Georgie, All Along (14)
But she’s awful pretty, too.
“Mulcahy,” she adds, because I probably look like I’m trying to put things together here.
“Right, I figured. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She narrows her eyes again, and I get it. No one ever means anything good when they say that to me.
“From your dad, I mean.”
Her expression softens, but she looks embarrassed. He’s probably told her about the fire circle, too. She knows the deal with the stories he tells.
“How do you know my dad?” Her eyes wander to my keys, still swinging in the outer lock. “Like how do you know him well enough to be coming into our house with a key at nine o’clock on a Monday night?”
I lift my cap from my head, rubbing my fingers through my scalp. It’s a relief to do it; it was hot as sin out all day, and the chaser is going to be the headache that’s already starting. But before I can sigh into the relief, I shove the hat back down, knowing the hair beneath it is probably a sweaty, sticking-up mess.
“I own Chesapeake Dock Service. Your dad and I run in the same circles.”
That’s true, but not really the whole story. Paul Mulcahy could’ve ignored me in the same way a lot of the local craftsmen around here did at first, but he didn’t. He’s not the type, and he’s always recommending me to people who have problems with their docks, or who want something new built on the scale that we do.
Her eyebrows raise. “What happened to Carlos?”
She doesn’t say it the same way Mrs. Hubbard does. But she says it in the way that’d make me know she’s a Darentville townie even if she didn’t have that country-girl look about her. She says it in the way of someone who grew up knowing Carlos as the institution he is.
“He retired. I took over officially last year.”
It’s still hard to believe, frankly. I keep waiting for someone to show up and tell me it was all a mistake. Not Carlos, who isn’t the type to worry over mistakes, and who’s always had a heap of faith in me, even when I didn’t deserve it. My dad, maybe, who used to be real accustomed to telling me about my mistakes.
“Oh,” she says, her gaze curious. At first I figure she’s doing some kind of reassessment, knowing that I’m gainfully employed or something, but then I realize she’s waiting for me to answer the other part of her question.
“I’m having some work done at Car—” I catch myself, clearing my throat. I guess it’s another thing I still find hard to believe, that Carlos sold me more than the business—he also sold me his old place. “My house for the next couple of weeks, and it’s the kind of work Hank and I can’t be there for. Your mom and dad said I’d be helping them out if I watched the house while they were gone, so—”
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.
“Yeah,” she says, but it’s more . . . Yeeeeaaaahhhhhhhh. A this is awkward yeah. Hank loves it; he yips and hops on his front paws.
“Come on, bud,” I say, patting my thigh, because there’s sure no point in making this any more uncomfortable. I know enough about Paul Mulcahy to know it’s well within the realm of possibility that he promised me a place to stay and forgot that his daughter was coming to town, too. I’m sleeping in the truck tonight. Maybe tomorrow I’ll see if there’s a hotel nearby where I’ll be taking Hank for the next couple of weeks. I dread thinking about what kind of shitty food I’ll have to cobble together, living in a hotel room, but whatever.
Hank turns and runs farther into the house.
I put my hands on my hips to stop the slumping of my shoulders from being obvious.
“Sorry about this,” I mutter. “Hank!” I call, but no way he’s paying attention. I can hear the familiar sound of him snarfling in pure, unrestrained joy at the experience of rubbing the sides of his face and his flanks against uncharted pieces of furniture. If I was in there, I could stop him, but I don’t want to go in without permission. He’s sure taking advantage, though. I hear him make an almost human-sounding groan of pleasure. The back of my neck heats in embarrassment.
“Why don’t you come in,” Georgie says, surprising me, and I raise my eyes up to hers. She’s smiling, but it’s not any kind of self-satisfied smirk or anything. It’s more quiet acknowledgment of the way we both might find this funny later, once we’re not in each other’s presence anymore. It doesn’t make the situation better, but it doesn’t make it any worse, either, and that’s about the only time that’s happened today.
So instead of doing the thing that seems most natural—which is to say no, snap at my dog again, and get the hell out of here, I say, “You sure?”
She nods. “Yeah, we’ll give my dad a call, figure out what happened here.”
I nod, more curtly than she did, and it’s annoying, but I can’t help thinking of my brother. I know it’s only because she got us confused there for a second, but it’s a gut check all the same. I may not know him anymore, but I still know for sure that Evan wouldn’t do a curt nod; he wouldn’t do any of the grumpy shit I’ve done since I opened this door and found a beautiful mess of a woman behind it. He probably would’ve charmed the hell out of her, polite and smiling, because that’s how all the Fannings—except for me—are.