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June made a habit of following the news. Primarily current events, of course, but she had been a crime buff by trade, once, and still studied it in a leisurely fashion.
Neal Caffrey wasn't exactly Frank Abegnale, but he'd made the papers a few times, and he'd been profiled once or twice on news shows. He was a handsome young man, and his stunts reminded her strongly of Byron's youthful antics. Besides, the FBI agent chasing him had been interviewed on one of the news shows and he was a fine figure of a man too. It made a nice story, and June kept up with the chase and even followed the trial. Cindy, back then a gawky bespectacled teenager, had set up some kind of program on her computer that emailed her with a "google alert" whenever Neal was in the news.
She'd seen a little piece about Neal breaking out of prison, and she thought for sure it had mentioned he'd been caught. So she wasn't expecting to see Neal Caffrey walking down a New York street and into a thrift store. She was sure it was him; the cocky con-man swagger only confirmed it.
She hadn't even intended to take Byron's old clothes to that store -- there was a much nicer consignment boutique a few miles away -- but June could recognize fate intervening when she saw it.
"Thomas, stop here," she said, and her driver obediently pulled over. "I'll call when I'm ready to be picked up," she told him, and gathered the clothing into her arms.
Neal fell for the bait so beautifully that she almost felt bad about it. It was so easy to strike up a conversation over the suits she was bringing in to donate. When he picked up the hat and tried it on, grinning wide and pretty at her, she knew she had him in the palm of her hand.
She'd only intended to lure him into a closer acquaintance with the promise of some decent clothes. The poor boy looked half-dressed in that dreadful plain shirt and peacoat. It would do him good to have someone experienced, like her, take him in hand, especially if he was a fugitive. Besides, he probably needed a square meal. And he would definitely fill out the suits nicely.
"I've got a whole closet full of 'em," she tempted, and Neal gave her an almost completely sincere look of surprise.
"A whole closet," he repeated.
"Well, actually, it's a guest room," she said. "But, ah -- but I haven't used it for anything except storage for years. Oh," she added, as Neal tried on one of Byron's jackets. It suited him. "Byron used to wear that whenever we went dancing. The neighborhood was...well, let's say it was a lot nicer then," she replied, to excuse her presence in the thrift shop, where she obviously didn't belong.
"You live nearby?" he asked.
"Not far," June answered, sensing there was some deeper play he was making. He gave her another winning smile. June decided he probably depended too much on his looks to get him what he wanted; understandable, but she could teach him much better than that. "Why?"
"No reason," Neal said, still smiling. "I'm looking for a place, that's all. Seven hundred bucks a month doesn't get you much in Manhattan, though," he added. He patted his heart. "Tough times."
"For so many," she agreed. Oh, sweet boy, never con a con. "Although I imagine you could strike a deal."
The look he gave her now was more thoughtful, under the brim of the hat. "Well, I'm not averse to dealing," he said.
June beamed. "Why don't we get a coffee. You can have all these," she said to the counter attendant, "but I don't think I'll be donating the hat today."
"Oh, I -- I'd like to buy those," Neal said quickly. She put a hand on his arm and shook her head.
"Those are the worst of the lot," she told him. "I have much better. Come. Talk with me."
There was a pretty good coffee shop a few doors down, not high class but tolerable and private. Neal, like a gentleman, graciously let her pay, and brought the coffees over to their table like a good boy.
"I don't think I got your name," he said, as he sat down. "I'm Neal."
"June," she replied, resting her chin on her hand. "So...freshly out, or freshly escaped?"
"Sorry?" Neal asked, looking up from stirring a packet of sugar into his coffee.
"My dear, I've known a few prisoners in my time," she said. "Freshly out, or freshly escaped?"
Neal narrowed his eyes. "A little bit of both," he said, and knocked his leg against the leg of the table. There was a hollow plastic thunk. "House-arrest."
"Hence the search for housing in Manhattan?"
There it was, one of Byron's favorite tricks -- the shy admission of guilt, the come-clean expression which meant he was in no way coming clean. "Got it in one. I can get halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge, but I'd rather not be sleeping under it."
"Would it be impolite to ask what you did?" she said.
"Not at all. I didn't do anything. I was wrongly convicted of bond forgery," he said, grinning. "An alleged nonviolent offense, if that makes a difference."
"Do you like children?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard. "Pardon?"
"Children," she said, sipping her coffee. "Do you like them?"
"Sure," Neal said. "But I'd probably make a pretty bad babysitter."
June laughed. "Oh, I don't know. Samantha's mother absolutely forbids me to teach her how to cheat at cards, it'd be nice to have someone else to blame it on. What about dogs?"
"Big dogs or little dogs?" Neal asked.
"Little dogs. I have a pug, Bugsy."
"I'm only prejudiced against Rottweilers," Neal said. "Had a bad encounter with one, once. Hazard of the job."
"Mm," June considered him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Do you smoke?"
"No. Delicate chest," Neal said, thumping it. Anything but, if the lines of muscle under his shirt were an indicator.
"Drink?"
"Only the really expensive stuff," he said, eyes sparkling. "And I never bring girls home after ten. Or boys."
June set her coffee cup down. "Yes, I think you'll do."
"Do?" he asked. She almost thought he suspected she wanted a kept man.
"Well, that guest room's going to waste, and so are Byron's suits," she said. "I could use a little pocket money, and you'll definitely brighten up the place. If you don't mind walking Bugsy once in a while, and perhaps a few other odd jobs, I think we can come to an agreement."
Neal's eyes narrowed again. "Can I ask what your husband did for a living?" he said.
June smiled. "He was a confidence man, bank robber, part-time counterfeiter, and felon. And an excellent dancer."
"Well," Neal said. "I can definitely dance."
June took out her phone, dialing her driver. "Would you like to see the room?" she asked.
"Junie," Neal said, offering his arm as she stood, "this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"My dear boy, you have no idea," she told him, as her driver answered. "Thomas? Yes. You can come collect me now. I'm bringing a guest home; have Andre prepare dinner for two."
---
"Wow," Neal said, walking into her home. He was craning his neck to look up at the ceiling and then around at the paintings and furniture; she could see him appraising it all in his head, but she knew his type. Byron had been his type. Men like Neal knew better than to wreck a good thing, and he was also rapidly calculating just what a good thing he was on to, here.
"You like?" she asked, leading him towards the stairs.
"It's beautiful," he said. "My last place was decor by machine shop. I'm also overly familiar with Ikea, to my shame."
"I hear they have delicious meatballs," she informed him. Neal's laughter echoed up the stairwell.
When they reached the top of the stairs, June opened the guest room and stepped inside. "Now, the plan is a little open, and admittedly it's not the most private -- "
"This is your guestroom?" Neal asked, wide-eyed. He wandered into the room, resting a hand on the big dining table near the french doors.
"The stove works, though I can't vouch for the plumbing. These old places do take some upkeep. Still, one can't be choosy, for seven hundred dollars," she said. Neal turned and caught her grinning.
"Where do I sign?" he asked.
---
Neal immediately made life more interesting. Not that June didn't have a life of her own, but the house could be a little empty sometimes, and Neal clearly did his best to fill it. He spent the better part of the afternoon trying on Byron's suits for her, then came downstairs and was perfectly-mannered at dinner. He slipped Bugsy treats when he thought she wasn't looking, which only confirmed her good judgment. It might have been more exciting had he been a fugitive and not -- as he put it -- the FBI's newest forensic tool, but she couldn't find much to complain about.
The next morning, he drew Peter Burke to her house. Peter was a good soul, salt of the earth sort, a little direct and of course rather obvious, but she liked him. His reactions to everything, from the coffee to Neal's suit, were refreshingly honest. Besides, it paid to have a lawman on your side in a pinch. By evening, Neal had also attracted to her home a funny little bald-headed man who refused to give his name, but treated her with the utmost courtesy.
By the end of the week she couldn't imagine not having Neal in her house, singing as he dressed in the morning, bickering with Peter when he came to pick him up, regaling her and Cindy with stories about what he did at the FBI over dinner, plotting with Mozzie in the evenings. He was candid, which she appreciated; he was pretty, which she liked; he was a little dangerous, which she enjoyed. And if he perhaps underestimated her, well. Youth could excuse that, and it gave her a decent upper-hand.
---
There was one night when a terrible woman named Pearce came to visit Neal, and June didn't trust her at all. Still, Neal's affairs were his own, so she didn't put her nose in until it became very clear that this woman meant Neal ill and Neal wasn't prepared to defend himself. As soon as they were out of the house, she beat a path to the FBI, and was gratified by Peter's concern. Peter, she was learning, had a streak of the con artist in him; she'd underestimated him at first, but she trusted him to take care of Neal when he was out of the house.
When Neal finally did come home, looking tired and shaken, she was sitting up for him in his room.
"Hey," he said, dropping into a chair next to her and tossing his hat on the table. "You didn't have to stay up."
"I wanted to. I feel terrible that I let that woman in," she said.
"Not your fault. She shouldn't have been here," Neal said. "She had a gun. Maybe I shouldn't be here."
"Whatever makes you think that?" she asked.
"Well, my rent doesn't cover hazard pay," he told her. "June, I don't want you in danger. I never want that."
"Fortunately, I'm a big girl," she said. "I can look after myself. And you too, if need be."
Neal smiled at her. "But you shouldn't have to."
"But it's worth it," she countered.
He stretched, the house-arrest anklet glowing against his dark socks. "Okay, you win."
She laughed. "Good. I usually do."
Neal settled forward and kissed her quickly, sweet and honest, all adulation. "Thank you, June."
"My pleasure, Neal," she answered, and patted his arm. "Get some sleep."
---
The call came in the middle of the night, almost two years after Neal came to live there. June answered it still mostly asleep, and five minutes later she was throwing her clothing on in a frenzy.
She still didn't have any shoes on -- who needed shoes, what a waste of time! -- when she ran into the kitchen to find Neal with his head in the refrigerator, rummaging.
"June!" he said, leaning back, startled. "Sorry, I was out of -- "
"Samantha," she blurted, feeling tears threaten. "It's Samantha -- "
"Did something happen?" he asked, moving away from the fridge.
"They found a donor," she said, and started crying.
"Oh -- but that's good...?" he took her by the shoulders, leaning in.
"I have to get to the hospital," she sniffled, and came to the realization that she definitely needed shoes. "I need shoes."
"Okay, okay," Neal said, glancing around. "Look, go get in the car, I'll drive you."
"But your radius -- "
"Fuck the radius," he announced, which was the first time she'd ever heard him swear. "Get in the Jag, I'll -- I'll get your shoes," he said, as if that was going to make her stop crying. She sniffled again and hugged him and let him shove her towards the garage. She was just realizing she also needed the keys when he reappeared, keys in one hand and a pair of sensible black shoes in the other.
He pulled out of the garage like a madman, but she hardly noticed; she kept trying to call her daughter and getting no answer. Neal had his phone out too, and she was irrationally wondering if he was trying to call her daughter, when he spoke.
"It's Neal," he said, and whoever was on the other end of the phone made some kind of angry noise audible even from the passenger's seat. "Nothing, I didn't -- look, I'm about to go out of my radius. I'm with June, we're heading to St. Luke's hospital. No, she's fine," he said, glancing at her. "It's her granddaughter, they found a donor. You don't -- just tell the -- no seriously, you don't have to -- fine, okay, whatever, I need to drive," he said, and hung up, tossing the phone in the backseat. "Apparently Peter's meeting us at the hospital."
June just put her hand on his arm and held on tightly. Neal gave her a grin and accelerated.
When they arrived, Neal left her at the entrance and sped off to park the car. June, feeling oddly grateful that she was wearing shoes, found her daughter and her son-in-law in a family room outside the surgical unit.
"Mom," her daughter said, and June wrapped her up tight in her arms. Being a mother she could do; she had a lot of experience. "I was gonna call you -- "
"Shh, it's okay, baby," she said, and sat down with her on one of the awful hospital couches. "How is she?"
"She's already in surgery. They're very hopeful," her daughter said.
"That's wonderful, my love," June answered, and smiled at her son-in-law. "How long before we know?"
"A few hours," he replied. He looked drawn and anxious. "Do you want -- "
He was interrupted by a thud as Neal skidded into the room and caught himself in the doorway, clumsier than usual. Still, he was always a little catlike; he stopped, regained his dignity, and sat down calmly, giving the family a brief nod. June barely noticed that he was wearing a pair of Byron's pants over a pair of pajama bottoms, and he had no socks.
"I drove," he said, pointing at June, before anyone could ask. "She okay?"
"We'll know in a few hours," June said. She turned to her daughter. "They're sure this time?"
"They're sure," her daughter said, and started to talk -- medical babble and how worried she was and how Samantha was terrible at bed rest, and June let her talk. She'd always been a talker.
June didn't notice when Neal vanished, and barely registered when he pressed a cup of hot coffee into her hands -- two creams and a sugar, just how she liked it. When he disappeared a second time she thought perhaps he was going home, but then she heard voices in the hallway.
"Keep your voice down," that was Neal, but she couldn't imagine who he was talking to.
"You are a crazy man. A crazy person," someone replied -- oh, Peter. "Are those your pajamas?"
"We were in a hurry," Neal hissed.
"What would you have done if I didn't answer?"
"Since when do you not answer the phone?"
"Shut up, both of you," a third voice said, and then Neal was shoved back into the waiting room. Peter followed him, looking guilty and dour, and behind him came Elizabeth, who she'd only met once and under less than ideal circumstances. Still, Elizabeth pushed Peter towards a chair with a warning look and came to sit beside June, smiling.
"Neal called us," she said, taking June's hand. "How are you?"
"As soon as I know Samantha's fine, I will be," June said. "Thank you for coming."
"She'll be great," Neal said. In anyone else, it would sound like he was trying to convince himself; coming from Neal's mouth, it sounded like an unshakable law of the world, something nobody would dare contradict.
"Of course she will," June agreed.
There were times when life with a liar was very comforting.
---
Morning found June, exhausted, sitting outside the ICU, watching her granddaughter play cards with Neal. Samantha's parents, having determined their daughter was alive and well and sporting a shiny new kidney, had gone to get something to eat; June had sat with her for a little while, but she was too tired to put on a face as bright as Samantha deserved. Neal had gently led her out to a bench in the hallway and she thought Peter had said something about bringing her breakfast before he disappeared.
"She looks great," Elizabeth said, coming to sit beside her again. "You'd never know she'd just had surgery."
June smiled. "Back to soccer in no time."
"That's right," Elizabeth smiled back. "I can kick Neal out if you want to go sit with her."
"No. Let him entertain her for a while. She loves him," June said, as Neal dramatically lost a hand to the grinning girl in the bed.
"Well, he's easy to love," Elizabeth replied. "Most of the time, anyway."
"The rest of the time he's a holy terror?" June suggested. "Byron was the same."
"I get the feeling they're pretty similar," Elizabeth said.
"In many ways. It's been good to have him around. I doubt I'd have gotten forty feet before crashing the car last night," June sighed. She gave Elizabeth a smile. "Best day's work I ever did, convincing Neal to rent my guest room."
"Best day's work you ever did?" Elizabeth asked. "I always got the impression Peter thought Neal conned you."
"Well, I'm sure he does think that, but your Peter doesn't know everything, you know," June said. "It's not coincidence I walked into that thrift shop."
Elizabeth stared at her, looked at Neal -- who was drawing a picture for Samantha in permanent marker on her pillow, which was going to get him in a lot of trouble -- and then looked back at her.
"You're conning him!" she said, sounding delighted.
"Just a little con," June replied. "Don't tell him, he's so adorable when he thinks he's winning."
"Tell me about it," Elizabeth laughed, just as Peter reappeared with a pile of styrofoam take-out boxes in one hand. He gave them a suspicious look, the kind men sometimes give their wives when they're laughing about something mysterious, and handed Elizabeth a box.
"Sausage and pancakes," he said. "June, eggs and bacon and toast -- "
"Thank you, dear," June said.
"Should I summon the pain in my ass or leave him there?" Peter asked, sitting down next to his wife with what looked like a breakfast burrito. "I got him a croissant sandwich."
June glanced at Elizabeth, at the same time Elizabeth looked sidelong at her, and they both grinned.
"I'll go sit with Samantha. You should probably take him home, I don't think he's slept," June said. Neal, glancing up through the glass as if he knew they were talking about him, held up Samantha's pillow. The kidney he'd drawn on it would probably be considered anatomically accurate if not for the big grinning face and flailing limbs.
"Caffrey," Peter barked, and Elizabeth elbowed him sharply. "What?"
"Voice down," she said, as Neal gave Samantha a tip of his hat and got up, walking to the door.
"Jeez, yell down the hospital," Neal said. "Your turn, June."
"Thank you, dear," June said, allowing him to hold the door for her.
"Hi, grandma!" Samantha called, beaming at her from the bed. June came to stand next to her and stroked her granddaughter's head, love welling up in her so hard it almost hurt. "Neal drew my kidney!"
"I see, sweetheart," June answered, pulling up a chair.
"When I get home, can I have a party?" Samantha asked, and June laughed.
"Of course you can," she assured her. "Why don't you rest for a little while? I'll be right here."
"Okay," Samantha agreed, curling her arms around the kidney pillow. June watched until her eyes were closed; when she glanced up through the window, the Burkes and Neal were gone.
---
This was June's summer:
Watching Samantha play soccer in the park in the afternoons. Charity galas; opera evenings, nights at the theatre, secret stolen trips to the little independent movie house to see Kurosawa films on the big screen. Business meetings with her accountant. Admiring Cindy's paintings and having lunch at perfect little bistros. Card games with her friends, parcheesi and mimosas with Mozzie.
And in the mornings, coffee poured out for her on the terrace by a grinning con artist she'd conned into renting her guest room. Sometimes, on warm nights, there was even dancing.
Life was good.