Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Aunt Fran dropped by today. She wanted to see the new condo. Her face had some color to it this afternoon. She set her thin fingers on my cheeks and kissed my mouth. She still smoked those rotten cigarettes, even with this terrible prognosis hanging over her head. She probably thought I couldn’t smell the cigarettes on her breath, but mint or not, I could.

“Very neutral, Derek.” There was a hint of dissatisfaction in her raspy voice. “Modern, I suppose.”

I helped her slip off her long white coat. She wore a beautiful purple blouse over black slacks.

“A little bland to my taste.” She ran a fingertip on the mantle, then cocked her head, scanning the premises with her sharp green eyes. Though the cancer had eaten half of her weight away, she still carried the same energy, and because of her frail built, that energy seemed to have expanded. “This is new.”

Of course it was. Everything in the condo was brand new. From the black rugs to the white blinds.

“Looks expensive, too.” Her eyes narrowed a little.

Yes, expensive. Very. She had no idea. And as a matter of fact, neither did I.

“The lighting is nice. Very crisp. Soothing, I suppose.”

I supposed, as well.

“May I see the bedroom?”

I bowed and pointed to the far end of the three-bedroom condo.

She walked slowly, as one would through a museum, stopping often to observe and comment.

I followed.

“This it, dear?”

It was. White blinds. White oak bedroom set consisting of two nightstands, a six-drawer dresser, a commode, and a corner desk. The white room was punctuated with black and red accessories. A large frame of oriental birds hung over the four-post bed.

The birds could have been oriental, I wasn’t sure.

“And you and Nathan have sex in here?”

I flicked off the light. “Aunt Fran, you promised.”

She gave me a quick nod and turned on her heels, heading straight for the kitchen.

In there: Stainless steel appliances. Marble counters. Bay window overlooking a third floor terrace. All of Nathan’s decisions.

Aunt Fran plucked open a cupboard and pulled a bag of dried mushrooms off the shelf. “Thought you hatedmushrooms.”

I held her ardent green gaze. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Her eyes were two slits of suspicion. “I see.” She set down the bag. “Let’s have a glass of rouge, shall we?”

She wasn’t supposed to drink, but what was chemotherapy to Aunt Fran? I uncorked a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. “How’s Diego?”

She ran her painted fingernail along the rim of the glass and sighed. Very theatrical of her. “Still trying to find himself. I’ve cut him loose.”

I chuckled. Diego was Aunt Fran’s new boy toy. Not anymore, I guessed.

“I thought Nathan would be here.” She’d already finished her first glass and was pouring herself another. “Or maybe I misunderstood. Those filthy drugs they’ve been pumping me with have me just about as clear-headed as Keith Richards.”

“Aunt Fran, I’m sor—”

“Oh please, don’t get all mushy on me.” She slapped my hand. Quite hard, too. “Why is it that every time I see you, you look more beautiful than the time before? Look at you. You’re candy for your old auntie’s eyes.”

Aunt Fran had always managed to fluster me. I believe she enjoyed it.

She winked. “So where is Mr. Alpha, anyway?”

“Why do you insist on calling him that?”

“Let’s see. Because Nathan is domineering, arrogant, completely self-absorbed, and—”

“He’s also consistently charming, immensity driven, quick-witted, and passionate.”

“And what about his—” she cleared her throat and leaned in “—performance in the sack?”

“Oh, aren’t you dying to know.”

She exploded into a fit of laughter that soon turned into a coughing spree. She was wheezing and struggling for the next breath.

I clutched the counter, waiting for it to subside, and watched helplessly.

Her eyes filled with tears. Her fingers turned white from the effort. Slowly, the air seemed to settle into her dying lungs and she cracked a sardonic smile. “That one wasn’t too bad, now was it?” She left her stool and went to fetch her bag. “I’ve got something for you, hon.”

As she pulled out a black binder from her large printed purse, my cell phone buzzed on the counter. On the other end of the line, Nathan’s voice was full of sleep. “Hey, babe,” he said.

I glanced down at my watch. Montreal. Eight P.M. So it was past midnight, London time. “Hello, stranger,” I said discreetly. “Can’t sleep?”

Aunt Fran refilled her glass again and stepped out on the terrace. She huddled in the far corner, hunched over like a thief. Obviously smoking.