by Julie Kenner
“What do you mean?”
“Just that I don’t really know what he was doing. Maybe he was putting the book in, not taking it out.”
Laura cocked her head, studying me. “Yeah, but you would have noticed if he had the book on the bus, right? I mean, it’s not exactly a paperback.”
“Maybe,” I said slowly, trying to articulate the thoughts even as they filled my head. “But what if someone was working with Sinclair. What if someone passed him the book?” An image of David Long popped into my head. I tried to blink it away, but couldn’t quite manage. I liked the guy— I really did. And I didn’t want to believe that he was involved with demons. Or, worse, that he was a demon.
I knew better than to trust him simply because I liked him, though. I’d been burned by that before. I didn’t intend to be burned again.
“Taking it or hiding it, we still don’t know why,” Laura said. “I mean, it’s just a blank book.”
“It’s got to be a lot more than that,” I said. “I doubt Sinclair just wanted to journal about his deepest, darkest feelings.”
“True,” Laura said. “But what?”
“I’m still working on that one.”
“Have you called Father Ben?”
“I left him a message.” Once the book was safely tucked away, I’d gone upstairs to change into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I’d taken the opportunity to call my new alimentatore from the privacy of my bedroom.
Technically, Father Ben was a probationary alimentatore. He’d learned about Forza for the first time a few months ago when Father Corletti had flown over from Rome to take charge of a powerful relic that the High Demon Goramesh had been after. Since I’d been in need of a new alimentatore, and since there were no fully trained mentors in Forza who could step into the job, Father Corletti had taken Father Ben into his confidence and invited him to train as my alimentatore.
Even though a fully trained alimentatore has years of experience, a wide knowledge base of all things demonic, and training in weapons and martial arts, I’d been perfectly okay with Father Corletti’s suggestion. Father Ben might be inexperienced, but he was smart and eager, and I figured that had to count for something.
I’d left him a cryptic message about the book and the events with Sinclair, then promised to try him in the morning if I didn’t hear from him first.
“What about the Italian guy?” Laura asked. “Did you call him?”
“Father Corletti?” I shook my head. “I tried. Couldn’t reach him, either. He’s doing missionary work in Africa or something. I left a message, but who knows when I’ll hear back.” Father Corletti headed up the Forza Scura. More than that, he’d been like a parent to me. I hoped he would call back soon. I wanted the reassurance of hearing his voice.
I finished shaping the meat, shoved the pan into the oven, and rinsed off my hands. “You and Mindy staying for dinner?” These days, Mindy and Laura ate with us about twice a week. We hadn’t formally discussed it, but somehow it just seemed easier. Her house was too empty with Paul in L.A. so much. And mine was too empty with Stuart working late so many nights. Plus, the girls did their homework together. It just made sense.
The question was barely out of my mouth when I heard the familiar creak of our garage door. She caught my eye. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think we’ll go order a pizza and have a girl’s night.”
“Good idea,” I said. My heart was pounding in my chest, and while Laura left to gather up Mindy, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to will myself to be calm. And, more important, trying to rein in my temper.
I stood, rooted to the spot, as time seemed to slow. Since Stuart had yet to fix our ancient garage-door opener, it took almost two full minutes to groan its way to the top, and those minutes seemed to drag on forever.
Finally, I heard the car door slam. The noise kicked me into gear, and I started shredding lettuce into a large, wooden bowl.
The doorknob rattled and then there he was. I heard him rather than saw him. I couldn’t look at him, afraid that if I did, I’d just yell. And did I really want a knock-down, drag-out before dinner? Ugly, brutal battles were better saved for after the kids were in bed.
“You’re pissed,” he said.
“Gee,” I said to the lettuce. “What was your first clue?”
“That lettuce looks like confetti.”
I checked the bowl, grimacing. He was right. I’d ripped the leaves into such tiny pieces they were good for nothing more than feeding Gidget, the hamster at Timmy’s day care.
I shoved the bowl away and turned to face the inevitable. He was still in the doorway, a dozen roses in his hand.
“You are about a million miles past crazy if you think those roses are going make it up to me.”
“Not for you, sweetheart,” he said, coming up and kissing me on the forehead. “They’re for Allie.”
“Oh.” Well, damn. My righteous indignation vanished in a puff. I’d get it back, I was certain, but right then, I felt a quick tug of affection for the man who’d at least come prepared to offer a much-needed apology.
I gestured toward the upstairs. “Go supplicate yourself.”
I held back, following him only after I heard Allie’s squeal of delight. By dinnertime, all was forgiven. On the surface, anyway. From my perspective, this wasn’t over. And if I know my daughter—and I’m pretty sure I do, Troy Myerson notwithstanding—the dozen roses only soothed the hurt; they didn’t heal it.
Stuart wasn’t off the hook. Not yet.
He knew it, too. He didn’t say one more word about being late, but he did play Hi Ho! Cherry-O with Timmy (which consisted of Timmy tossing the tiny cherries around the living room and Stuart crawling on his hands and knees to retrieve them), then gave the munchkin his bath without me having to ask. And then—as if the bath thing wasn’t miracle enough—he put Timmy in his pajamas, fixed a sippy cup of warm milk, and read three of this month’s favorite books—Good Night, Gorilla, Knuffle Bunny, and the ever-popular How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night?
He even brought the kiddo to me for a good-night kiss, then carried Timmy and Boo Bear upstairs to his room. Honestly, with this much help being offered, I almost wished that Stuart screwed up royally on a more regular basis.
As he finished up the domestic chores, I sat on the couch, pretending to flip through the latest issue of Real Simple, but really thinking about the mysterious book. I tried to shoot Eddie a meaningful glance—so we could sneak out to the back porch for a surreptitious conversation—but he’d dozed off again, leaving me all alone to fret.
Stuart came back into the living room holding two wine-glasses. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing me a glass and then sliding onto the couch beside me.
“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been, or am I supposed to guess?”
“Three guesses,” he said. “But I bet you only need one.”
“I don’t even need that,” I said, sinking back into the couch pillows. I took a long sip of Chenin Blanc and closed my eyes. “Was it worth it?”
“Missing out on seeing Allie? No. But there was some definite ka-ching involved.”
“Good answer,” I said, my eyes still closed.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know you are,” I said. I opened my eyes. “But sorry’s not going to get today back.”
“I know.” His gaze drifted toward the stairs. “Think she’s up for a few rounds of Monkeyball?” he asked, gesturing toward our GameCube.
I made a face. “It’s late.”
“It’s Friday.”
I pretended to consider. “One game,” I said, because I knew Allie would love it. “And then tomorrow, you take her to the mall.”
A horrified expression crossed his face. “Not clothes shopping? She’s already got enough in her closet to clothe a small nation.”
“Not clothes,” I agreed, even though that really would be a suitable punishment. “I need you to pick up some Christmas presents,” I said. “I have a list.�
�� That much was true, even if I did neglect to mention that I wanted him and Allie gone so that I could go visit Father Ben at the cathedral without anyone asking questions about what I was up to.
“Presents. Check.”
“And she wants to buy an iPod.”
“An iPod?” he repeated, his expression mildly disapproving. “She’ll be hooked up to headphones twenty-four hours a day.”
I raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve got a problem with the iPod, you should have raised it at the assembly.”
“Right,” he said. “Mall. iPod. No problem.”
I grinned. “I love you. You’re not off the hook yet, but I love you.”
“I love you, too, babe. Don’t ever forget that.”
He pulled me close, and I heard the rustle of denim against upholstery across the room, accompanied by a low snort.
“Ain’t that just heartwarmin’?” Eddie mumbled from the recliner, his eyes never even opening.
Stuart and I exchanged an amused glance. And then, because I couldn’t help myself, and because I really did love him, I leaned over and kissed my husband. Hard.
He stood up and held out his hand. I hesitated only a second, and then took it, letting him tug me to my feet and lead me up the stairs.
Six
“Momma momma momma? You awake, Momma?”
I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head.
Another poke on my side. “Mommy? Wake up, Mommy?”
“Mmphlf,” I mumbled, trying to make sense of the world.
“MOMMY!”
I yelped and sat bolt upright, then looked down to see my little boy’s innocent face grinning up at me. We’d moved him from a crib to a toddler bed five weeks ago, and Timmy was delighting in his newfound freedom.
“You awake, Mommy?”
“Am now, kiddo.”
I reached over to poke Stuart—I wasn’t going to be the only one suffering at seven A.M. on a Saturday—only to discover that he wasn’t there. I scowled at his side of the bed, trying to process that information.
“Mommy! Come on, Mommy!”
“Timmy!” Stuart’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Let your mother sleep.”
“It’s okay,” I shouted back. “I’m already up.”
A pause, then, “In that case, where do you keep that electric skillet? The one you use to make pancakes?”
“In the cabinet to the right of the dishwasher, all the way in the back,” I called back. I yawned, vaguely thinking that an intercom system would be a good thing. “Why?”
“Can’t a man make pancakes for his family?” Stuart asked, poking his head in through the door.
“I don’t know? Can he?”
“I guess we’ll find out.” He gestured for Timmy. “Come on, sport. Come give your old man a hand.”
As Timmy scampered merrily after his dad, I ran my fingers through my hair and scrubbed my face with my hands, trying to wake up. Something was off, and it was more than just the oddity of Stuart cooking.
I started to slide out of bed, thinking about the level of destruction that was about to descend on my kitchen. Pancake batter on the ceiling. Spilled milk. Sticky egg residue all over the countertops. And every single pot and pan dragged out of the cabinets as he looked for the skillet and a mixing bowl.
A mess. An explosion. A complete and total—
Disaster!
The book! I’d shoved the book right behind the electric skillet!
Suddenly, I was wide awake and racing down the hall, then down the stairs. I skidded to a stop in the kitchen, and smiled at my husband. “Hey. I thought you might need some help.”
“I can handle it,” he said. “I’m an extremely competent member of the male species.”
“Right,” I said. “Sure.” I eyed the cabinet, which was still closed. “But can you get the skillet out without completely destroying my organizational system?”
He stared at me. “Organizational system?” he repeated. “You have an organizational system?”
“Yes, me, thank you very much.” I tapped my foot and hoped I looked sufficiently indignant. I pointed toward the garage. “Now go get some bacon from the freezer, would you? Nobody wants pancakes without bacon.”
He did, but not until he’d shot me one more incredulous look. As soon as he was out of sight, I crouched down and tugged out the skillet. The book was still there, and I shifted a couple of frying pans to make sure it was well covered.
And, yes, I was probably being paranoid. After all, it’s not like the book actually said anything. But it would raise questions I’d rather not answer. Which meant I either acted like a spazz and retrieved the skillet for Stuart, or I shooed him out of the kitchen and did the cooking myself.
Since Stuart offered to cook with about the same frequency as Haley’s Comet, I wasn’t about to choose door number two.
While Stuart did the testosterone-in-an-apron routine, I got Timmy settled in the living room. We’d recently invested in TiVo—an invention worthy of the Nobel Prize, if you ask me—which meant that The Wiggles and The Backyardigans were always available.
While Stuart poured batter onto the grill, I sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee and starting to come alive. He shot me a smug grin. “So, am I still in the doghouse?”
“You’re almost out,” I said. “Especially if they taste as good as they smell.”
“I’m making banana pancakes for you,” he said, then started peeling a banana as if to emphasize the point.
“You are looking for redemption, aren’t you?”
“What can I say? I know when to pay penance.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Take Timmy with you to the mall and then you’ll definitely be back in my good graces.”
From the look on his face, I could tell he preferred the doghouse.
“Stuart . . .”
“I know, sweetheart, but you know how busy I am right now. I need to go into the office for a few hours this afternoon, and if I take Tim, it’s going to add at least two hours to my day.” He flipped four pancakes with an ease that I never seemed to manage. The big showoff.
“Besides,” he added, “I won’t be spending as much quality time with Allie. And isn’t that the whole point?”
I tell you, the man’s not a lawyer for nothing.
“Will it screw up your morning that much if I leave Timmy at home with you?”
I frowned, because what could I say? Yes, it would, because I need to head over to the cathedral to see about a new demon infestation in San Diablo? Not too likely. So instead, I just said, “Sure. Of course you can leave him with me. No problem.”
“Great.” He checked the clock. “The mall opens at ten. Considering how long it takes her to get dressed, we better make sure she’s awake.”
“I’ll go roust her,” I said. “The promise of bacon should do the trick.” Allie had recently announced her intention to eat only fat-free foods and organic produce. I, however, had yet to see that plan implemented. And I seriously doubted she’d be starting this morning.
I’d just crossed the threshold into the living room when Stuart called me back. “I never did tell you why I was so late yesterday, did I?”
I shook my head, trying not to tense up. I’d forgiven him, yes. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still angry. “No,” I said, “you never did.”
“Tabitha Danvers came in to see me,” he said in the same voice a little kid might use when he sees the pile of presents under the Christmas tree.
“Danvers,” I said, trying to place the name. “Of the museum Danvers?” The Danvers Museum was to San Diablo what the Getty Museum was to Los Angeles. An amazing collection financed by a family so wealthy they could afford to open a museum here, a convention center there.
“Exactly,” he said. “And, Kate, she’s thinking about contributing to my campaign!”
“That’s wonderful!” I meant it, too. If Tabitha Danvers had taken an interest in Stuart’s campaign, then his scrounging-for-money da
ys could be over.
He kissed my head. “There are just a few little things,” he said, mumbling into my hair.
I tilted my head up and met his eyes. He held up a hand, warding off my protests in advance. “You don’t have to throw a party,” he said. “At least not for Tabitha’s sake.”
I nodded, mildly soothed. Given the choice between throwing a cocktail party and wading barefoot through a room filled with spiders, I think I’d take the spiders. And I really don’t like bugs. “But?” I asked, because I could hear the “but” hanging in the air between us.
“But I do need you to come to a party tomorrow. A museum benefit. Tabitha thinks I should mingle, meet other potential donors. That kind of thing.”
“On a Sunday?”
He shrugged. “Apparently, it’s been set up for a while now. They’re taking advantage of the museum being closed for a change of exhibits. At any rate, I just do what they tell me.” He squeezed my hand. “Come on, sweetheart. It should be fun.”
“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”
“You’ll have to mingle, too,” Stuart said, apparently wanting to make sure I understood what I was in for.
“I know, sweetie. I may not be the best at this political wife thing, but I do understand it.”
“You are the best,” he said, in a way that made me go a little weak in the knees. Then he kissed me. I moaned and leaned closer, my body reacting in all sorts of decadent ways.
“I’d better go wake up Allie,” I said, finally pulling away. “Unless you want to get a really late start.”
“And you Aren’t sure if he was removing the book or hiding it?” Father Ben asked. We were in his office—Father Ben, Timmy, and me—gathered around the battered oak desk that dominated the small room. The book dominated the desktop, dark red and ominous.
Timmy was on the floor, drawing pictures on old parish bulletins with a black Sharpie. I tried to pay attention, but I kept glancing down at Tim, afraid he’d end up coloring the carpet, and I’d feel obligated to have a genuine antique Oriental rug professionally cleaned.