know that.” Jason stepped over the scattering of mail that had been deposited through the mail slot. He went through to the main room, put down his briefcase, and leaned the painting against the wall. “I just— I’m not in a big celebratory mood this year.”
To put it mildly.
“That’s silly.” It wasn’t that Sophie was insensitive—well, maybe it was—but mostly other people’s anxieties made her feel helpless. Sophie was a born fixer. She did not like feeling helpless. “And even if it was true, that’s all the more reason to celebrate.”
Jason hung on to his patience. He knew from long experience there was no outarguing her. “I don’t mind getting together for dinner, just the family, but I don’t want to go out. No Melisse. No Spago. I don’t want my birthday to turn into a photo op.”
A photo op for Clark was what he meant, but he managed to stop himself from saying so.
Sophie laughed. “Look who’s talking! You’re practically a celebrity. That photo of you at Santa Monica Pier—you can’t buy publicity like that.”
“I don’t want publicity,” Jason said. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“That’s how you get promoted.”
“Or shot.”
That gave her a moment’s pause. But it was only a moment. “Which is why you need to get promoted. So you don’t get shot again. Anyway, this will just be something small and private at Capo Restaurant. That’s practically next door to you. Just family and a few close friends.”
Jason stopped, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. Finally he managed a semi-pleasant, “When did you say you guys were heading back to Washington?”
“Next week. After your birthday party.”
“Okay, well, I might have to work late that night, so take that into account for any plans you’re making.”
She made a tsk-tsk sound and promised to be in touch.
Jason clicked off. He was tired, hungry, and depressed, but no one had shot at him that day. Not even with a camera. So there was a bright side.
He went up the two stairs that led to the master bedroom, cool and green-shadowed as the garden on the other side of the French doors slid into darkness. He unfastened his hip holster and tucked gun and holster in the bedside drawer. He slipped off his Ralph Lauren navy two-button suit jacket, pulled off his tie, and glanced at himself in the trumeau mirror. He was startled at how stern he looked.
Eyes shadowy, mouth tight. For God’s sake. It wasn’t like…
Wasn’t it?
He swore again, quietly, changed his shirt and trousers for ripped jeans and a black T-shirt with the silver MoMA logo.
A drink, a decent dinner, and a good night’s sleep, and he’d be fine again. Not that he’d be getting a decent dinner or a good night’s sleep. He’d need to be at the airport by eleven to catch that flight back East. That was okay. He could sleep on the plane.
Anyway, there was a lot to be happy about. Nobody but Sophie had mentioned that article in the Valley Voice to him. That was a big happy thing right there. Tomorrow he would, by God, talk to Barnaby Durrand or die trying. That was going to be very satisfying. And finally, he had just bought himself a fantastic birthday gift for which he had been saving up for months. So…woohoo! As his fourteen-year-old niece, Nora, would say. Woo-fucking-hoo. Right?
To hell with Sam Kennedy and his mixed messages, phoned in and otherwise. That had always been a bad idea, and Jason had known it was a bad idea, so this was actually more good news, if he would just make the effort to recognize it as such.
Padding into the kitchen with its oak cabinets and red tile floor, Jason poured himself a shot of Canadian Club, which he kept on hand because Sam had once revealed he preferred his whisky sours made with Canadian Club.
He knocked back the whisky, shuddered—really, Sam? Canadian Club?—but did feel almost instantly better. Well, warmer.
He went to examine his birthday gift, cutting away the string and brown paper, carefully removing the bubble wrap, and lifting out the seascape. The wooden frame was dinged and peeling, but the canvas itself was in wonderful shape. Those colors. Gorgeous. Shimmering turquoise and dazzling ultramarine. He could practically hear the sound of the waves and the cries of the gulls, smell the salty air, feel the sunlight on his face.
Jason lifted down the painting currently hanging over the fireplace—a gilt-framed study of a basket of roses and peonies on loan from Charlotte’s shop—and replaced it with the Redmond, standing back to have a good look at it.
Yeah. Really beautiful and it suited the room perfectly. And it suited him. His spirits rose. At least this part of his life was coming together.