Free Jake's 8 by Howard McEwen

money this week?”
    She nodded yeah.
    “There’s no way to do it in two weeks?”
    She nodded nah.
    I turned and pushed the plunger down on the French press and poured her a cup and then myself. I walked her's over. She took it, averting her eyes from my body.
    “I take milk and sugar,” she said.
    “It’s good the way it is,” I told her and started walking toward the bedroom to get dressed. “Give me five and I’ll buy you a bear claw at Schadeau’s then walk you to your car.”
    I drank about half my coffee in one gulp then jumped commando into some jeans and pulled over a shirt. I slid on some sandals and slurped the rest of my coffee. When I came out I could tell she was trying to rally herself. She was standing rod straight with that determined, all-business look again.
    “Look, thanks for a nice night but I have to head home.” I waved her quiet.
    “Go fix your face. We’re going to walk down the street and get a breakfast to go. I’ll walk you to your car. You’ll come to my office on Monday at nine and we’ll work out this thing with your daughter and ex-.”
    There was a tremor in that plump lower lip of hers and she lost whatever resiliency she was trying to show. She went into the bathroom clutching her purse close to her body. I poured myself another cuppa. Ten minutes went by and I’d finished my coffee and yelled, “Let’s go.” She came out two minutes later, not quite looking like the Sazerac I met last night, but better than the glass of stale beer I woke up to.
    “Nine on Monday, you said?”
    “Yeah. I have an office on Seventh street. You’ll meet with me and my boss, Mr. Carmichael.”
    “Okay,” she said.
    “Look,” I stopped and handed her my card. “There’s no polite way to ask this but...”
    “It’s Sheila. Sheila Nichols.”
    “Thanks. I’m Jake Gibb.”
    “I remember,” she said.
    We walked out of my building and two blocks to the bakery. I bought a bear claw for me and she wanted this thing with nuts and honey on top. The grey haired baker made a joke and we shared a smile glancing at each other over our pastries. Nice lady.
    As we walked to her car, our age difference stood a little wider between us. She didn’t talk much and I wasn’t up for making the effort. I’d had a pretty good time with her last night. I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to see her again. There was something there. I just couldn’t tell myself what it was. Was it the sex? Maybe. What did Ian Fleming write? Older women are best, because they always think they may be doing it for the last time. She did do it like it might have been her last time. That was new to me. And nice.
    Her car was parked on Central and I opened the door for her. There was an uncomfortable moment with the goodbye. We’d been too physically intimate for a handshake and not emotionally intimate enough for a late morning kiss on the mouth. She gave me a peck on the cheek, slid into a late model GM and drove down Central. I saw her hang a louie on Walnut, drive around Central’s median, then back onto Central toward me. As she passed, she gave me a wave but no smile. I wondered if I’d see her on Monday.
    I emailed Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Carmichael that we’d have a meeting at nine in the a.m. Neither of them would be happy. This was outside our usual routine and Mr. Carmichael was a servant to his master of routine. Normally, we had two meetings a day. The first was at ten in the a.m. and the second at two in the p.m. A disruption to that routine caused a grumble. But he was always preaching about ‘client service’ and ‘establishing trust.’ There was that time where I helped him find out what happened to a colonial soldier’s spoon and another time where I flew down to Hilton Head and spent the better part of a stone sober week trying to repair the breech between two love birds. All this was to ‘build trust.’ If not directly, then indirectly which Mr. Carmichael said would come back to us. I’m not