She wasn’t sure she could eat, but admitted it delayed things enough to rewrite in her head—again—exactly how to tell him.
“Sounds amazing.”
“We can get some fuel inside, then get to work.”
She filled her role as assistant in the kitchen and listened to him talk about the upcoming trip to New York, about putting together another recipe or two for the proposed cookbook.
So excited, she thought as he worked. So looking forward to meeting in person all the people he’d worked with through emails and phone calls and Zoom calls.
He didn’t know she’d bought tickets—orchestra seats—for a musical on the night they’d arrive. She held that surprise close.
“You nervous about the trip, my Breen? You’re awful quiet.”
“No, not nervous. Well, maybe a little about the book.” No lie there.
“Waste of nerves,” he declared. “We’re going to burn that off with some shopping. New York City shopping. Been damn near a year since either of us did any serious-type shopping, and now we’re going to do it in New York. You’re getting a new outfit for meeting all these people.”
“I have an outfit for that.”
“Not a new one. Marco’s Rules. Stores are open Sunday afternoon when we get there, and we’re hitting them hard.”
She argued about it because it kept them both occupied while they sat and ate.
She cleared and washed up—her rule—while he opened his laptop and started his workday.
Though she knew he really didn’t want to go, she urged Bollocks outside.
Then she laid a hand on Marco’s shoulder.
“I have to interrupt you. I need to get something, show you something, then talk to you.”
He shoved the laptop aside. “You sound really serious.”
“I know. Give me a second.”
She went into her office, where she’d put the pendant next to the labradorite globe.
He’d closed his laptop, gotten each of them a Coke. And his eyes widened on the pendant she carried.
“Holy shit. Holy big-ass shit, Breen. That’s… that’s amazing. It looks old, in the high-class way of old.”
“It’s really old.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yeah. It’s mine.”
“Put it on! I bet it makes that black sweater look like a frigging Oscar gown.”
“Marco.” She put a hand on his. “I need to tell you about it, what it is, what it means. I need you to listen and let me finish it.”
The light in his eyes dimmed. “I’m not gonna like it, am I?”
“Just listen. Do you remember, the day you came home—we were leaving for Ireland—and I was having a nightmare?”
“Hard to forget that one. I thought you were having a seizure or something.”
“I was having a dream. And it was about this.”