Envy(42)

Leaning forward from the wheelchair, he reached out and took the rolled pages from her. “You read them?”

“Three times.”

He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“I have some comments.”

His chin went up defensively.

“Who’s ready for breakfast?” Mike asked.

He appeared in the doorway pushing a wheeled cart on which were platters of scrambled eggs, bacon, and wedges of pastel melons. Fresh from the oven, the biscuits had been wrapped inside a towel and placed in a wire basket. A gravy boat was filled to the rim, and a dish of steamy grits had an island of melting butter in its center.

Parker’s stomach growled and his mouth began to water, but Mike’s timing couldn’t be worse, which Parker was sure had been deliberate. Mike avoided making eye contact with him until Parker said, “I’m on to you, old man.”

“What?” Mike asked innocently.

Parker shot him a wry look, which Mike ignored and instead motioned Maris toward a small table on which Parker sometimes took his meals when he was writing.

“Good Lord.” She watched in dismay as Mike filled her plate. “A bagel and coffee usually do it for me.”

Scoffing, Mike reminded her that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. “Do you like grits?”

“I’m not sure. What exactly is a grit?” Parker laughed along with Mike as she took her first tentative bite, which she gamely swallowed. Politely she said, “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”

“Break open your biscuit and let me ladle gravy over it,” Mike told her.

Bacon gravy was also new to her, but she declared it delicious. “Do you eat like this every morning?”

“This is a special occasion,” Mike said.

“He’s trying to impress you,” Parker told her.

“It worked.”

She flashed a smile at Mike that should have caused his heart to melt and made Parker irrationally jealous. He grumbled into his plate, “You could’ve impressed her by remembering to put a hair dryer in the guest cottage.”

She and Mike took their time, chatting about this and that as they ate, but he cleaned his plate in record time. Feeling fidgety, he wheeled himself into the kitchen—“No, don’t bother,” he told Mike when he was about to get up. “I’ll get it.”—and returned with the carafe of coffee riding on a tray on his lap.

He refilled their cups, then impatiently sipped from his while they exhausted the topic of cultivating rhododendrons, as if flower bushes mattered a shit. He lasted through a discussion on the merits of Cats over Sunset Boulevard and a heated debate over whether women should be allowed to play in the NBA before he rudely interrupted.

“Can we talk about my book now?”

“What’s your rush?” Mike asked.

“We’re not running a bed and breakfast here.”

“I wish we were.” Mike began collecting their used dishes and loading them onto the service cart. “At least I’d have someone pleasant to talk to now and then.”

“I’m pleasant.”

“As a skin rash.”

Laughing, Parker balled up his napkin and tossed it onto the cart as though shooting a free throw. “Hurry up with those dishes and get back in here. You’ve been a good and gracious host, but I know you’re itching to hear what Maris has to say about Envy.”

Mike went out, muttering under his breath.

“Bet I came out none too well in that monologue,” Parker said when Mike was out of earshot.

“Are you two related?”

“Not by blood.”

“He loves you.”

Parker looked at her sharply. When he saw that she wasn’t being caustic, he bit back a snide retort. He pondered her simple statement, then said slowly, “Yes, I suppose he does.”

“You never considered it?”

“Not in words.”

“Has he always taken care of you?”

“Not always.”

“I meant since your accident.”

“Accident?”

She gestured toward his wheelchair. “I assumed…”

“What made you assume it was an accident?”

“Wasn’t it?”

Mike reappeared but, sensing that he’d walked in on a serious conversation, hesitated on the threshold. Parker waved him forward, this time grateful for the man’s timing. Again, he figured it was intentional. Not much escaped Mike Strother.

Parker took a deep breath, blew it out, and, turning to Maris where she had sat down on the rattan sofa, said, “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

She laughed lightly. “It’s not an execution, Parker.”

“It’s not?”

“Not at all. What you’ve written is good. Very good.” She paused, glancing from him to Mike and back to him.

“Why do I feel that there’s a ‘however’ in my near future?”

She smiled, then said quietly, “You’ve written a terrific outline.”

Mike coughed softly and stared down at his shoes.

“Outline?”

“What you have is excellent.” She wet her lips. “But it’s… It skims the surface. You haven’t delved deeply enough.”