by Elise Sax
“You smell nice,” he added, nuzzling my neck.
“I thought you had PTSD.”
He squeezed my butt. “I know of a good therapy.”
“What about the eggs?”
“What about my eggs, Pinky? What about my eggs? I’ve got blue eggs. You know what I mean?”
“We have sex about five times a week.”
“Exactly. We only have sex about five times a week.”
“You sound like you’re begging for sex.”
“It’s the new me. The sensitive Spencer. Begging instead of demanding.”
I didn’t know about the sensitive Spencer. I kind of liked the Neanderthal, frat boy, dirty-minded Spencer.
“No comment on the sensitive Spencer?” he asked as he nibbled at my earlobe. “I love that you don’t smell like hard-boiled eggs.”
“What do I smell like?” I breathed, bending my neck to the side to give him more access for his lips.
“Like you want me.”
“That might be the French fries. I ate the Jumbo Burger Boy Special.”
He picked me up, and I wrapped my legs around him. Placing me on the counter, he kissed me for real. The begging, sensitive Spencer was long gone, and the demanding, Neanderthal Spencer was back. He even pulled my hair a little, just to prove that he was all caveman and no amount of Phil Donahue. It worked. I squeezed him tighter with my legs, as if I was going in for the kill at a professional wrestling match. My tongue shot into his mouth, as if I was an ears, nose, and throat doctor checking his tonsils.
His tonsils were good.
Very, very good.
Zing! Zow! Whoa…whoa…momma! We were the superhero comics of sex, and we hadn’t even gotten past first base. But first base with Spencer was the height of erotica. I was burning up, with arousal throbbing between my legs, and my eyes had rolled back in my head. Spencer ground his erection against my jeans. Damned, stupid jeans. Naked would have been so much better. Why wasn’t I naked? How could I have been so stupid to wear clothes?
As if he read my mind, he popped open my jeans and unzipped them, slipping his hand down. At any moment, someone could have walked in to see Spencer with his giant erection pressing against his pants and his hand in my pants, going to town. But frankly, I didn’t care who walked in, or at least I didn’t give it one thought, let alone a second thought. My focus wasn’t even on my gorgeous boyfriend or his talented fingers. Instead my focus was entirely on the orgasm that was almost, almost, almost there. I was on the bridge of ecstasy that ended in the tightening deep inside me, and ended violently, making me dig my fingernails into Spencer’s back and making me bite his shoulder to quiet the scream that erupted from my throat with the last gasp of fulfillment.
It was like a green light went on for Spencer. He let his pants drop to his ankles, and he replaced his hand, burying himself deep inside me. He went from zero to a hundred miles an hour in a couple seconds. It was the opposite of tantric sex. It was drive-in, back of the car, hurry up the cops are coming, sex. He pounded into me, almost showing off his cardio fitness. But it was interval training, not a marathon, and it was over fast. Within a matter of minutes, we were holding each other, worn out and dripping with sweat and completely sated.
“Woman, you turn me inside out,” he said.
“Is that good or bad?”
“I never thought it could be like this. Do I sound like a romance novel?”
“I’m not a big reader.”
“I wonder if Vin Diesel ever said that. ‘I never thought it could be like this.’ It’s possible.”
A timer dinged, and Spencer let me go. “My eggs are done,” he announced, happily. Our ride on the counter seemed to lift his spirits. He put his pants back on and turned off the stove.
“I’m going to check on Grandma and take a quick shower,” I told him, as he poured the hot water into the sink. “You okay here?”
“I’m never going to eat eggs, again. Never. Fuck omelets.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said and walked upstairs.
I felt a little guilty, leaving Spencer to deal with the hard-boiled eggs. After all, I had been the one to give the go ahead for the world record, and I hadn’t boiled one egg.
I walked into my grandmother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, watching a Cary Grant movie on Spencer’s television. Meryl had left, and she was alone, but she seemed happy, and her color was good.
“Hello, dolly. How were the girls?”
“Bridget has some trouble.”
“That’s going to be difficult to work out,” she told me, muting the TV.
I sat down on the chair next to her bed. “I’m worried about her. It’s not like her to keep secrets.”
“Secrets are a cancer, but we’re all afflicted, bubbeleh. There’s a storm brewing,” she added, looking toward the window.
“A real one, or a Bridget one?”
“Both. And more.” She closed her eyes. I stopped breathing while I watched her. I worried that she wasn’t feeling well, that her event was turning into something worse. But her breathing was strong and steady, and she didn’t seem uncomfortable. So, it was something else that made her close her eyes.
Focus. She was focusing.
After a couple of minutes, her eyes opened, and she patted the space on the bed next to her. I sat on the bed, and she took my hand, giving it a squeeze.
“You’re a strong woman, Gladie. Do you believe that?”
No, I didn’t believe it at all.
“You’re a strong woman,” she repeated, not waiting for me to answer. “The people you love will need your strength.”
“You? You need my strength?” I asked, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.
“I’m a strong woman, too,” she said, smiling at me. “Don’t worry about me, dolly. I’m here, safe from the storm. But it’s coming, and it’s a bad one. Dangerous. Very dangerous.”
My heart pounded in my chest, and it was hard to breathe. “What should I do? How can I handle the storm?”
“Don’t trust anyone.”
Spencer and I ate dinner with my grandmother in her room, and she went to sleep early. When we went to bed, Spencer pulled me in close and sighed.
“Maybe I should buy a new television,” he said.
“It’s only for ten days.” But I had gotten used to watching TV in bed, too.
“But it’s baseball season, and there’s a new Smart TV out. The high def is so high that it’s like the players are in the room. You think there’s room for a sixty-inch in here?”
“That’s what she said,” I said and giggled.
“You are five years old,” he teased, using my words against me.
“You know what? I didn’t have coffee today. Just a couple sips from the new coffee place next to Ruth’s.”
“That guy must have a death wish,” Spencer said. “First rule of living in Cannes is to not cross Ruth Fletcher.”
“Thank you for helping with the eggs,” I said. “Sorry you got drafted.”
Spencer kissed the top of my head. “This has been some vacation. Not exactly what I had planned. But at least I’m not on the job. I got a call about a couch running over one of my patrolmen. I’m glad I missed that one.”
“Me, too,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t find out that I had been responsible for that. It was time to ask him about Bridget and about the woman with the ice bucket, but I didn’t know how to start. He didn’t like me getting involved in murder investigations, but if we started with Bridget, we would never get to the murder.
“I’m worried about Bridget,” I said, softly.
“Is the baby okay? Do you want me to take you over there?”
“The baby’s fine. But the father of the baby is making himself known, and he’s threatening Bridget, saying he’s going to get custody.”
Spencer pulled back and looked at me. “Who’s the father?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing it’s either Hitler or Mussolini, because
she won’t cough up the name or any information about him. I suppose he found out about the baby, and he’s mad and wants to punish her.”
“Well, he deserved to know about the baby.”
“I trust Bridget to be smart. If she thought he shouldn’t know, then he shouldn’t know.”
“The law’s the law,” Spencer said, making me furious. “He has a right to fifty-percent custody.”
I moved away from him in bed. “Why are you taking Hitler’s side against Bridget?”
“You don’t know he’s Hitler.”
“If Bridget says he’s Hitler, then he’s Hitler.”
“Did Bridget say he’s Hitler?”
“What does that have to do with anything? Bridget is scared and worried! How dare you? How dare you!”
I turned away from him and punched my pillow.
“Does this mean we’re not going to play airline pilot and flight attendant tonight?”
“No,” I growled. “You’ve been grounded.”
“But Pinky…”
“Don’t but Pinky me. You took Hitler’s side over my best friend. Traitor. I hope the Padres lose every game this season.”
I didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. Then, I dreamed that there was a storm in my bedroom. I was soaking wet, and the wind was whipping me when Hitler burst through the door and stole my ultra high definition television. I ran after him, but Bridget stopped me and warned me that if I continued to chase him, I would never drink another cup of coffee again.
I woke up in a sweat at four-thirty. I had slept for a measly thirty minutes. Spencer was dead to the world. I rolled out of bed, slipped on a pair of jeans, a pair of Spencer’s socks, one of his cotton sweaters, and my Keds. After pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I checked on my grandmother. She was already up and watching Katharine Hepburn on the classic movie channel.
“You want breakfast?” I whispered her way.
“Meryl will be here in an hour with chicken and waffles,” she said. “Go ahead and get your coffee at Ruth’s.”
“Is Tea Time open this early?”
“It is this morning.”
I thought about trying to go back to sleep, but after my fight with Spencer and my nightmare, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I grabbed my wallet out of my purse, put my coat on, and left the house, closing the door quietly behind me.
The air at four-thirty in the morning in the mountains was cold and crisp, but it smelled faintly of eggs. The sky was lit with stars, like they were painted on with large brushes. Nobody was around. The house across the street was covered in dark blue tarps, spooky and a reminder of possibilities with Spencer.
Our fight didn’t leave me angry at him, but I had been surprised that he hadn’t helped me help Bridget, and that he would defend an anonymous man over my best friend. Wasn’t a boyfriend—a boyfriend who may or may not be ready to buy a house for me and possibly more—supposed to be supportive, no matter what?
Boy, I needed coffee.
Main Street was mostly dark, except for Tea Time. I tried the door, but it was locked, so I knocked hard. After a couple of minutes, Ruth answered.
“What the hell?” she asked, looking me up and down with her Louisville Slugger clutched tightly in her hand. “I thought you were the jerk from next door. I almost homered your head, Gladie.”
“I need coffee. I need lots of coffee.”
“Come on in.” She let me in and looked both ways down the street before she closed the door. Tea Time smelled like freshly baked pastries.
“Did you make scones?”
“Sit down. I got ten minutes, so I’ll eat with you.”
She gave me a latte in a large mug, and she put a teapot on the table, along with a plate of scones, a bowl of jam, and a bowl of clotted cream. My mouth watered.
“Gee, thanks, Ruth,” I gushed.
“So, why are you up this early?” she asked, smearing cream onto a scone. “Where’s the cop? If he was in my bed, I wouldn’t be wandering the town in the middle of the night.”
She had a point. I should have been in bed, enjoying my muscly man with perfect bone structure. “Oh, please, Ruth. I’m a modern woman. I have matches to make and an Easter egg hunt to help organize.”
She pointed at me and chewed. “Is that thing your fault?”
“Of course not,” I lied.
“Every pot in this town is filled with eggs. They’re shipping eggs in from Sacramento, I hear. I guess they got a lot of chickens, there. It’s a madhouse in town. They wanted to use my kitchen. I put a stop to that, let me tell you.”
I took a sip of the latte. So good. So, so, so, good. I moaned with pleasure. “You make the best coffee, Ruth. Not like the jerk next door.”
Ruth dropped her scone onto her plate. “You drank his coffee? You went into that antiseptic, sterile, corporate hellscape next door?”
“No,” I lied. She arched an eyebrow and scowled. She could read me like a book. “Well, just for a minute. He made me. And Lucy made me. I took one sip of the coffee and threw it away. I’ll never go in there again, Ruth! I promise! I promise! Don’t homer my head!”
Yes, I was scared of Ruth. Even though she was ancient and didn’t have a working joint anywhere on her body, I had no doubts she could take me in a fight. Because she was ornery as hell.
I took another sip of my latte, and moaned again. “You make the best coffee,” I told her, again, truthfully. She picked up her scone and took a bite.
“Can you believe that the jerk opened a coffee place next door to my tea shop?” she asked. “Coffee? And the name of the place? Buckstars? Who does he think he’s going to fool with that cockamamie name? Buckstars. Buckstars. Buckstars.”
She was like a broken record. Or like an old woman who was probably going to be run out of business by a jerk with a name ripped off from Starbucks.
“Great scones,” I told her, taking a bite and washing it down with my latte.
“Mr. Jerk is going to have his toilet back up,” Ruth told me, as she poured herself a cup of tea.
“He is?”
“Yep.”
“You’re going to go full on commando on his ass, aren’t you, Ruth?”
“I’m more commando than John Wayne, Gladie. He has no idea what’s coming.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Grandma said something about a storm coming.”
“That woman’s elevator doesn’t go to the top floor. I swear her rectum has got some real talent, ‘cause she talks out of her ass more than anyone I’ve ever met. I checked the forecast this morning. No sign of rain for the next ten days.”
I hoped she was right. I hoped my grandmother had been talking out of her ass and that there was no reason for me to be strong. I never wanted to be strong. I wanted to be weak and whiny and perfectly happy.
“May I have another latte?” I asked Ruth.
I ate three scones and drank two lattes, thinking about all the things I had to worry about while I got my fill of sugar and caffeine. People started to file in at around five, old people who started their day before the sun and ate the Early Bird Special for dinner every night. I recognized most of them, and they all smelled of hard-boiled eggs.
“Zelda’s granddaughter!” one of them called. “Zelda’s granddaughter! Do you know when the shipment from Sacramento is coming in? We’ve already cleaned out Walley’s. We’ve got to boil the eggs, paint the eggs, and hide the eggs. We’ve only got one week.”
All of the geezers stared at me, as if I was in charge and knew anything about organizing town events. “It’s coming in any time now,” I said, plastering a smile on my face. “Oodles of eggs.”
“Oodles?” one of the early birds asked me.
“And gobs,” I added, winking at him and shooting him with my index finger.
I put five dollars on the table and backed out of Tea Time. “Keep up the good work!” I yelled, waving like I was leaving on a transatlantic luxury cruise in the 1930s. “The town will thank you for all
of your hard egg work!”
“Lord, girl, get out while you can,” Ruth grumbled while she poured tea.
I gave one last wave, and I opened the door and stepped out into the street. Taking a deep, healing breath, I looked around for more townsfolk who wanted me to tell them what to do. Nope, I was safe. It was just me and the sunrise. I should have a clear shot to home. Next door to Tea Time, Ford Essex had put out a sign. “Buy one cappuccino, get three for free,” it read. Uh oh. Ruth was doomed. She was beloved in town, but so was hard-earned cash.
I looked both ways and jogged across the street.
I jumped a foot in the air when a siren rang out in the quiet early morning.
Sonofabitch.
A police car screeched to a stop by me as I reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street. I looked around for an escape, but there was no way I could outrun a police car, or in this case, Terri’s gun, because she was getting out of the car, and she was pointing her gun right at me.
I gulped and put my hands up.
“Good morning, Terri,” I said. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it? Early bird gets the worm, I always say.” Actually, I had never said that. I didn’t care about worms, and I definitely wasn’t a morning person.
Terri walked with a slight limp, which I assumed had something to do with being run down by a runaway couch. She kept her gun aimed at my face.
I kept my smile on my face. Sure, I didn’t think she would ever like me, but I couldn’t figure out another strategy to get her to stop harassing me. “How can I help you? There’s some delicious fresh scones at Tea Time if you have a five-minute breakfast break.”
“You jaywalked.”
“I did?”
“You jaywalked right in front of me. You’re a danger to the public safety. Laws are there for a reason, you know.”
“You’re right. You’re right. Of course, there are no traffic lights in the Historic District, soooo…”
“Are you resisting arrest?” she asked, squinting at me.
“Am I getting arrested?”
She waved her gun at me, like she was trying to decide which part of my face to shoot off first. “I guess I can’t arrest you, but you’re getting a citation. No sudden movements!”