Page 119 of One Wrong Move

Her breathing evens out, and I draw a deep breath. She smells good. Warm and floral and all woman.

“It wasn’t a loan,” I say.

But she’s already asleep.

Harper

Richard takes a long sip of the tea I’d prepared. I wait, with bated breath.

He swallows. Nods once, and sets the teacup back on the small circular table in Nate’s backyard. “Yes,” he says. “Very good.”

I exhale in relief. “I was worried I steeped it too long this time.”

“No, just right,” he says. “Jasmine?”

“Yes, from the shop a few streets down.”

“I like that store.” He leans back in the chair and stretches out his legs with a sigh. The garden is green around us, flowers in full bloom in the beautifully landscaped beds. The space isn’t big, but it’s luscious, with a single oak in the far left corner that reaches high above the wooden privacy fence.

“I can get you some of it,” I say. “Anything you need in the coming weeks, just call and let me know.”

Richard’s left leg is bandaged from the calf to just below the knee. He looks down at Quincy lying on his lap. The distinguished dachshund with some silver along his snout, matching the distinguished gentleman with lots of silver in his hair. Despite the oppressive heatwave that had struck London in this second week of June, our neighbor is in a long-sleeved button-down and trousers, colorful socks and loafers on his feet.

And a small flat cap, ever-present.

“Thank you,” he says and runs an aged hand over Quincy’s silky ear. “And thank you for taking care of the boys. I didn’t know what to do, when the ambulance people came.”

“Anytime.”

He shakes his head a tiny bit. “I appreciate it more than you know. Most people… I’m not certain what I would have done if you couldn’t look after them.”

I reach for my own teacup. “Does your family live nearby?”

“No,” he says. Petting Quincy’s back, matte compared to Stanley’s happy spots. “I have a daughter. She lives in Rome with her family.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.”

“It is,” he says. “But it’s far.”

“Of course. Does she visit?”

“At times, yes. But I can’t say I was the best father while my wife was still alive. I let her… I let her handle most of the social interactions.” He shrugs and gives me a sad smile. “Keeping up with what Helen did. That sort of thing.”

“It’s never too late to learn to do the same,” I say.

He chuckles dryly. “Right. Well… maybe not. I also have a brother. In Brighton.”

“Brighton? That’s much closer,” I say. “Are you two close?”

Richard glances toward the house and the wide-open French doors that lead into the modern kitchen. It’s early evening, and Nate should be back from work soon. He said he wanted to meet Richard, too.

“Sorry, I had to do the maths,” Richard says finally. “We haven’t spoken in almost seventeen years.”

My eyes flare. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Another victim of time, I’m afraid. One argument got bigger than it needed to, and we’re both stubborn men.” He reaches for his tea and looks away, like he’s said more than he intended to.

I reach down to pat Stanley. “Think it’s something that can be fixed?”

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