Page 61 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“Status quo?” I counted my points, raking my bottom lip between my teeth. “Let’s see…that’s ten for the Q, one for U and O, times three. Thirty-six.”

“Well done, dah-ling,” Mr. G said, sliding his tiles into place with shaky fingers. “Twenty points for me.”

“Double letter. Nice job.”

Pierce slumped dramatically in his seat and sprang up like a jack-in-the-box a moment later. “What iscinq?”

“It means five,” Mr. G and I replied in unison.

“In French. Not in English. What version of this game are you two playing?”

I fixed him with a patient look. “No sour grapes. It’s poor form to pout when you’re losing.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not pouting. I don’t pout. I’m asking a legit question.Cinqisn’t a Scrabble word. I call foul.”

“Look it up, doll.” Mr. Gowan tapped Pierce’s cell lying between them on the table. “Go on.”

“Fine, I will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Mr. G and I shared looks that morphed into matching megawatt grins.

This was…fun. Our polite repartee had devolved as we played. Pierce dazzled us with words like ledger and raven, only to be disappointed when he only earned the minimal amount of points. We explained, he fumed, we joked, and he retaliated with the word dildo. Mr. G almost spit his tea out.

The old man’s laughter sounded brittle and wheezy, but thankfully, didn’t result in a coughing jag. However, it did break the ice.

We weren’t overly polite now. We weren’t walking on eggshells, hoping to avoid trigger subjects. For the first time since they’d met, Mr. G and Pierce seemed completely at ease with each other.

It was so…nice.

I won the first game, Mr. G won the second, and yeah, Pierce came in last both times.

“Game three?” I asked, cocking my head.

“Not tonight. I need to study the dictionary before I play with you two sharks again,” he huffed, topping off our wine glasses.

“Oh, we should play for money next time,” I enthused.

Mr. Gowan nodded. “That’s a fabulous idea. Low stakes, of course. Nothing to break the bank. David and I used to do that with gin rummy. We’d each put ten dollars in the pot and add a dollar per point or—no, that can’t be right. That would be far too much money.”

I dumped our letters into the pouch and put the board away, sneaking a sideways glance at the older man. “Did you play games a lot?”

“Every night. We’d sit right here.” He thumped the table and gazed out the window into the dark. “I’ve redecorated many rooms in this house over the years, erasing colors, textures, and smells that made me melancholy. This room used to have blue-and-white striped wallpaper, thick navy curtains, and nautical-themed treasures—flags, antique compasses, seashells—that sort of thing. In the spring, the hydrangeas would bloom in a riot of pink. It was a lovely contrast. We commented on it often while sitting at this very game table. But this was the only thing I kept. In this room anyway. Memories are…a funny thing.”

“It’s a lovely table.”

He ran bony fingers along the edge of the inlay. “It is. I might have given it away, but I was afraid David would haunt me from the grave if I dared.”

“Did he pick it out?” I asked lightly.

“No, we bought it together. It was our very first piece of furniture. We used it as a dining table in the apartment we shared in Pasadena in 19…” He squinted and shook his head. “1966. Is that possible? I remember the day we brought it home like it was yesterday. Our friend James let us borrow his truck. It should have been a simple chore of throwing it onto the flatbed, but David was a nuclear engineer. Very persnickety. You’d have thought we were transferring the crown jewels.”

His indulgent smile lit something deep from within, peeling away decades in a flash. I swore I could picture Mr. Gowan fifty years younger…and madly in love. When his eyes glistened a moment later, he schooled his features with a cough and glanced away.

My heart ached for him, but I didn’t know what to say or—