The Long Game (15 page)

“You look beautiful,” I managed.

Spencer’s cheeks flushed. “Thanks.” She held
her hand out to me, and I laced my fingers in hers.

We walked toward the back of the house,
passing a wide staircase that sat to the right of the hall and
disappeared into darkness several feet over our heads. On the left,
the French doors that served as the entrance to a sunken, formal
living room stood open, giving the wall a sort of slack-jawed
appearance. The room was dimly lit, and I only caught a glimpse of
its contents before passing. The shadowy figures of several large
pieces of furniture crouched around the room, but it didn’t look
like the kind of place Tommy would hide a stolen ledger.

“This place is a little like a museum.” I
barely spoke above a whisper. The house was beautiful and
tastefully decorated as far as I could tell, but the air seemed too
close—almost oppressive—and I wished for the cool evening breeze
that had kicked up outside.

“I know,” she said. “We don’t use the front
of the house very often. To be honest, we don’t use much of the
house at all. No one ever goes upstairs. It’s not even furnished.
It’s kind of a shame. I’m not really sure why my dad bought such a
big place when he’d be fine in a condo, but I guess it looks good
when he has clients over.”

“Does he have people over often?”

“Once in a while.” She shrugged. “He’s having
some cocktail party in a few days, actually. I’m supposed to be
here to play hostess.” She turned to flash a weary expression over
her shoulder.

“Sounds awesome.”

“Yeah, almost as much fun as microeconomics.”
She laughed but stopped abruptly to turn back to me. “It would be
way more fun if you’d be there.”

Her expression was so hopeful I couldn’t say
no, even though there was every chance I’d be on a bus to Louisiana
by then. “I’d love to,” I said. “Assuming your dad is cool with
it.”

Her mouth split into a wide grin, and she
threw her arms around my neck a second time. “You’re the best,” she
said. “And don’t worry about my dad. He’ll probably be too
distracted to even notice, but I’ll ask him just to be sure. Come
on.”

She started toward the brightly lit kitchen
at the end of the hall, and although I could only see a section of
cabinets through the doorway, I heard running water somewhere
inside the room. I slowed a little, tugging her arm. She paused for
half a second, then gave my hand an encouraging squeeze and kept
moving.

We crossed through the doorway and emerged in
the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. The wall in front of me was
lined with white cabinets. Granite countertops stretched around the
room, broken into sections by the sink on the back wall and a huge
stove on another. An island dominated the middle of the room and
sported the same granite as the surface of the counter. A rack of
gleaming copper cookware hung above it, mirroring the copper hood
suspended over the stove. A small table was tucked into the
breakfast nook on the far left of the room. Its worn and battered
appearance made it look out of place in a kitchen that otherwise
seemed to have fallen from the pages of a magazine, but something
told me it was a favorite piece of furniture for Spencer and her
father, probably something they’d taken with them from place to
place while they moved around the country the last two decades.

A man stood at the kitchen sink washing a
soapy bowl, his back turned to us. The water was running, but
rather than rinsing the dish, he stared out of the window in front
of him. Spencer cleared her throat, and I watched the man’s
shoulders go rigid and then quickly relax again. He rinsed the
bowl, set it in the wire dish rack, then turned off the water and
grabbed a dishtowel. He dried his hands as he turned to face us.
From across the kitchen, Tommy Costello appeared several inches
taller than me and seemed to grow even larger as he approached. He
had red hair like Spencer, though his was a lighter shade of copper
than hers. Tommy grinned at us and slung the dishtowel over one
shoulder. Deep grooves forged from years of good-natured smiles
framed his mouth, and my apprehension eased just a little.

“Well, I guess he found the place after all,
Spence,” he said, then turned his gaze to me. “She’s been pacing
around in the hall for the last half-hour, worried you’d gotten
lost.”

I laughed. “She mentioned that.”

“Dad,” Spencer said, clearly anxious to
change the subject before her father said anything else to
embarrass her, “this is Shane Casey. Shane, my dad, Tommy
Costello.”

I told myself I was being paranoid, but the
flash of recognition I caught in his eyes made my hand shake a
little when I extended it to Tommy. He remained motionless for a
second and then took my hand, squeezing it a bit harder than
necessary.

“Pleasure to meet you, Shane,” he said.
“Spencer’s told me almost nothing about you.” He released my hand
and crossed his arms over his chest, causing the blue fabric of his
sweater to strain over the muscles of his arms.

“There’s not much to tell, I guess.” I smiled
at Spencer, then returned my attention to Tommy. The older man
studied me through narrowed eyes. I hoped the expression was
nothing more than the appraising look of a father meeting his
daughter’s boyfriend for the first time, but something warned me to
be cautious. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and
shoved my hands into the pockets of my slacks.

“Hmm,” Tommy grunted. “I guess we’ll
see.”

Spencer looked nervously from her father to
me and back again. Tommy’s icy demeanor was obviously what she’d
been worried about, and she seemed unsure how to proceed. “Well, I
guess we should probably eat,” she said finally.

Tommy looked at her as if he’d forgotten she
was in the room. “Sure. Of course, hon. Why don’t you grab the
salad and show Shane into the dining room?”

Spencer nodded and grabbed a large glass bowl
from the island. She crossed the kitchen to a doorway on the right
side of the room, and I trailed after her. A long, highly polished
table with thick legs gleamed in the light of a low-hanging
chandelier. Though it offered seating for at least a dozen people,
only three places had been set at its far end. Spencer carried the
salad around to the opposite side and walked down the length of the
table. She set the bowl near the plates.

“You can sit there.” She pointed to the place
across from her.

I made my way to it but didn’t take my seat.
Instead, I gripped the back of the chair and drummed my fingers
against it. “I’m not so sure your dad likes me.” I glanced at the
doorway to ensure Tommy wasn’t on his way through it.

“It’s not that,” she said. “He’s still
dealing with this whole ‘boyfriend’ thing. Like I said, I’ve never
told him about the guys I’ve dated before, and I’ve definitely
never invited anyone for dinner.” She pulled out her chair and slid
into it, then smoothed the wispy fabric of her skirt over her legs.
“You’re the first guy I ever wanted to invite.”

A wave of guilt nudged at me when she aimed a
shy smile in my direction, but I pushed it away and smiled back.
“Well, I’m honored to have that distinction.”

Tommy emerged from the kitchen wearing bright
green oven mitts and carrying a casserole dish. He eased the dish
onto a trivet that had been set out on the sideboard behind Spencer
and pulled the mitts off.

“Looks delicious as usual, Spence.” He
reached over her shoulder to retrieve her plate. He scooped a
section of the lasagna onto it, then handed it back. He extended
his hand to me, and I obediently offered my plate. Tommy filled it
with a generous portion and passed it back. “This is Spencer’s
specialty. It’s her own recipe—one she won’t even share with me,
which is fine because that means she has to visit once in a while
to make it for me.” Tommy nudged Spencer with his elbow as he piled
lasagna onto his own plate.

“Okay, Dad,” she said. “I can make lasagna.
We get it.”

Tommy chuckled and took his seat at the head
of the table. “All right, I’m done complimenting you.” Spencer
pursed her lips and raised a skeptical eyebrow, which only made her
father laugh harder. “For now, at least,” he said.

Spencer rolled her eyes, and her gaze met
mine across the table. We smiled at each other before Tommy cleared
his throat and we both snapped our attention back to him. He gave
me a tight-lipped smile before bowing his head, plainly expecting
me to follow suit. I did, but looked at Spencer through lowered
lashes and gave her a conspiratorial wink when she did the
same.

“Shane,” Tommy said. I lowered my eyes again,
feeling like a child who’d been caught sneaking a cookie before
dinner. “Would you care to say the blessing?”

I swallowed. “Of course, sir,” I said after a
moment, then recited the well-engrained Catholic prayer. “Bless us,
oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy
bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

All three of us raised our heads and crossed
ourselves perfunctorily. Tommy helped himself to salad, then
retrieved his fork and held it suspended over his plate. “So,
Shane, Spencer tells me you’re a transfer to Balanova.”

I nodded and hurried to finish the large bite
of lasagna I’d taken. “Yes, sir. This is my first semester.”

“And where were you before this?” Tommy took
a bite of his own dinner but kept his eyes locked on me.

“Shane went to Loyola,” Spencer said, clearly
trying to save me from Tommy’s grilling.

“I see,” Tommy said. His expression was
unreadable.

I dropped my eyes to my plate and took
another large bite in the hope it would delay any more questions
for at least the time it took to chew. I chewed very slowly.

“He’s from New Orleans,” she added.

The bit of lasagna I’d just swallowed caught
in my throat, and I coughed. I lifted my head and rapidly shifted
my gaze from Spencer to her father. Tommy’s expression darkened and
I saw the muscle of his jaw twitch, but his face was impassive
again within a second. I looked back at Spencer and was relieved to
see she hadn’t seemed to notice her father’s reaction because she
hadn’t taken her eyes off me. She frowned, her expression a mixture
of concern and amusement.

“You okay?”

I nodded and took a few gulps of water.
“Fine, yeah.” I grinned at her. “Sorry. I guess I should take
smaller bites.”

She giggled. “Respiratory distress tends to
take the fun out of the meal. Chewing is recommended.”

I snickered, relieved the moment had passed
without incident. “Thanks for the advice.” I winked at her.

She beamed and caught her bottom lip between
her teeth. I returned my attention to the plate in front of me but
glanced at Tommy from the corner of my eye. He continued to eat in
silence but occasionally looked at his daughter with a sort of
worried expression. Spencer smiled at her plate and pushed her food
around its surface with her fork. I wondered if she wished as badly
as I did that we were back in her sorority room instead of sitting
at her father’s dinner table in uncomfortable silence.

After several minutes, Tommy laid his fork
across his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “That was
wonderful, hon.”

Spencer set down her fork and smiled wearily
at him. “Thanks, Dad.”

“It was amazing, Spence,” I said, propping my
elbows on either side of my empty plate.

“Thanks.” She smiled at me, too, though she
seemed much happier for the compliment now. “Oh, so, Dad…” She
turned back to Tommy. “You know the thing on Friday?”

“The very important dinner I’m having for
clients that you promised to help with?” Tommy raised an eyebrow at
her. “I’m aware of it.”

“Yeah, that.” Spencer rolled her eyes. “I’m
definitely going to be there, but I was wondering if you’d mind if
Shane tagged along? We could always use the extra hands, and if
he’s there, I wouldn’t have to spend the whole night talking to a
room full of boring old guys in suits.”

“Those ‘boring old guys in suits’ pay your
tuition, you know.” Tommy tried to look stern, but it was obvious
he very rarely said no to his daughter.

“Please?” She folded her hands like a little
girl begging for a pony.

“Sure,” he relented. “Fine.”

Happy to get her way, she stood and began
collecting the dirty dishes and utensils. As I watched her, I was
aware of Tommy watching me.

Neither of us moved to help clear the table
until Spencer spoke. “You know, I did most of the cooking. It would
be great if I didn’t also have to do all of the cleaning up.”

I pushed my chair back, jumped to my feet,
and reached for the plate she held. Had we been in the Village, it
wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for an entire table of men
to sit while she cleared every dish, but we weren’t in the Village,
a fact I needed to keep in mind while I was here. Besides, I had a
feeling that Spencer might not have stood for it even if she’d
grown up as a Traveler.

Spencer retrieved a glass and started toward
the kitchen. I followed her with my armload of dishes, and Tommy
brought up the rear with the now-cool pan of lasagna.

“You can put those in the sink.” She pulled
the salad bowl from the top of my stack. I crossed to it and set
the plates, flatware, and glasses down on the stainless steel.

Tommy worked on putting away leftovers, and
Spencer started a pot of coffee. I saw my opening. “Mind if I use
the bathroom?” I asked.

“Sure.” She smiled at me over her shoulder.
“It’s just down the front hall, around the staircase, first door on
the right.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

I moved quickly down the hall, aware I had
very little time before either Spencer or Tommy might come looking
for me. Since Spencer had said they didn’t use the upper levels of
the house, I assumed Tommy’s bedroom, and maybe an office, would be
on this floor. I rounded the staircase and found a second hall with
doors along the right side. I ignored the first one, where Spencer
had said the bathroom would be and reached for the handle of the
second.