Rare Objects

Hildy flashed him a warning look.

“Let me deal with it,” he said again.

“I know you—you’ll end up giving her more!” she hissed.

It was charming the way they both talked about me as if I weren’t standing right in front of them. “Actually”—I pulled my chin up—“I just stopped by to pay you back, Mickey.”

“See?” He gave Hildy a gentle push, back toward the chair. “I’ll handle this.”

“Well, you better!” She marched into the office instead and slammed the door. It echoed dramatically through the hall.

Mickey ran his hand across his eyes wearily, like a man forced to mediate between his mother and his wife. “Jesus, Maeve!”

“Jesus yourself!” I shot back. “What are you doing, Mick?”

He pointed a finger at me. “I don’t have to answer to you! You left! Remember?” Still, the color rose in his cheeks, and I knew he was embarrassed.

“Sure.” I shrugged. “You don’t have to answer to anyone. Least of all me.”

“Damn right I don’t!”

“I guess I’m like a bad penny: you just can’t get rid of me.”

He sighed, shook his head, but his eyes softened. At six foot three, he was one of the few men who could ever look down on me. “Aw, now, you know I didn’t want to be rid of you, Maeve. I never wanted that.”

I nodded to the office door. “You do now.”

A shadow of guilt flickered in his eyes. “What did you expect me to do? Wait?”

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