Glossed and Found

by Ink, India

  “Yeah,” I said after a moment. “I know you’re right.” I let out a long sigh as I rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat. All I’d had for the day was a Danish over at Amy’s and a few of the Russian tea cakes. Sugar might taste good, but it wasn’t about to cut it for the rest of the day. I found a leftover container of lasagna and popped it in the microwave, then poured myself a glass of orange juice. As the food heated, I turned back to Auntie, who was waiting for my answer.

  “What if we call Maxine and ask her if she wants a temporary job?” Maxine had come in second for the job when we interviewed. She’d almost had it, but Lisa’s experience was a little better. “I already called Betsy Sue, Killian’s former receptionist. She’s going to help Tawny at the counter.” I retrieved my lasagna and a fork and sat down at the table, digging into the cheesy dish.

  Auntie folded her newspaper and propped her elbows on the table. “Persia, I’ll make a businesswoman out of you yet. Good idea. I’ll tell you what, I’ll call Maxine, since you called Betsy.” She pushed herself out of her chair and headed toward the den. “And Persia, why don’t you take a break for the rest of the afternoon? You’ve been working so hard. Go read a book or work out.”

  I glanced down at my feet, where Beauty was curled. “Have the dogs been walked yet?”

  When Auntie said no, I whistled. Their toenails clattered on the kitchen floor as they rushed in. They crowded around, looking excited but minding their manners.

  Beauty, Beast, and Pete were generally well behaved, with only a few lapses.

  “Where’s your leash? Find your leash!”

  They ran off toward the utility room, then came scurrying back, each one holding a leash in its mouth. I ruffled Beauty’s head as I attached her lead, then Pete’s, and then the Beast’s. The Beast was some bizarre mix with a face only a mother could love, but he was all heart.

  Pete was getting up in years for a dog, and I’d noticed he was slowing down a bit over the past month or so. Time for a vet check.

  And Beauty was our beautiful, delicate black cocker spaniel who knew what her name meant and reminded us with every winsome glance that she was the fairest of them all. I slipped on a suede jacket, a pair of gloves, and then, leashes and dogs firmly in hand, we headed out the door and down the porch.

  The clouds were roiling overhead, and a sniff of the air told me we were in for it later. I was born with a heightened sense of smell, which both helped and hindered my work. Some days I was overwhelmed by the multitude of scents floating past my nose, and other days it was as if I could discern to the smallest ingredient that went into a blend. Most gifts were double-edged swords, when I thought about it.

  Once we crossed Briarwood Drive and the path leading through the rocks and driftwood that littered the upper part of the shore, I took the leashes off and let the dogs run. They were well trained; we could trust them not to run in the road, though we never let them out unsupervised unless they were in the backyard, which was thoroughly enclosed.

  Beauty and Beast went bounding down the shore while Pete walked sedately by my side. He was aging; I could feel it. I also knew that it would tear Auntie up when he crossed the Bridge. I knelt beside him and ran my hands over his sides, checking him out for any suspicious lumps or growths—anything out of the ordinary—but he seemed right as rain. Still, a vet trip wouldn’t hurt. My guess was a mild case of arthritis.

  “What do you think, Pete? You think that Lisa went for a walk on the pier by herself?” I looked down at him, and he barked once. “I don’t think so, either.” An array of twigs and branches dotted the shore, and I chose one at random and threw it as hard as I could. Pete looked up, and I nodded. “Go get it, boy. Take your time.” He trotted off, slower than either Beauty or the Beast, but looking as proud as he always did when he brought back his quarry.

  During the summer I’d taken to coming down to the beach early in the morning and spending thirty minutes meditating in the early light of dawn. I even brought my yoga mat a few times and ran through my routine by the water’s edge, the brine-soaked air invigorating me as could no other stimulant. I loved being outdoors, and winter was always a struggle with my inner beach bum.

  The waves rolled in with a veiled sense of threat, daring me to come join their dance. I slowly approached the edge of the water, keeping a few feet away as the spray pelted my face. The waves encroached a little farther with each thundering roll. I held my breath as the surf kissed my feet and then, just before the next assault coiled around my ankles, I jumped back a couple steps, playing catch me if you can with the leading edge of the water.

  “Did you come back for Lisa?” I whispered to the waves. “Did you come to finish what you started when she was a little girl? Do you know where she is?”

  But the water remained silent, a relentless drive toward the shore. Feeling insignificant and powerless in the face of such a force, I turned abruptly and joined the dogs. We played a few more rounds of fetch, and then, with one last glance at the bay, I whistled to the dogs, fastened their leashes, and headed back to the house. As we crossed the road, I noticed that we had company. Barbara’s car was in the driveway. Had I forgotten a date for dinner? Or was she just dropping by? Jogging lightly, I took the stairs two at a time, the dogs beside me, and opened the door.

  As we entered the house, I unhooked the dogs, and they took off for the kitchen in search of a snack. I slid out of my jacket, hung it in the hall closet, then followed the sound of Barbara’s voice. She was sitting in the kitchen with Auntie, a stricken look on her face. Her makeup was smeared, and she was holding a crumpled tissue in her hand. Auntie looked up at me and shook her head, warning me that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

  “What’s wrong?” I sat down next to Barb and took her hand in mine. Our friendship had outgrown the need to pussyfoot around each other.

  She pressed her lips together, and tears streamed down her face as I glanced over at Auntie, who silently pointed to a single suitcase standing near the table. Oh hell. Not that.

  “Barb, what happened? Talk to me, chica.” I shook her hand a little bit, and she gasped and wiped her eyes.

  “I left Dorian. I couldn’t take it another minute. That mother of his is a tyrant. She’s turned him into a jackass, and I won’t put up with them ganging up on me.” Barb broke down again, and I slowly let go of her hand as she folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them.

  “Barbara asked if she could stay with us for a little while, and I told her that of course she’s welcome here.” Auntie looked pained. Barb and Dorian were family to both of us, and this was quite a blow. But she hadn’t been privy to Barb’s tale of woe with Mama Konstantinos. Considering all the ups and downs Barb had been through over the past year with her self-esteem, I wasn’t all that surprised. I slipped over to the stove and put the kettle on to heat for some tea, then fixed a tray with the teapot and some lemon, cream, and sugar. As I poured the steaming water over the bags, the fragrant and familiar aroma rose to tickle my senses.

  Barbara sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Florence. I know you both must think I’m crazy, but things have been so rough since Mama Konstantinos arrived. I’ve tried to make peace. I’ve bitten my tongue so hard it bled, but today was just the last straw.”

  I carried the steeping tea over to the table as Auntie fetched cups and saucers. “Talk to us, girl.”

  Brushing her bangs back from her face, Barb accepted the cup of tea. She fidgeted with the spoon, stirring in three spoons of sugar before she realized what she was doing. I silently took the tea from her and poured out the overly sweet brew, then rinsed out the cup and poured her another.

  “We were eating breakfast. I always make sure Dorian has a healthy breakfast on weekends. He eats too much sugar and starch, so we have poached eggs, bran cereal, and fruit smoothies on weekends. Mama K started bitching at me about how I should cook a big, old-fashioned breakfast. I told her no, the doctor said Dorian needs to get his
cholesterol down, and the last thing he needs is to overload his system with rich, sugary food—which she loves. She started ranting on about how I’m trying to run the house, and that Dorian has the God-given right to set the rules.”

  “Uh-oh.” I could see the train wreck coming from a mile away.

  “I blew up. Dorian walked in just in time to hear me call her a shrew and tell her to fuck off and keep her nose out of things. I tried to explain, but . . .” She looked up helplessly.

  “Yeah,” I said softly. How could you explain that? And Dorian, sweet man that he was, had an overdeveloped sense of family pride. I could just imagine what went down between them. It must have been a bad scene all the way around.

  Auntie motioned me into the living room. “Set her up in the guest room and tell her to rest for a bit. She’s overwrought and needs to calm down a little. I talked to Maxine, and she’s still looking for work, so she’ll be starting Tuesday.”

  “Good,” I said, distracted. I glanced back at Barb. “I suppose I should have a talk with Dorian—” I started to say, but Auntie cut me off with a sharp shake of the head.

  “I wouldn’t. It never pays to get in the middle of married folks’ spats. Barbara and Dorian love each other, and they’ve been together for years. They’ll work this out. But perhaps I will take his mother out for lunch this week and have a little chat with her. Sometimes the truth sets better coming from a member of your own generation.” She sighed. “This is one reason I’ve never trod the path to the altar. I have no patience for the compromise that living with someone can require.”

  I grinned at her and gave her a big kiss. “You live with me and do all right.” Before she could answer, I winked. “I know what you mean. And I take after you down to the core.”

  She stopped at the door to the den and turned. “I know, and sometimes I lie awake thinking about that, Imp. My way isn’t a path that’s right for everybody,” she said. “Just don’t feel you have to follow my footsteps in order to make me proud of you.”

  “Heard and noted,” I said. “But Auntie, face it, you’re my role model. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  With a chuckle, she entered the den. I turned back to the kitchen, thinking about Barbara and marriage and compromise. Yeah, I loved hanging with Killian, and we had an undeniable chemistry, but marriage? Not in the cards.

  Chapter Six

  Barbara sat on the bed and stared morosely at the floor while I unpacked her suitcase. She seemed to have lost all of her fight. I watched her in the mirror as she blew a few stray strands of hair out of her face. After I finished putting away the outfits she’d brought, I turned and slid onto the dresser, dangling my legs over the edge. My feet almost reached the floor.

  “So,” I said.

  “So,” she answered.

  “So what are you going to do about the bakery? It’s the holiday season.”

  She shrugged. “Let Mama Konstantinos help him and see just how smoothly the week goes. A few days of her complaining twenty-four/seven, and he’s going to be on his hands and knees begging me to come back. I never thought he’d be so blind. I guess maybe the experts are right. Maybe we never really know the person we’re living with.” Her expression went from peeved to despondent.

  I decided she needed to get her mind off her problems.

  “You get dressed in jeans and a sexy top. We’re going out for dinner, and then we are going to have a drink and go dancing at El Toro Caliente.” The lounge had just opened a month ago, up on Pettigrain Peak, and was a spicy blend of salsa dancing, would-be lovers watching the bar, and drinks to die for. Cheesy? No. Sleazy? Just a little. And just what we needed.

  “Are you sure about this?” Barb asked, hanging on to my arm as we slipped through the doors to the bar.

  “Yes, so quit your worrying. We’re going to have a few drinks, dinner, dance a little, and forget about our problems.” I glanced around. El Toro Caliente was a damned good parody of a spaghetti Western saloon, right down to the giant cactus in the corner that had a chain around it to prevent drunken barflies from stumbling into the thorny arms of the gigantic prickly pear.

  “My, my, my,” I said, scoping out the place. Amid the requisite lounge lizards and girls looking to turn a trick, there were several handsome cowboy wannabes. Of course, most were techies out to shake off their chiphead images, but a few were downright cute. I reminded myself that I was playing on an exclusive field, one that I didn’t want to lose, and sashayed over to the counter, Barb in tow.

  I was wearing a pair of camouflage cargo pants that were actually Capri pant length, a sleeveless olive V-neck tank, a low-slung, wide, riveted belt, and I glammed up the whole look with a pair of rhinestone stilettos. Barb was wearing a pair of low-cut jeans and a pink turtleneck. She looked fresh-faced and almost too wholesome.

  I slid onto a barstool and motioned to the bartender. “Two Cuervo Gold margaritas. Lime. And can we get some peanuts?”

  He nodded, giving me the once-over. His eyes stopped at my bluebell faerie tattoo, and he grinned. “Nice tat,” he said. “Good ink.”

  “Thanks, I like her,” I said, winking at him. Barb hopped up on the stool next to me, and before we knew it, we were on our second round of margaritas. A man in blue jeans a little too new to be used for any real dirty work sauntered over and asked Barb to dance. I gave her a little push. It would be good for her self-esteem. I could stand to blow off a little steam, too.

  Which is how I found myself dancing with some biker dude who looked like he’d just gotten out of prison. He was surprisingly light on his feet and surprisingly polite. The Rolling Stones were blaring out of the speakers with 19th Nervous Breakdown, and Dawg—that was the biker’s name—and I brought the house down with our combo swing-jitterbug rendition. The song ended, and breathless, I leaned on the counter.

  “Another round,” I said, motioning to the bartender. He lined up two frosty marguaritas, and Barb, who had finally let down her guard and was laughing along with me, carried our drinks to a table near the mechanical bull. I slid into the chair and eyed the monster.

  “Hmm, I wonder how hard that is,” I said, sipping my drink. The lime cut through the thick taste of tequila with a tart bite.

  The man on the bull suddenly went flying to the mat. His buddies were ribbing him, and as he shrugged off their jibes, the bartender shouted out, “Ladies ride free! Any woman in here tough enough to take on El Toro for a free drink?”

  Barb poked me in the arm. “You could do it!” she said, snickering. “Go on, let’s see you ride the bull!”

  I gave her a thunderstruck look. “You have got to be kidding. You want me to get up there and make a fool of myself?” I stared at the silent, hulking, mechanical beast. It was just a machine, I thought, but then images of women ripping off their shirts and giving a bunch of drunks a cheap thrill raced through my head. “You just get that thought out of your head right now, Barb.”

  “Come on, Persia, you know you can do it. I can’t; I’d be on the ground in seconds. Please? I want to see you ride El Toro. Show those men that anything they can do, you can do better.” Her words were slurred, and I realized she was happily tipsy and ready to pick a fight with the world of men. Dorian’s defection had loosened her inner hellcat, all right.

  “Holy crap, I can’t believe you want me to—” I stopped as the bartender sauntered up to us. “Yes?”

  “I heard your friend there. Come on, give it a whirl, and I’ll give you both two free rounds. You look like you got the muscle to handle the ride.” His eyes slaked over my arms and I swallowed a sharp retort when Barb started to clap.

  “Go on, Persia. Please? For me?”

  I gave her a long look and shook my head. “You sure you want to see me humiliate myself in front of the whole bar?”

  She grinned. “No, I want to see you blow their socks off.”

  “The things I do for you . . .” I grumbled but stood up and, amid a round of applause, headed toward the bul
l. Jesus, I’d ridden horses and motorcycles, but neither of those had put up a fight about it. It couldn’t be that hard, though, I thought as I kicked off my stilettos and swung atop the beast.

  As I braced myself, the room wobbling ever so slightly thanks to the two drinks I’d already had, a crowd gathered to watch. Most were men—the techies in cowboy getups, but here and there I spotted a biker or barfly. Three women were watching, too, arms linked around their dates’ waists. Barb let out a loud howl, and her enthusiasm seemed to fire up the crowd, who followed suit.

  The bull began to move, slowly at first, and I braced the sides with my knees, grateful for my long legs. If I’d been short, I would have already been struggling. The room began to blur as the speed increased. I held fast, gritting my teeth as the bull bucked me back and forth, feeling myself slide a little to the left, then a little to the right. I wasn’t about to tear off my shirt, but a bloated sense of power—no doubt nourished by the tequila haze—swept over me, and I pumped my right fist into the air, letting out a war cry that echoed through the bar. The crowd went wild, cheering me on, and I made the ultimate mistake of any hero—I let fame go to my head, and my attention wandered. The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air, landing back-first on the mat. Dazed, I shook my head as Mr. Biker and the bartender picked me up.