baby blue button-down shirt, with her black leather satchel in hand. “I’m going, but I didn’t want to ask you this over the phone.”
“I can’t talk right now,” Jamie murmured. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, burrow under the covers, and devote the rest of the day to a protracted panic attack.
Brooke blocked the path to the staircase. “I know something’s going on.”
Jamie rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I don’t feel well.”
“Look, you know you can tell me anything, right?”
Jamie didn’t reply.
“Right?” Brooke prompted.
The two women stared at each other across the sun-filled foyer. Finally, Jamie said, “What now?”
“Arden’s estate attorney just phoned. He said he’s been leaving messages on your cell for the last few days and you haven’t called him back.” Brooke put one hand on her hip and waited until Jamie made eye contact. “Why haven’t you deposited your inheritance check?”
“‘These are not the hands of a lady,’ he said and tossed them into her lap. …
‘ You’ve been working with those hands. …’”
—Margaret Mitchell,
Gone With the Wind
I
just forgot.”
That’s what Jamie had claimed when Brooke first confronted her about the phone call from Arden’s lawyer. And then, when Brooke had persisted in asking how anyone could “just forget” about $250,000, Jamie had reverted to
I just haven’t gotten around to it
, which progressed to
I just don’t feel like it
, until, at last, they’d ended up in a stalemate with Brooke reiterating “But why?” and Jamie buttonhooking around her and fleeing up the stairs.
Brooke picked up the pace on her walk to campus and wondered what her friend could possibly have to hide. Jamie had a big heart and a bigger mouth, and her total inability tokeep secrets had become a group joke over the years. And she was almost as bad at holding on to money as she was at holding her tongue.
So what on earth had happened between Jamie and Arden that would compel Jamie to turn down a quarter of a million dollars? Their friendship had never suffered so much as a ripple of discord, at least as far as Brooke knew. But she planned to investigate further.
Right after she investigated how to replace knob-and-tube wiring.
“Hi.” Brooke approached the circulation desk of the Thurwell College library. “I’m embarking on a few home improvement projects, and I’m searching for books on electrical wiring. Nothing too technical. I need something written for the layman. Where would I look for something like that?”
The pale, obviously sleep-deprived student working behind the desk glanced up from her textbook. “Electrical wiring?”
“Yes. A how-to manual along the lines of
Rewiring Your House for Total Imbeciles
. Something at that level.”
The student adjusted her retro cat’s-eye glasses and tapped away at the desktop computer. “I’ll check the system, but I don’t think we have anything like that. Now, if you need a compendium on electrical engineering …”
“Here’s the deal.” Brooke sighed. “I don’t have what you’d call a hard-science background. I was an English major here ten years ago.”
“Ohhh.” The student nodded with newfound understanding. “You know who you should talk to?” She wound her long dark hair around her index finger. “Professor Rutkin.”
Brooke had a sudden flashback to the one and only course she had ever dropped out of. “Of the physics department?”
“Yeah, some of those science profs know all about electrical stuff. Professor Rutkin always helps the theater geeks set up the stage lights. They did a wicked series of gels for
No Exit
last semester.”
Brooke smiled. “Let me guess. Theater geek?”
“Card-carrying member.” The student smiled back. “Hang on, I’ll look up Rutkin’s office number.” She pulled up the college website and clicked through the faculty listings. “Oh, look, the physics department has office hours
“I can’t talk right now,” Jamie murmured. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, burrow under the covers, and devote the rest of the day to a protracted panic attack.
Brooke blocked the path to the staircase. “I know something’s going on.”
Jamie rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I don’t feel well.”
“Look, you know you can tell me anything, right?”
Jamie didn’t reply.
“Right?” Brooke prompted.
The two women stared at each other across the sun-filled foyer. Finally, Jamie said, “What now?”
“Arden’s estate attorney just phoned. He said he’s been leaving messages on your cell for the last few days and you haven’t called him back.” Brooke put one hand on her hip and waited until Jamie made eye contact. “Why haven’t you deposited your inheritance check?”
“‘These are not the hands of a lady,’ he said and tossed them into her lap. …
‘ You’ve been working with those hands. …’”
—Margaret Mitchell,
Gone With the Wind
I
just forgot.”
That’s what Jamie had claimed when Brooke first confronted her about the phone call from Arden’s lawyer. And then, when Brooke had persisted in asking how anyone could “just forget” about $250,000, Jamie had reverted to
I just haven’t gotten around to it
, which progressed to
I just don’t feel like it
, until, at last, they’d ended up in a stalemate with Brooke reiterating “But why?” and Jamie buttonhooking around her and fleeing up the stairs.
Brooke picked up the pace on her walk to campus and wondered what her friend could possibly have to hide. Jamie had a big heart and a bigger mouth, and her total inability tokeep secrets had become a group joke over the years. And she was almost as bad at holding on to money as she was at holding her tongue.
So what on earth had happened between Jamie and Arden that would compel Jamie to turn down a quarter of a million dollars? Their friendship had never suffered so much as a ripple of discord, at least as far as Brooke knew. But she planned to investigate further.
Right after she investigated how to replace knob-and-tube wiring.
“Hi.” Brooke approached the circulation desk of the Thurwell College library. “I’m embarking on a few home improvement projects, and I’m searching for books on electrical wiring. Nothing too technical. I need something written for the layman. Where would I look for something like that?”
The pale, obviously sleep-deprived student working behind the desk glanced up from her textbook. “Electrical wiring?”
“Yes. A how-to manual along the lines of
Rewiring Your House for Total Imbeciles
. Something at that level.”
The student adjusted her retro cat’s-eye glasses and tapped away at the desktop computer. “I’ll check the system, but I don’t think we have anything like that. Now, if you need a compendium on electrical engineering …”
“Here’s the deal.” Brooke sighed. “I don’t have what you’d call a hard-science background. I was an English major here ten years ago.”
“Ohhh.” The student nodded with newfound understanding. “You know who you should talk to?” She wound her long dark hair around her index finger. “Professor Rutkin.”
Brooke had a sudden flashback to the one and only course she had ever dropped out of. “Of the physics department?”
“Yeah, some of those science profs know all about electrical stuff. Professor Rutkin always helps the theater geeks set up the stage lights. They did a wicked series of gels for
No Exit
last semester.”
Brooke smiled. “Let me guess. Theater geek?”
“Card-carrying member.” The student smiled back. “Hang on, I’ll look up Rutkin’s office number.” She pulled up the college website and clicked through the faculty listings. “Oh, look, the physics department has office hours
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