Page 130 of Dying to Meet You
“Hello,” he says, reaching around to cup her breasts. They’re tender, but she doesn’t complain. “This blouse is sheer, you realize.”
“Is it?”
He chuckles, sliding his hand to her belly and holding it there.
She stops breathing. Her pregnancy seems very real when he does this. There are three of them in this chair right now.
“Well? Have you chosen a name? It better be a good Christian name.”
She frowns, because he can’t see her face. “You mean like Mary?”
“That’s only one of many. See that book? With the gold spine?” He points across the room at one of the built-in bookshelves. “Go fetch it. I want to show you something.”
She obeys, giving him a look at her backside on her way to fetch the book. When she returns, he tucks her into his lap and opens the cover. It creaks with age.
There’s a bookplate on the inside flap.From the library of Marcus Wincott, it reads.
“This is a hagiography,” he says. “A book of saints. Borrow it, and you’ll find all the names. There’s Catherine. Clare. Even Rose is a saint’s name.”
“Okay.” She flips the book open to a random page, and the first thing she sees is a dark woodcut image.The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew. A man is shown in the midst of being flayed alive. He’s bound to a frame, his skin being peeled off by his executioners, who wear grim expressions of determination. But St. Bartholomew's face is turned upward, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and transcendent focus.
Such a dark place to search for baby names. And when she’d told Mr. Wincott they were more alike than different, it was really true.
He’s already forgotten about the book, though. His fingers are stroking her tummy. She’s noticed that he’s stopped referring to her as his little sinner. His touch is still sexual, but it’s more possessive, with a side of tenderness that surprises her.
Those fingers dip under her skirt.
“Stand up. Put your hands on the desk,” he says quietly.
She hurries to comply.
“Good girl,” he says. “Good girl.”
47
Thursday
Natalie
“Which hours are you available to work?” asks Cal Baxter, the owner of Docksiders.
“Doesn’t matter,” she admits. Her summer vacation isn’t exactly packed. “I mean, it’s summer break. And I can bike here whenever.”
After two days, Tessa has already bailed on their job hunt. She’s going to take an online college course instead, so she’ll still have something to brag about on college applications. Her parents don’t care that much, and Natalie wishes her mother had the same attitude.
As if.
Mr. Baxter grins. “Working at Docksiders on summer break—it’s practically a family tradition at this point, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she agrees, even though she hasn’t discussed this with her mother yet. Or her father. He’s back in the kitchen right now, prepping for the lunch rush.
That’s how she got this idea. Her dad is always saying how strapped for help Mr. Baxter is, especially in the summer. And the guy hasn’t even asked her to fill out an application. They’re just sitting at the deserted bar drinking seltzer with lemon and talking.
“All right, tell ya what,” he says, smacking his lips. “You’ll come in at four today and learn to be an expediter. Thursdays aren’t as crazy as a weekend night. Then tomorrow, come in at eleven and we’ll also train you to hostess. I’ll look at next week’s schedule and see where the gaps are, okay? And we’ll either put you on the door, or you’ll be running food out of the kitchen. I’m sure I can give you three or four shifts a week, no problem.”
“That’s great, Mr. Baxter,” she says. “I’m in.”
“Marilyn!” he yodels. “Bring me a W-4 and an I-9?”
