If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(50)

She nodded. “I saw him this week. He was coming out of the post office when I was heading in. He offered to watch Mo while I shipped my packages, then we talked for a while.”

“Did he ask you out?” Her ability to move on from Max without skipping a beat mirrored Lyle with Ebba, making me hot.

“No. I must be losing my touch,” she joked before making an exaggerated pout. “Did I tell you he’s a songwriter? Or he was . . . he’s taking a break.”

That sounded awfully familiar.

She wagged a finger. “I told you already, he isn’t like Max. He’s a real songwriter. He’s written songs for Brad Peyton.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” She nodded proudly despite having had nothing to do with it. “I think something bad happened to him, though. When I asked him about where he got his inspiration, he made a vague reference to having lost it. Then he mentioned having spent a year wandering around Asia. What do you think that all means? Addiction? A bad breakup?”

“Well, if he’s nursing a broken heart, you could end up with one of your own. Be careful.” It struck me then that I’d never seen her heartbroken—except over Dad’s death. That had slowed her to a crawl, leaving her listless and puffy-eyed for months. She’d clung to Max like a life raft when, for most of her life, boyfriends had come and gone without much drama.

To me, that was only possible if she’d never let them all the way into her heart. If that were true, then despite what we’d both been told all our lives, perhaps she was the smarter one. I’d give anything to numb the violent pain of my torn heart. To not despise the fool in the mirror.

“You’re probably right, although what-ifs don’t usually worry me.” She sighed and dumped the lettuce out of the strainer and into the bowl. “I did decide to leave a batch of soaps—a mix of lemon, sage, and bergamot—on his porch today. I also left my upcoming yoga class schedule and Mom’s address. I mean, I owe him something for how Max robbed him blind.”

I slapped my palms to my cheeks, which were as hot as the pot of ragù and probably twice as red. “You did not.”

“I did.” She grimaced. “What can I say? Change is hard. I can only repress so many impulses before I blow.”

“Won’t you be embarrassed if he doesn’t call or show up?”

“A little, but then again, if he doesn’t respond, c’est la vie. I’m curious about him and what’s got him so blue. If he’s on a journey of self-improvement, maybe we can help each other along—as friends.”

Seemed to me that if Eli wanted to know her, he’d reach out without the prompting, the way Lyle had when we’d met. Not that that had worked out well. “It was a nice gesture, and I’m sure he’ll like the soaps. How’s the business going?”

“Still fun.”

Not the answer I’d hoped for. She put so much effort into those products it’d be nice to see it pay off. “Is it growing?”

“A little.” She averted her gaze.

That gnawing frustration that used to build when I’d helped her with Spanish or prealgebra homework festered. “Are you tracking your customers and getting feedback? What about providing incentives—you know, buy ten and get the next one free, or something?”

Erin crossed her arms and spoke through a phony smile. “I’ve got it under control.”

I’m not creative like her, but I knew my organization skills could help her take her business to a new level. I could really use a distraction this summer, too. This could be an opportunity to combine our strengths if she stopped viewing it as a contest. Before I made another suggestion, Erin said, “Enough about me. How are you?”

I shrugged, still unaccustomed to trading intimacies with her. “Okay.”

We both knew it to be a lie, but she didn’t call me out. Like two blind people feeling their way through new surroundings, we fumbled around our fledgling friendship.

“Any new info?” She peered at me, trying to peek beneath the surface.

“Not yet.” I straightened the copper canisters of flour and sugar that didn’t need to be realigned, then spotted the discarded mail—a handy excuse to escape this conversation. “May I go handle this mail for a few minutes?”

“Sure. Mind if I grab a drink?” Erin turned toward the refrigerator with the salad bowl in hand. Refrigerating wet lettuce made it slimy, but I let it go. Priorities.

“Not at all. And could you fill a large pot with water and put it on the stove, please? I’ll be right back.” I wandered to the office. Lyle had always managed our finances, but it was looking like I’d be handling them from now on. While I mindlessly sifted through the bills, the red “Second Notice” stamp on one from our bank intensified the sick feeling that had begun during my conversation with Tom’s girlfriend, Gigi.

Apparently, Lyle hadn’t made any mortgage payment for two months, which made no sense. He’d been militant about his stellar credit rating of 800. Even if he no longer cared about hurting me, he wouldn’t harm himself.

It had to be a banking error. I searched the desk drawers for our checkbook yet found no receipts or pay stubs. Then again, Lyle paid most bills electronically.

Rubbing my chest didn’t stanch the acid pumping up my esophagus. I shook my hands out before logging in to our account, then blew out a breath and clicked on the loan account. No recent payments there or in the bill-pay section.