Page 45 of Good Days Bad Days
“I know it’s a lot to ask but ...” She pauses, and I pause too, considering the hour drive to the Playboy Club-Hotel in Lake Geneva and how in the world I’ll explain all this to Martha if I say yes. I’m about to suggest she call a cab or stay the night at the hotel when she finishes her sentence. “You’re the only one I trust.”
The only one I trust.
My God, that phrase coming out of her mouth nearly knocks my knees out, and I feel like I’d tear through a brick wall filled with dynamite to help her. I check on Martha. She folds the washcloth, watching me with her mouth quirked up to one side. I should stay. I should finish our meeting. I should see if we can recreate the moment in the kitchen. I should take a risk, and I should kiss her.
“Greg?” Betty calls my name through the phone. “Can you help me?”
I turn away from Martha and shove the receiver against my mouth and give the answer squeezing at the back of my throat, begging to get out.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Chapter 17
Charlie
Present Day
“It looks like you’re moving,” Cam says as he tries to shift the boxes in the trunk of my car into a Tetris-like pattern. We need to make space for three more large containers at his feet labeled “Hedberg Public Library” and the black faux-leather-covered rectangular case waiting on the sidewalk with a barcode on one side and library stickers on the other.
“Hoarding must run in the family.” I try to make a joke of the collection of memorabilia I’ve accumulated in the back of my car. I could easily bring them into my rental house—there’s a whole second bedroom I’ve barely even examined—but something about keeping them in my car makes them seem like a puzzle I’m on the verge of finishing.
“This whole thing blows my mind. It’s like you’re getting to know your mom before she became your mom, it’s like ... like time travel–level stuff,” Cam says, finding room for one more box and slipping it into place.
The sun is setting on the other side of the Rock River. We stopped at the Janesville library after I’d spilled every single detail of my low-key investigation during our walk.
“It’s not a foolproof method,” I admit, stacking an additional box on two others in the back seat. “I’ve been sitting with Betty playing cards and thenbam, my mom calls me Lottie and tells me my nails are too long or something. Or accuses me of putting her in ‘this place,’ or in the worst of times, she thinks I’m a kidnapper holding her prisoner.”
“Not painless but you’re still making the most out of a difficult situation, maybe?”
“You are one ‘glass is half full’ SOB, Dr. Stokes,” I say, stepping back to assess my completely stuffed vehicle and shaking my head. “I took too many canisters, what do you think?”
“No way. They would’ve let you take the whole library if you asked them. I don’t think they let just anyone stick around after closing. Being famous has some perks.”
He’d admitted at the beginning of our date, or whatever the hell this is, that he’d only recently found out about my television persona but still claims he’s never seen an actual episode ofSecond Chance Renovation. I’m sure he has plenty of questions since the whole focus of the show is my relationship with my cohost/husband, but he didn’t push after I told him Ian and I are separated. I really like that about Cam—he doesn’t push me, which is exactly the energy I needed after the call with CEO asshole Alex.
He doesn’t push, but he does encourage. Like, when I brought out my mom’s book at dinner, it was Cam who questioned how much of it was written by my mother and how much came from the perspective of the trademarked Classy Homemaker. He pointed out that by the time I came around, we weren’t a traditional home, with all Mom’s collections, nor did we have a traditional family structure, with Mom calling the shots more than my dad. And in my head I had to admit he might be right.
Then it was Cam’s idea to walk a few yards away to visit the library and search for archived copies of my mother’s show.The Classy Homemakerran from 1969 to 1974 on WQRX, ending four years before I was born. We found five years’ worth of episodes availableas kinescopes on 16 mm film. Well, not all five years’ worth. The librarian explained that the collection wasn’t complete due to some water damage ruining nearly half of it, but once she started showing us all the remaining metal film tins, it didn’t seem like a huge loss. And though I’m getting damn good at taking care of myself and others, I like having Cam with me on this leg of my investigation.
The setting sun has turned the world to pink and orange, the sky filled with creamsicle-colored pulled taffy clouds, and inviting an aching chill that cuts through my light leather jacket. I fight off a shiver, but Cam seems to pick up on my discomfort.
“That’s it. I’m calling an audible. The rest of these are going in my car. I’ll follow you back and drop them at your place. Then you’ll be free of me, I swear,” he says, stacking the last three boxes and carrying them to the rear of his SUV.
“That’s two hours round trip. I can’t ask you to do that. I can rearrange some things ...” He slams the rear door before I can finish my protest. Clapping his hands together like he’s dusting them off, he places them lightly on my shoulders, the last few sunrays illuminating the golds and greens in his eyes so the tiny brown flecks embedded in his iris stand out.
“You’re not asking me to do it—I’m offering.” He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, his fingertips somehow blazing hot in the rapidly chilling evening air. I breathe in his natural scent still discernible beneath his fading cologne and shiver again, this time for an entirely different reason.
“All right, if you insist.”
“I insist,” he says, running his hands down my arms, warming my frozen fingers with his fiery ones. I linger there, indulging in the electric current running into my body from his skin. I break our connection, reaching into my jacket pocket for my keys.
“I’m staying on Center Street. Across from Josh Dunleavy’s house.”
“Got it,” he says, watching me walk away, then calling after me, “Drive safely.”
I volley the sentiment and climb into my car, grateful for the solitude but also missing him almost immediately. I flick on the radio, crack the windows to help with the mildewy scent invading the car’s interior, and intentionally leave my phone turned off and stowed away, hiding from all my future problems a little bit longer.
I pull into my rental’s driveway almost exactly an hour later, my skin cool and fresh from the breeze, the tip of my nose numb. Cam parks at the curb. We meet on the cement walkway that leads to the front door, just outside the half circle of yellow porch light.
