Patchwork Paradise(29)

“We’re all friends here, and Thomas cares about you. Don’t you, Thomas?”

I glanced at him, embarrassed. He was frowning at me, no trace left of that beaming smile. “You slept with him?” he asked.

“Yeah. Last night. It was . . . a one-time thing. I’m not . . . I don’t want to talk about it.”

His jaw flexed. “Did he hurt you?”

“God, no! It was good.” My face went so hot aliens could probably have detected it from outer space. “It’s too soon, okay? Can we leave my sex life alone now, please?” Thomas stood frozen in the hallway, and I took that as acquiescence. “I need to start on the eggs.”

I’d managed to ruin the atmosphere somehow, and felt bad all over again.

“Listen,” Cleo said. “If you feel guilty about leaving him in the middle of the night, text him and apologize. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“You don’t owe him any kind of explanation,” Thomas said mulishly, which surprised me.

“Is that what you do with your one-night stands?” I asked.

His eyes lifted to meet mine. The wounded look in them almost made me flinch back.

Cleo gasped. “That’s not very nice, Oliver.”

“No,” I agreed. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged but stared out of the window. “It’s fine. You need to do what seems right to you, obviously. I meant that if you don’t want to text him, you don’t have to. You don’t owe him anything.”

I nodded. While the eggs poached, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. There were two messages from Peter.

You don’t have to reply to this. I understand and I’m sorry. I really liked you and I would’ve wanted to see you again, but you have a grieving process to go through. If I helped in any way, I’m happy.

If you should want to see me again at any point in the future, you know where I am.

“That him?” Cleo asked. I nodded. “Can I see?” I gave her my phone. “Aww.” Her voice sounded thick. “He sounds like a really nice guy. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

“Me too,” I murmured. Thomas stared at the message but said nothing.

Imran appeared when the eggs were done. He burst through the door in an overtired flurry and kept us all captivated with gruesome tales from his job until Peter was almost forgotten.

I caught Thomas watching me every once in a while, and his concern touched me. I smiled at him, and after a second he returned it softly, if a little sadly. Before I could dissect the meaning behind it, Cleo said, “Don’t forget! Christmas party next week! Where is your tree, Ollie?”

“I was going to set it up today.”

“We’ll help!” she declared. Imran and Thomas groaned but lumbered to their feet.

“Good breakfast, my friend,” Imran said as he passed me and followed Cleo into the basement, where I kept my fake tree and all the ornaments. I’d buy a real one next week for the office at the front of the house, but I liked the huge fake one in the living room.

“I’ll help you do the dishes,” Thomas said, and he did, in a mostly companionable silence.





Stan Doorn, the lawyer who’d processed the transfer of the house into Sam’s name when his grandmother died, looked very grave when I went to see him early on the twenty-third. He shook my hand and ushered me into his quiet office. I sat down in a creaky leather chair and tried to get my thumping heart under control.

“How are you doing, Oliver?” he asked. I’d seen him at the funeral and briefly afterward to go over Sam’s will. He always struck me as a severe but kind man.

“I’m doing okay,” I said, and he nodded slowly.

“I’ve read through Sam’s as well as his grandmother’s will. I’m going to tell you straight away, it would’ve been better if Sam’s will had been put together by me or another lawyer, instead of doing it himself.” He pressed his lips together and gazed at me thoughtfully for a second. “I can imagine he hadn’t considered he’d really need it this soon.”

My throat began to burn, and I nodded again. “So they can fight it?” I asked.

“They can,” Stan said. “And they will. If it will do them any good, I have no idea. But it will be a painful process. They can fight it in two ways.” He held up a thick finger. “Either they contest the authenticity of it—” he paused for a second, held up another finger as he peered at me over his reading glasses “—or they contest his mental health at the time he wrote the will.”

I made an outraged noise. “They’ll lose on both counts,” I said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. It will all depend on the judge. The house had been in their family for a very long time, you weren’t married yet, and some judges aren’t all that positive toward same-sex relationships even in this day and age.” I opened my mouth to complain again, but he held up his hand. “What it comes down to is this: they can fight it and they will. Whether they win or not becomes almost an afterthought. What you need to decide is how willing you are to drag this out. It will cost a lot of time, emotional commitment, and money, no matter what happens. And at the end of it you might still lose. Is the house worth it? Because if not, I can negotiate a deal where you get fifty percent of the proceeds. Maybe more because you are willing to work with them.”