by Ani Gonzalez
But Patricia clearly disagreed. She looked horrified.
"Can you move it?" she asked.
"Of course I can move it," he replied, with more than a tad of grumpiness.
Sure, he had a couple of bolts in his arm bones, and his fingers didn't work quite right, and, yes, that was not a good thing if you were a professional guitarist. But he wasn't crippled, for Pete's sake. He was perfectly capable of helping a friend who'd had a bit too much to drink. She didn't have to stare at his arm as if he'd suffered an amputation.
Okay, maybe friend wasn't the right word, he thought, as Patricia slowly traced the scar with her index finger. The contact was searing, and he jumped, as if burnt.
She winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Oh, for the love of..." He pulled down the jacket sleeve with a sharp tug. "You didn't hurt me. I'm fine."
But Patricia had pulled out something from her jacket. Was that her scarf? Yes, he realized as she wrapped the soft fabric around his arm and neck, creating a makeshift sling. Practical Patricia, it seemed, had a weakness for silky-soft scarves -- what were these things called? Pash-something or other -- with absolutely zero insulating capacity.
The unexpectedly sensual accessory made carnal images race through his mind and his body hardened in response. The pasha-whatever scarves, he knew, could be put to lots of interesting uses.
All of which, he was fairly certain, were unknown to Patricia.
"Sorry," she apologized, clearly misunderstanding his reaction. "I didn't mean to tie it so tightly."
She loosened the scarf and the flowery scent returned. Gardenias. The scent was gardenias and something else he couldn't identify, lilies or...
He pulled away roughly. "It's not tight. Let's get back in the truck. We have to pick up your father."
He opened the passenger door and, in spite of her protestations, helped her climb in. His muscles clenched as her hip grazed his body, and he forced himself to focus on something, anything else.
Unfortunately, his mind remained blank as he stalked over to the driver's side and got in the truck. He took off the sling and flexed his arm, trying to gauge the damage, but all he could think about was Patricia's scent and the feel of her body in his arms.
He gripped the ice-cold steering wheel, hoping that the freezing jolt would snap him back into reality.
It didn't work. Crazy. He'd just gone crazy. Perfect, somewhat obsessive, I-walk-the-line Patricia O'Dare was his friend.
He turned the key and Bessie, miraculously, instantly roared back to life. He thanked whoever was the patron saint of temperamental transportation devices and pulled out. He steered the truck down Main Street as quickly as he dared, given the road conditions. He felt unbalanced, a new and distinctly unwelcome feeling for him.
And one he desperately wanted to escape. He pressed the accelerator, trying to reach his parents' farmhouse as quickly as possible so he could deliver Patricia to her destination and head back to his restaurant. Too bad his parents lived in the countryside. It wasn't that far from town, but tonight it seemed like an eternity.
The awkward silence between them didn't make the trip any shorter.
He really didn't know how to deal with uncomfortable lack of conversation. Hell, he'd never been at a loss of words with any woman, let alone Patricia. His relationship with the town baker, sometimes cooperative but mostly competitive, was based on banter. He teased her about the fussiness of her pastries, and she responded by dissing his just-the-basics pizza dough. She rolled her eyes at his horror-movie murals and he made fun of her cartoonish ghost logo.
It had worked for years.
He always had a ready quip for Patricia. Hell, even chained up and naked in the PRoVE storage room, he'd managed to come up with something.
But right now he was drawing a blank.
He tried to think of something to say, a neutral but friendly topic that they could discuss as they drove through the woods. Gabe's engagement to Elizabeth? No, he really did not want to discuss anything romantic with Patricia. No way. The Rosemoor? Nope. That was conversational topic non grata for the foreseeable future. He drove down Stuckeyville Parkway, his mind racing. The silence dragged on, making Bessie's distinctive engine rattle sound unnaturally loud.
"Did you use egg wash on the ravioli?"
Patricia's abrupt question made his shoulders sag in relief. Egg wash. They could talk about egg wash.
"Just the whites," he answered, slowing down over a suspiciously glossy patch of road. "They make the panko coating crispy."
There, that was the most boring, mundane thing he'd ever said to an attractive woman. But it was better than silence, wasn't it?
They chatted about the ravioli for a bit, then moved on to menu placement and farm sourcing. He smiled when Patricia tried, in a decidedly unsubtle manner, to obtain the recipe to his icebox tiramisú.
Now that was the Patricia he knew. The sensible businesswoman with the competitive streak, not this new person with sexy scarves and seductive perfume. Gardenias. Her favorite scent was gardenia.
He caught himself and pushed all thoughts of lush, fragrant flowers and satiny scarves out of his mind as he turned onto a side road. The tall white house with the wraparound porch came into view and he sighed with relief.
"Home, sweet, home," he said as he reached the gravel driveway.
"You still live here?" she asked, apparently as relieved as he was. "Hasn't Elizabeth found you a slightly-haunted fixer-upper in town yet?"
Zach laughed. "She brings me listings, but I haven't found anything I like yet, so I'm still living in the barn behind my parents' house. It has a primitive heating system and a very temperamental hot water heater. I should move."
In fact, he had a pile of glossy brochures from Banshee Creek Realty waiting for him at home. Each one featured a perfectly acceptable home -- well except for the one with the wailing spirit in the bathroom -- close to the pizzeria and with ample square footage and updated fixtures.
He really should move. Living in the boonies sucked.
"I hear the Hagen House is available," Patricia said.
He chuckled as he parked the car next to the house. "I'll pass. The barn is uncomfortable, but at least it's not homicidal."
There were three other cars in the driveway. He didn't recognize two of them. Did Patricia's dad drive up? Maybe, but then who did the other car belong to?
He stopped the thought dead in its tracks. He did not care who the car belonged to. Right now, all he cared about was dropping off Patricia and returning to the pizzeria. He needed to put some distance between them.
They got out of the truck and he headed straight for the front port. Patricia, however, lingered. She walked to one of the cars and peered intently at the...paint? Was she inspecting the paint?
"What are you doing?" he asked roughly. "Is that your dad's car?"
Patricia jerked, looking guilty.
"Yes." She glanced back at the door panels. "I was just checking for, um, scratches."
"Scratches," he repeated doubtfully. "You're not one of those devil monkey fanatics, are you?"
The joke came easily, he noted with relief. Now this was more like it.
She looked embarrassed for a second, then glared at him playfully.
"No, I don't need evil mutant raccoons who vandalize cars in my life." She heaved a sigh heavy with resignation. "Although a customer once commissioned a devil monkey cake. It was a nightmare."
"For real?" The Virginia Devil Monkey was one of their local legends. It looked like a long-tailed raccoon -- actually, it probably was a long-tailed raccoon -- and it was supposedly to blame for all automotive problems in town.
"Glow in the dark icing," Patricia replied, her voice dripping with disgust. "I had to figure out how to make glow in the dark icing."
"You know what?" he said cheerfully, leading her to the front door. "I don't want to know."
He opened the door and ushered her inside, feeling much more re
laxed. The relationship status quo had been preserved, thanks to the stupid devil monkey joke. They could go back to being friends...and competitors.
Now all he had to do was greet his parents, say goodbye to Patricia, and leave before that changed.
Patricia led the way into the house, where they were greeted by a shambling canine with long brown ears and curiously short legs. What Sato lacked in comeliness, however, he made up in smarts. He headed straight for Patricia and greeted her with slobbering enthusiasm.
Clever dog.
A bevy of appetizing smells emanated from the kitchen. Patricia, he noted with amusement, went straight to the kitchen to help out. Sato shuffled after her, an expectant look on his face. Zach turned to follow them, but stopped when he noticed that the family pictures on the wall were all jumbled up.
He frowned. His parents' house was by no means a museum. There were piles of books and chess sets everywhere, and his father's chess magazines had taken over most of the horizontal surfaces, but his mom kept everything organized. The house had the air of a casual, comfortable, and somewhat eccentric family home, but Zach knew that everything had a place and it usually stayed there.
He reached to straighten a picture that commemorated Gabe's first big IPO, then noticed that it wasn't just crooked, it was actually in the wrong place.
He looked around. Most of the pictures were in the correct spots, but some, mostly the ones that featured the grown-up Franco siblings, were not.
Someone had taken the pictures off the wall and put them back the wrong way.
He quickly corrected the problem, replacing a playbill from Sebastian's first off-off-off-Broadway show, a Duchess of Malfi revival, with Gabe's latest Forbes magazine cover, and moving Sebastian's playbill -- seriously, so off-Broadway it was practically New Jersey -- with a picture of...
His first Battle of the Bands victory. Holy crap, he looked young. Actually, he was young, practically a baby, in fact. Man, that had been a long time ago.
"Zach." His mother's voice brought him out of his reverie. "What's keeping you?"
She walked behind him, dressed in one of her trademark flowered blouses and dark pants, her dark hair neatly tucked behind her ears, and smiled.
"Oh, you fixed them," she said. "I was going to do that."
"I know," he replied. "That's why I did it." He looked back at the pictures. "Why were they all messed up?"
His mom frowned. "Tom." There was a world of concern in that word. "He was looking through them."
"Patricia's dad? He's seen these pictures a million times."
"Apparently, they made him a bit...anxious," she replied. "Or, at least, that's what it looked like. Patricia's with him now."
"Oh." He frowned at the photographs, not sure how to reply. Anxious? What did that mean? He remembered Patricia's agitation and nervousness.
Something was up.
"That's why I invited Dr. Lebensburg for dinner," his mom said. "I wanted to get her opinion."
Zach's heart sank. This wasn't just Patricia being her typical overzealous self. His mom was the most level-headed person he knew. If she was worried enough to call Dr. Lebensburg, something was seriously wrong. Mr. O'Dare's condition must be worsening.
He stared at the pictures on the wall. Part of him still wanted to return to the pizzeria, have a stiff drink, and forget this night.
But he couldn't let Patricia deal with this alone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SICKLY green light was back.
Patricia peered at it nervously. She was sitting in the dining room of the Franco house, still, truth be told, slightly drunk, fruitlessly trying to hide bits of Peruvian potato stew under her lettuce. The stew was...interesting, but not exactly appetizing. Mrs. Franco's cooking was notoriously bad and tonight's offering was no exception.
Her home decor was much more successful. The room was simple but elegant with a Queen Anne table covered by a white linen tablecloth, a pewter Williamsburg chandelier, and silver candlesticks. Zach sat across the table from her and she couldn't help but notice that he'd almost finished his potato stew. Wow, that was fast. He must have inhaled it. She looked down at her plate. Its contents looked distinctly unattractive. Her respect for Zach grew.
Mrs. Franco was busy refilling her son's plate and Patricia's dad was chatting with Mr. Franco and another guest. Her dad seemed perfectly normal. His white hair was neatly combed and his plaid flannel shirt was perfectly buttoned. He was chatting with Mr. Franco about chess stuff and she didn't understand a word he was saying, but that was pretty standard. Her knowledge of the game of kings, as her dad called it, was rudimentary at best. He was laughing at all of Mr. Franco's obscure chess jokes and enjoying himself.
Everything seemed perfectly fine.
Except for the eerie green light.
She'd seen the light a couple of minutes ago, blinking behind a tree, but it had disappeared and she'd chalked it up to a surfeit of sangría coupled with an overactive imagination. No, that wasn't accurate. She was plain, practical Patricia O'Dare and no one would ever accuse her of having an imagination, active or not.
She'd rather attribute the lights to an overtaxed mind looking for a diversion.
And she really needed a distraction right now. Otherwise she would start to wonder why Mr. Franco chose to ask Dr. Lebensburg to dinner with Patricia's father. Her dad looked fine tonight, but maybe his best friend was also worried. Maybe he'd noticed the occasional disorientation or the periodic pauses, which grew longer and more frequent as the weeks passed. Mr. Franco spent more time with her father than Patricia herself. They coached the high school chess team together and attended tournaments every other weekend. Mr. Franco would definitely notice any erratic behaviors.
The light flashed again, but Patricia ignored it, focusing instead on Dr. Lebensburg.
The head of the Banshee Creek Urgent Care Center didn't seem to be making any kind of diagnosis. A stocky woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a no-nonsense manner, she was happily drinking wine and chatting about the upcoming town event.
"I prefer to be optimistic," Dr. Lebensburg said. "A formal ball may be an unorthodox idea, but it is unlikely to gain me any new patients." She raised her wineglass. "And for that I'm grateful."
"Wait," Patricia blurted, startled. "It's a real ball? With dancing and stuff?"
This was unwelcome news. She'd thought "ball" was a fancy name for a big party. A formal dance would not bring in much business to the bakery or, if Zach's frown was any indication, to the other Banshee Creek businesses.
Dr. Lebensburg nodded. "That's what Fire & Rescue told me. The Historical Preservation Committee went to them for preliminary approval and they asked for my opinion. They have to run all the events through us ever since that unfortunate ergot poisoning incident at the Salem Witch Trials Reenactment. The ball, we were assured, would be very exclusive and very safe."
"That doesn't sound like it will bring in tourists," Zach said.
"Fifty couples," Dr. Lebensburg said. "It's going to be a dance competition."
Zach didn't look happy and Patricia didn't blame him. She, too, struggled to hide her disappointment. A dance competition? What was the Historical Preservation Committee thinking?
"That's not a lot," she said, fiddling with the food on her plate.
"At least they're trying," Zach replied, trying to sound reasonable.
"They should do a chess tournament," Mr. Franco interjected. "That would bring in customers, right Tom?"
Patricia's father, who'd been mostly silent during dinner, nodded, a bit uncertainly. Patricia glanced at him surreptitiously. Was he having trouble following the conversation? But he laughed heartily when Mr. Franco brought up a raucous chess convention in Budapest and he shushed Mr. Franco when he mentioned the cafe waitresses in Santiago de Chile.
Zach shook his head in exasperation. "I swear, we can't have a dinner in this house without someone mentioning the nineteen eighty-four Budapest Open."
Mrs
. Franco sat down and picked up her napkin. "Would you like to change the subject?" she asked archly. "I hear one of your brother's clients made an offer for the pizzeria."
Now that was shocking news, at least to Patricia. "What? Someone's buying you out?"
Mrs. Franco nodded. "They want to change the name to Poltergeist Pizza and turn it into a national chain. I think it's a great idea. They sent a contract and everything."
Zach glared at his mom. But she ignored him and took a dainty bite of her stew.
"No one's buying me out," he clarified, clearly annoyed. "One of Gabe's clients is interested in franchising the pizzeria, that's all."
"That's great," Patricia said, trying to wrap her head around the concept.
Zach's face darkened. "No, it's not great." He glanced meaningfully at his mom. "And it's also not happening."
Mrs. Franco calmly reached for her water glass and ignored him. The conversation drifted back to chess, but Patricia stared at the purple potatoes on her plate, shocked. Zach had an offer to franchise the pizzeria? A buy-out was every restaurateur's dream. It meant a team of investors were impressed with your idea and were willing to take it nationwide. That was what Zach's brother, Gabe, did. He had a bunch of moneyed clients who trusted him to find lucrative investment opportunities.
Like Pepe's Pizza.
Lost in thought, she jerked when a flash of green appeared outside the house. It hovered among the treetops and disappeared. She blinked, but the light didn't return. She squinted at the yard thinking she must be imagining things.
Zach's fork clattered on the white porcelain plate, making her jump.
"What's with the light show outside, Mom?" he asked, looking out the window. "Did I miss a strand of Christmas lights when I took them down last week?"
Mrs. Franco refilled Dr. Lebensburg's wineglass, seemingly unconcerned. "Don't be silly. Those aren't Christmas lights."
"What are they, then?" Zach asked. "It's too cold for fireflies, and don't tell me I'm making them up, because they've been blinking at me all evening long."