Mrs. Maker was standing in the doorway, holding a little pink box. He eyed it hopefully. It looked like the sort that might contain pastry.
“Eden Harwood brought this by for you this morning.” She thrust the box his hands.
He went still, but his heart gave a sharp little jounce. And as it took a moment to recover from the sudden mention of Eden’s name, he didn’t say anything.
He closed his fingers around the edge of the box, almost tenderly.
“Kind of looks like a corsage box. She’s the flower lady, after all. Or maybe there’s a little cake inside,” Mrs. Maker suggested hopefully.
“Thanks, Donna,” he said.
He finally felt able to look up at her.
She could peer limpidly at him through her bifocals all she wanted; he wasn’t going to open it in front of her.
“You’re welcome,” she said finally. “Do you want me to...”
“Door. Yes. Close it. Thanks, if you would.”
So she left the office and closed the door behind her.
His heart had started racing thanks to that bastard Hope.
Frankly, he wouldn’t mind a small cake in the least, though. He used his letter opener to slice the neat Scotch tape closing it.
Then peeled up the lid.
He looked down into a little nest of raffia. He frowned faintly, puzzled.
Then he gently parted it. Aware his hands were actually shaking just a little.
His breath left him in a gust.
He reached in...
... and lifted out his Joe DiMaggio baseball.
He didn’t even need to verify that it was the very same ball he’d given up at the auction. He was positive it was the moment he saw it. He had a hunch how she’d managed it, too, and it was pretty funny.
He hefted its comforting, familiar weight in his hand, then put it back on its little stand on his desk, leaned back, and crossed his arms behind his head.
And then a slow smile spread over his face.
He was feeling just a little cocky once more.
He reflexively glanced at the window. Funny. It felt as if the sun had just moved out from behind a cloud. Still a little overcast out there.
Suddenly a little strip of paper fluttered to the desk.
He plucked it up. It proved to be a note written in what he presumed was Eden’s handwriting. Neat, forthright, only a little frilled. Rather like her.
Guess who’s getting a free Jasper Townes mini concert?
Hint: she wanted to know if he was “good”
P.S. Have you ever fallen in—
It was the world’s best fortune cookie.