LITMIR.BIZ

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to the single word.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “I went to the bathroom.”

      She grimaced. “Yeah. I should have warned you about that. The plumbing’s not great. Might want to wash your shoes when you get home if there was any ‘water’ on the floor.”

      “I checked out the ladies’, too.”

      He was so stern, so disapproving, that Angie had to suppress a smile.

      “Not up to the Michael Robinson standard?” It was a rhetorical question, because she knew they weren’t. Many was the time she’d simply crossed her legs and waited until she went out for lunch to avoid having to set foot in the space.

      “This building is a complete shit hole, Angie.” He glanced at Charlie to see if he’d registered the four-letter word, but his son was inspecting the wheels on the bin. “Half the lights are out, the roof leaks and I bet most of the windows are rusted shut. The bathrooms are possibly the worst I’ve ever seen. I’m including the developing world in that assessment, too, by the way.”

      “It’s true, the old girl ain’t what she used to be, but that’s why the rent’s so reasonable. Beggars, by which I mean artists, can’t afford to be choosers.” She shrugged philosophically.

      “Even if that means being exposed to deteriorating asbestos, lead paint and electrical wiring that can’t possibly be up to code?”

      “Asbestos? What asbestos?” she asked, alarmed.

      Michael pointed at the ceiling. “What do you think that is?”

      She tilted her head to look at the textured stucco ceiling. “Plaster?”

      He shook his head slowly. Grimly.

      “I don’t like the idea of you working in this building, Angie.”

      She sighed heavily. “Well, that makes two of us, but I’m afraid there aren’t a lot of options in the city. I looked around a couple of years ago, but it was a dead loss.”

      “Then move farther out.”

      “Right, and make my clients travel to find me.”

      “They’ll make the trip. You’re worth it.”

      She shook her head. “I need to be central. All my suppliers are in here—my valuer, my metallurgist, my gemsetter, the jewelers’ toolmakers…”

      Michael’s frown deepened. She didn’t know whether to be amused or touched by his obvious concern.

      “I’ll be fine. I’ve survived eight years in this place.”

      He glanced pointedly at the debris in the corner and the four-letter word sprayed on her wall. “Just.”

      She knew what he was saying made sense, but she had formed an attachment to the Stradbroke over the years, decrepit bathrooms and all.

      “If it makes you happy, I’ll take a look around, see what’s out there.”

      “Good.”

      Charlie punctuated Michael’s words with a thump on the side of the bin.

      “I think he’s seconding the motion,” Angie said.

      “Good.” Michael moved to her workbench to inspect her tools. “I’ve never seen where you work before.”

      “Really?” Billie had been a constant visitor, but there had never been a reason for Michael to come here. “No, I guess you haven’t.”

      He walked over to where her crucibles and welding gear were located. “Is this where you make your alloys?”

      “Yep.”

      He turned and laid a hand on the scarred wood of her stump, a four-foot-high section of tree trunk that had served her well over the years. “And this is where you shape your rings?”

      “Sometimes. But I’ve got a couple of different types of ring benders, too. It depends on what I’m working on.” She moved closer, picking up one of the many hammers that sat in the leather loops circling the stump.

      “No wonder you have Obama arms,” he said.

      “Don’t forget the calluses.”

      He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. She displayed her work-toughened palms to him.

      “I’ve never noticed,” he said.

      “I should hope not. A lady likes to have a few secrets.”

      He smiled, glanced at his watch, then at Charlie. She checked her own watch and saw it was past twelve.

      “Someone’s going to want lunch soon,” she said.

      “Tell me about it. Probably needs his diaper changed, too, and I didn’t bring any with me.” He crossed the room and hoisted Charlie into his arms. “Time for us to go, Charlie-boy.”

      Charlie immediately began fussing. Michael gave her an exasperated look over his son’s head.

      “Sorry.”

      “Hey, I’d cry, too, if I had to leave this palace.”

      She walked them down the stairs and out the side entrance, kissing Charlie goodbye in the cobblestone laneway.

      “Thanks for all your help, little man.”

      He stared at her, bottom lip trembling, eyes awash with tears.

      “I think that’s the saddest face in the whole wide world,” she said, unable to resist stroking his cheek with her finger.

      “And yet nothing is actually wrong,” Michael said drily.

      They exchanged smiles.

      “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

      “I will. Thanks.”

      She watched as they walked away, Michael’s long stride easy despite the fact that Charlie was no lightweight. She was still smiling when she returned to her studio. Having them visit had somehow taken away the worst of her angst over the break-in. What had happened was shitty, but not insurmountable.

      As for that awkward flash of sexual awareness… It had been nothing. A blip. An aberration. Thinking about it now, she felt a little stupid for having been so rattled. With the benefit of hindsight, the moment settled into its rightful place in the big scheme of things: unimportant and insignificant.

      The way it should be.

      * * *

      THREE WEEKS LATER, MICHAEL rubbed the back of his neck as he waited at the lights. Life had been crazy lately, filled with interviews with prospective nannies—none of whom had been very impressive—as well as preparations for his first week at work. Today marked his third full day back in the saddle and he was feeling more than a little weary after two complicated client briefings and a series of phone calls that had prevented him from accomplishing anything substantial all afternoon. Just as well he’d arranged with his partners to work from home on Thursdays and Fridays—he was nowhere near match fit after so many months downtime. The lack of distraction in his home office would give him a chance to make up lost ground. Hopefully.

      Despite his weariness and even though a part of him felt guilty for cutting short the year he’d intended to spend with the kids, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that returning to work was the best decision he’d made in a long time. It might have only been three days, but it was enough for him to know that Angie had been right—picking up the threads of his career had given him something to hold on to. It forced him to interact with the outside world, and it gave him things to occupy himself with that had nothing to do with Billie.

      It gave him a chance to be a person again, and not simply a father and a grieving husband.

      He hadn’t understood how much he’d needed that until today

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