by Celia Jerome
I thought of looking in Cousin Lily’s closet, but she was about three inches shorter than me, at least fifty pounds heavier, and thirty years older. Whatever she considered sexy wasn’t going to work for Grant. Besides poking in her drawers being immoral, I really had no desire to see what my mother’s widowed cousin slept in.
So I washed my face, brushed my hair out, and turned off all but one lamp in the bedroom. I called out a good night, then climbed under the covers in the best suit I had. Who knew how long he’d be gone? I wanted this night to last, in time, in memory.
I guess Grant had enough memories already, because I’d almost fallen asleep when he finally came into the bedroom.
He sat down beside me, but on top of the covers, with everything except his shoes still on. Maybe I’d been too impetuous, too hasty. Maybe he needed longer to recoup. Maybe I could keep the sheet wrapped around me so he wouldn’t know I had hot expectations. Sex wasn’t the only thing I was interested in, after all.
He was not thinking of sex. Before I could ask what my grandmother said, and how embarrassing it was, he told me, “I think I have the beginning of the ring’s inscription.”
He seemed pleased, so I asked, “Can you say it without becoming trapped by some old witch’s love spell?”
He kissed my nose, then my eyes and my forehead. “You are bewitching enough without any extra enchantments.”
I felt so warm I almost tossed the covers aside. “Tell me.”
“I am fairly certain it starts: ‘One life. One heart.’ ”
“That’s beautiful. Especially if it’s a marriage vow. What else do you think it says?”
“Maybe another symbol for One, and something else Colin could not pick up. I’ve spent the last half hour trying to decipher what Colin drew.”
“Maybe Susan was right and it’s ‘One Love.’ ‘One Life, One Heart, One Love.’ That makes sense, doesn’t it? It would be perfect.”
“That would be my guess, too, but there’s no knowing if the words together mean something else. We know so little about the eldritch tongue, except that what’s written does not show the whole meaning.”
“Maybe the words really do have a binding spell to go with them, because look at my mother. She flew to Florida to be with the man she divorced years ago.”
“Perhaps she’s just a good woman.”
I thought about that. “Nope. She’s still so mad at him for his supposed infidelities that only powerful magic could get her to leave her own life to go take care of him. And there’s nothing one-ish about them. Different personalities, different lifestyles, different ideas about everything, right down to their politics.”
He laughed and reached for the pendant around my neck. “I doubt either of them knew what the ring means, or how to say the words. If they never said them, I doubt the vow could be binding. It’s not as if the ring was made for your mother. It must have been handed down for centuries. In England, according to your grandmother.”
So maybe that’s what they discussed, not my single state.
“Either way, Mom said, ‘I do,’ and that was enough for her. And she never lets a creature in need go without attention.”
“I’d bet she still loves him, too. In some small, hidden away niche at the back of her mind. Maybe she doesn’t realize it.”
“I was wondering about that myself, but I made myself stop thinking about it. I gave up hoping they’d get back together when Dad moved to another state altogether. What about your family? Are your parents happily married?”
“As content as two clams, after over forty years. Of course they are both so busy with committees and foundations and such that half the time they lead almost separate lives, but they have a lot to speak about when they are together, which is as often as possible.”
That sounded even better to me than the ring’s pretty, poetic message. Two people who could still retain their identities and interests. Two hearts, two lives, without losing themselves. Of course, I’ve never been in love, not like that, wanting to crawl into the other person’s soul and take up residence there. Maybe . . .
Nah. I pulled the pendant back and took Grant’s hand in mine. That was close enough, for now. “Can you say the words for me? If some of the inscription is missing, you cannot cause any rift in the cosmic flow. Or get trapped into marriage, with a bearded wizard holding the shotgun.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles, then each finger. “The words are not meant to be spoken aloud. In fact, they are not actually words, but intricate symbols. Their meaning varies by context, according to my research and my father’s before me. It’s possible Unity has different semantic systems for written and spoken languages. Like the Egyptians, who did not speak in hieroglyphics, but had another language for talking. Our distant ancestors had far more ways to communicate, through their minds.”
“Then think it. Maybe Fafhrd can understand if I try to project my thoughts. He’ll know that I am trying to communicate, and he’ll see that I mean him no harm by such a tender expression. I doubt he’ll take it as a proposal of marriage, just an offer of friendship.”
Grant lay down next to me, still on top of the covers, but pulled me close, so my head rested on his shoulder. His other arm touched the necklace at my throat. “Close your eyes, stop thinking of anything else, and see if you can hear what I don’t say aloud.”
A minute went by while I tried to clear my head and open my mind. I heard his breathing. I heard him . . . snoring.
Maybe he wasn’t such a hero after all.
He got up while it was still dark and we made love before he left. Or maybe I just dreamed the last part. Either way, he was gone when I woke up and I felt good. A little sore and stretched, but totally satiated. I rolled over and went back to sleep until I heard the dogs barking.
The dogs! Damn, how could I have forgotten my responsibilities? My mother’d kill me! I scrambled out of bed, found some clothes, and ran to free them from their crates and put them out. I followed with a scoop, in my chewed-up sneakers, lest my feet find what they left before my bleary eyes did.
Back inside, I put the coffeemaker on before I went to brush my teeth. More alert, I noticed the fancy LED flashlight Grant had left for me on his pillow. More useful than a rose, I suppose.
In the kitchen, I found that he’d twisted one of the dish towels into a crane shape, like origami, and put it next to my usual seat at the table. Who needed a rose? My guy had talent and imagination. Of course now I’d have to buy a new towel for the house; I’d never part with this one.
Also, of course, I had to stop thinking of Grant as my anything except my last night’s lover. By the time he got back, he could have a new woman, a new case, a new doohickey to translate. If he came back. A flashlight and a bird towel were fine. Where was the note promising he’d miss me, he’d count the hours until he returned, he’d be thinking of me night and day? In a romance novel, that’s where. That love note sure as hell wasn’t anywhere in the kitchen or the housekeeper’s apartment, because I spent a half hour looking.
The day was too nice for such depressing, self-defeating, and downright stupid thoughts. I was a mature woman, not an empty-headed adolescent with a crush, for Pete’s sake. I never believed I could try to emulate my cousin Susan, so casual about sex and men, but I swore to put Grant and tomorrow out of my mind and enjoy today.
It was a perfect June day, clear with blue skies and a tiny breeze. Baseball weather, kite-flying weather, a walk on the beach weather. No one should have to work inside on a glorious day like this, especially me. So I declared a well day.
I felt guilty about leaving Ben and Jerry alone again, but I had to spend some time with Little Red at my mother’s house, and I wanted to pump my grandmother about last night, too.
Not that Eve Garland ever told me anything I wanted to hear. Maybe I should let her read my tea leaves again. I hadn’t in years, but now the future had so many questions I might get better answers. At least she couldn’t s
ay I was destined to go to Royce Institute, not when I was this many years past college age.
Which reminded me that I ought to offer to help at the farm until those college kids got here. Maybe she’d part with some of those fresh asparagus spears in return.
Grandma’s old Jeep was gone, though, and I didn’t see anyone I knew in the closest fields, so I drove on toward Mom’s house. Red was yipping when he heard the car pull up in front.
I guess the little dog’s chickpea-sized brain wasn’t big enough to remember we were friends, because he tried to snap at my feet when I got inside. Or maybe that was his odd way of showing affection. I mean, Grant had nibbled on my toes, too
I picked Red up and had yesterday’s conversation about who was top dog, and I guess something registered. He gave me a lick and a tail wag, and I fed him his morning munchies, then put him on a leash to go see if Grandma’d come home.
We went past the dog run where Mom’s two latest rescues were napping in the sun. Red’s ruff stood up when he saw the fat old shepherd mix and the older, arthritic retriever. His legs went stiff and his bark grew deeper and louder. The old dogs barely looked his way. One gave a thump of his tail on the ground and went back to sleep; the other watched me to see if I had a treat—dammit, I should have remembered to bring them biscuits—then rolled over.
Red kept yapping. I picked him up before he exhausted himself, and had another conversation with the fleabrain.
“Okay, you don’t like them. You’ve made that clear. How come? They’re too common for such a thorough-bred like you? They get more food at chow time? Mom loves them better? Hell, she loves them better than me, too.”
Red settled down the farther we got from the dog run, so I put him on the ground again and kept talking. No one was watching, so I didn’t feel as crazy as I must have looked, talking to a belligerent ball of fluff. “What do you think about poodles? I bet their pedigrees are longer than yours, and they’re so rich, there’s plenty of food to go around, I swear. If you could get along with the boys, I’d try taking you back with me.”
The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. That way I wouldn’t have to leave any of them alone too long. Nor would I have to pass my grandmother’s house two or three times a day.
“Will you try?” I asked the Pomeranian as we walked back to Mom’s house without seeing the Jeep or Lou. “Everyone should try to get along. Think about it: no wars, no fights, no gangs. What do you say?”
He grabbed the hem of my pants when I tried to shut him back in the house. “You don’t want to be left, huh? I can’t blame you. But one accident in the house, one bite out of the gardener or the cleaning lady, and you’re back here before the screaming stops. And if you mess with the poodles, I’ll let them eat you for breakfast.”
Not that I’d let that happen. I introduced everyone from opposite sides of the fence, letting Red do his Rottweiler routine, letting Ben and Jerry sniff the little guy. They nosed each other through the fence, lifted their legs and kicked grass, then the poodles went back to chasing each other.
“See? They’re nice dogs. What do you think? Want to join their pack?”
No, he wanted to rule it, strutting into the house like he owned the place. The poodles ignored him, but stayed out of his way. They let him growl and show his teeth, and jumped right over him. He had no interest in their toys, and they could care less about his pee-pee pads. We were golden. I set up separate bowls, distant feeding areas, and Red’s crate in the bedroom. That way, when I went out, there’d be no accidents, no fur flying when the alpha dog was away.
Success! Red seemed content, and my life was easier, with a lot less guilt.
Speaking of guilt, I called my mother.
CHAPTER 27
MOM HADN’T LEFT FOR THE hospital yet. Dad was doing fine, he wanted bagels and nova for breakfast. He wasn’t getting it. “I did not come here to kill him. How are the dogs? Have you brushed them out and checked for ticks? Remember to look in their ears, too. Wear gloves when you do the Pom.”
Jeesh, I’d only been here a day and a half. An eventful day and a half, if anyone cared. “The dogs are fine. We’re all fine, thanks. When are you coming home?”
“When your father can take care of himself. Lord knows when that will be. And don’t tell me you have to write. Use my office if you have to. I got that fancy new scanner for putting lost dogs’ pictures up on posters.”
“Thanks, I will.” I brought my sketch of the front design on the necklace over with me, to enlarge on her equipment. “Mom, do the words ‘One life, one heart’ mean anything to you?”
“Yes, they mean what the surgeon came in to tell your father. If he doesn’t take care of the heart he’s got, he should start giving away his possessions. Not that the old fart’s got anything of value left. I bet he gave the gold cuff links I bought for him away to some bimbo with blonde hair.”
“He wore them the last time he came to New York. If you can’t find them, he most likely hid them for safe-keeping when he went to the hospital.”
“He went from the golf course. Without a toothbrush, even. There are grass stains on his shirt.”
“Stains come out. The cuff links are safe. You could ask him where they are, you know.”
“What, and have him think I am stealing his belongings while he’s sick? Or picking out clothes for his casket? What kind of vote of confidence do you think that will be?”
“Right, Mom. Anyway, those words and some others we can’t read are what’s on the back of the necklace you gave me. The one made out of your wedding ring.”
She sniffed. “And the old coot told me it said ‘I love you.’ No one could read it well enough to prove anything else. Your father never told the truth about anything. That’s why—”
I was not going to listen to her rant about his affairs. I’d heard them a zillion times, and his denials, too. “That government agent I told you about, the guy from England? He brought over another expert. They figured it out, most of it anyway. It’s really old.”
“Your father swears it’s lucky.”
Well, I certainly got lucky last night. “I haven’t taken it off.”
“Good. But you don’t need to wear it to the book party. It won’t match.”
“What book party, Mom? That’s the first I heard about it.”
“Nonsense. I told you on the phone.”
I would remember a book signing.
“And it’s written on my calendar.”
Why would I read my mother’s calendar?
“My friend Dawn wrote a book and they’re throwing her a pub party in a tent behind the East Hampton Library tonight.”
“Tonight? Saturday?”
“I do know the days of the week, dear. It will be good for your career to be seen with the literary crowd. Maybe they’ll throw you a party for your next book.”
Trolls in the Hamptons? That was its new name. I didn’t think so. “My career is doing just fine, Mom. You know how I hate those things.”
Are all mothers selectively deaf or is it just mine? I wonder if anyone’s ever done a survey.
She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. As if she didn’t know I hated crowds, literary snobs, and most of East Hampton. “You’re supposed to dress up as your favorite literary character, but don’t worry. I have a Dr. Doolittle costume in my closet.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I need you to go in my place. I thought you could carry Napoleon.”
“His name is Little Red, and he bites, in case you don’t remember. He’s sure to be a big hit at some tent gathering. If he doesn’t lift his leg on everyone’s feet.”
“Sarcasm is unbecoming, especially in one’s daughter. I have a tiny muzzle for him. You’ll carry him. He’ll make the costume.”
“You never told me about a muzzle or I mightn’t have been bitten ten times. And I am not going. Red is not going.”
“I already told Dawn you’d be there.”
“Well, y
ou are just going to have to tell her differently. And stop managing my life. I am doing enough, aren’t I, staying with the poodles, toting a feral fou-fou dog around with me?”
She snorted this time. “If I managed your life, I would have shipped you off to high school in England. I would have made sure you went to Royce Institute, as my mother insisted, and met the men they hoped to match you with. If I were managing your life, I’d have grandchildren by now. I’d have—”
“I am not going. I am not dressing as any character, but if I did it would be Lizzie Borden. You know, who gave her mother forty whacks?”
I could see the pursed lips, the narrowed eyes, right through the telephone line. “The party is for charity, for all the animal shelters on the North and South Forks of Long Island. Dawn’s book is called Rescue Me, and not only has she taken in a dozen of the dogs I’ve rehabbed, but she’s donated thousands of dollars to ARF and other local nonprofit, no-kill shelters.”
“Great. She’s rich, likes dogs, and found someone to publish her book. Congratulate her for me on her success. She doesn’t need one more moron in a stupid outfit.”
“The book is dedicated to me.”
Oh, boy. “What time tonight?”
How could I sit down to write after that? Where was the open, uncluttered mind that I needed to be creative? Wearing a Dr. Doolittle costume in hell, I suppose. Sitting at the computer was no help. I had nothing in my head but a headache. The glow of after-sex, of Grant’s tenderness, was long gone. One of the dogs shredded his towel crane anyway. Fafhrd didn’t scare me anymore. Cocktails with the glitterati did.
I’d wear my black dress, I decided, and I’d drag Susan with me. No, she was cooking at the restaurant every night. Grant wouldn’t be back. That left Kenneth and Colin. They were here to protect me, weren’t they? They could protect me from making an ass of myself under a tent.
They said no when I walked down to ask. The word was not much could happen for another week, until the full moon when psi connections were stronger. So they were going back to Manhattan this morning to help locate the nanny’s murderer and see if any of the ghost whisperers had arrived to talk to her at the morgue.