by Nina Malkin
“Yes, I noticed Antonia then, still as an alabaster statue in her ill-fitting frills. Yet feeling my oats as I was, I hopped off and called to her. ‘Come see, my lady! See if it’s not the grandest gate in this great state of Connecticut! See if it’s not a worthy trustee of your flowery treasures!’”
Flowery treasures? Yeesh . . .
“Advance she did, her eyes wide, her mouth strict, and with those nimble, spidery fingers reached for the flower at the center of the gate. She hesitated, then began caressing each petal and the crevices between. At last she turned to me, hand at her throat, eyes brimming tears, and then she was upon me, quick as a cat, with an ardent—albeit clumsy—kiss. The things that shot through my mind in that moment, beyond shock, of course: amusement, repulsion, pity.
“So much depended upon what I did next. Hence, while I turned my cheek to escape her lips and avoid her gaze, I held her to me. Held her firmly, held her close, till the excited writhe of thrill was spent and she was still. Then I loosed her hands and placed them at her sides. She gazed at me, glowing; but her mouth, that tortured little orifice, was locked in a grimace, a travesty of a true smile. It pained me to look at her. There on the grass, my sweated-through shirt.
I flung it on, mumbling something—maybe just her name and a one-word apology—and left.”
At a gallop, no doubt.
“Forthwith the next day I dismantled my station and received from Archibald Forsythe accolades for my artistry and payment in full. I never returned to the manor, and in assessing the incident over the next week, I came to believe that Antonia, lonely, doltish creature that she was, had simply been overcome with gratitude.”
Pausing, Sin looks out at the lake and up at the half-pie moon, and then he looks at me. “And I still do. Please convey my sympathies to Marsh and Duck, but since you insisted I reflect upon Antonia Forsythe, I can now maintain with clarity of conscience that she has nothing to do with Crane Williams’s departure, Dice. And neither do I.”
With that he turns away and begins trudging back to the woods.
XXV
He was there; I was not. If Sin says there was nothing more to Antonia’s kiss than a klutzy thank-you from a “special” person, he ought to know. Their relationship was just as he said—brief, benign, innocent . . . and over. What’s more, in his estimation, the Easter bunny has a greater capacity for evil. Yet those rapacious roses, the waltz that won’t get out of my head, the insinuated omen of the tarot cards—and let’s not forget Ruby’s recent visit—I’m having difficulty accepting that the young mistress of Forsythe Manor is as simple as Sin insists. I can’t shrug off the feeling that some unfinished business from the summer of 1768 has got to come to full flower.
My reasonable, commonsense side remains dedicated to the proposition that Crane Williams is enjoying a vision quest or final fling. My woo-woo psychic flip side? It’s pretty damn sure someone or something in that grand house near the green purposefully plucked my best friend’s boyfriend out of the atmosphere. Both sides are united, committed to following the questions till the truth comes out. Trouble is, having heard Sin’s “end of story” story, I’ve got no clue what the next question might be.
Any wonder I tossed and turned all night? Lucky me, Sin did actually pull over instead of just booting me out onto Daisy Lane, but he left the motor running and his sights on the windshield. I mumbled good night and got out, dragging my heart with me. Now, contemplating the ceiling, purring furball for a bedmate, I recall telling him that if he shared his tale, he’d never need speak to me again. The idea that he’ll take me up on it weighs me down like there’s a hippo on my belly instead of a cat. Yeah, well, I’ve got to get up anyway. The Realtor will be showing the house today and it’s a wreck. Plus, I’ve got to deal with Duck.
“The good news is you’ve got a Sin Powers original on the premises,” I tell him, phone cinched to my ear as I gather laundry. “He built your garden gate.” Then the bad news, Sin’s rationale for absolving Antonia Forsythe, and himself, in regard to Crane. “Basically, we’re back to square one.” Duck absorbs this with a sigh. “Well, that utterly sucks,” he says. “Father fired the detective and hired a new one. Mum’s got a slew of new pharmaceuticals. And I’m so bored and blue and simply . . .”
“Don’t worry, Duck.” That creaky, cranky old joint he lives in had plenty of other inhabitants between Antonia’s time and now; maybe one of them is spooking up the place, and if not the evildoer behind Crane’s abduction, then able to offer a few clues. “We’ll stay positive, okay, and we’ll keep each other sane. We’ll hang; we’ll play music . . .”
Oops, that slips out. How can I salvage my relationship with Sin if I keep seeing Tosh? Assuming I want to salvage it. Since, say I do win him back, how long will he stick around this time?
Tosh, at least, lives in Norris and has no ties to the netherworld.
Maybe I’ve had enough of Sin’s drama; maybe I’ve moved on. . .
“True, there is the band.” Duck snaps me out of my musings.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, so Tosh ought to be free by evening. Will Marsh be back from Newport?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t know. Why don’t you check with Tosh and I’ll hit Marsh and we’ll confirm tomorrow. But-right-now-got-to-go-see-you-later-bye.” I rush off, then scurry around in rudimentary cleanup mode. The agent arrives with a couple of NYC retirees who’ve convinced themselves that their golden years will be shinier in a pastoral setting. I try making myself scarce, but at one point I catch the woman giving me that do you live out here all alone, dear? look.
I set off on a bike ride before the next prospective buyers can bug, and when I return, Pen’s at my kitchen table, on my laptop, a bowl of my Cocoa Puffs and (remarkably, something that doesn’t belong to me) a gallon of latte frostee at her elbow.
“Yo,” she says.
Yo, I think. Please.
“Hope you don’t mind, but your place has got to be my home away from home now that school’s over,” she says. “Remember how my mother used to hound me about the hazardous effects of tanning? Well, now she’s all like, ‘Why don’t you go outside?
Get some sunshine!’”
“Mi, su,” I tell her. Then mi takes a few longs sips of su’s high-octane beverage.
“Ooh, now this is cooll. . .”
What, some tribal pattern from a tattoo site? I peer over her shoulder:
CHEST-AH-FEST!
Local Bands . . . Local Beats . . .
Local Arts . . . Local Eats . . .
July 10th & 11th
Noon to Midnight
“For this,” Pen says, “I’d get some sun. But hopefully it’ll be cloudy.”
A grassroots music festival does sound fun. And fun, we could all use some of that. By then for sure—okay, maybe—
Crane will be back. We ought to make a plan. “Where’s it at?” I ask.
“Southeast of here.” Pen’s mapping it already. “Not too far.
We should definitely go.” She gives me bright eyes and a slanted smile. “You know what . . . ,” she says. “Bruise Blue should play.”
Tosh would wet his pants. “Oh . . . but how?”
“I’ll find out,” she says, then adds, almost to herself, “Of course, by now they may have the lineup all set . . .” Clicking around the site, she asks, “Dice, do you guys have a demo?” A demo? “Of course not—we’ve just been dicking around.”
“How am I supposed to get you this gig without letting them hear any music?”
I look at her. “Who are you, our manager?” She looks back. “Why not? You need one.” She’d rock. Except there’s one variable she hasn’t taken into account. “You want the job? Talk to Tosh,” I tell her. “Bruise Blue is more his band than anyone’s; he’s our arranger and really the driving force behind the whole thing. And it’s no secret how much you love Tosh.”
Eyes glued to the screen, Pen says, “I’ll have to deal. You’re right about his talent. And you’ve got to have at least
one hot straight guy in the band.”
A quick, ripe flush rises at the comment. My cousin is among the multitudes that know nothing of the kiss I enjoyed against the wall of her house with said hot straight guy. I bite my lip. Discussing him with Pen could help me decipher my tangled desires. “You think Tosh is hot?”
“Me? No, I don’t. Technically, he is, though. It’s just an observation. About the band.” She closes the laptop. “All I know is you better start working on new material. Like how about some more original songs? And the covers you do had better be commercial.” Girl sure sounds like a manager. “You need to record something, make an MP3 at the next practice.
Which is when? Or you know what, I’ll just talk to Tosh. Since apparently I have to get his approval.” I start to say something, then stop. Practice, shmactice.
I’d put Bruise Blue on a way back burner, but rehearsal = the studio = Forsythe Manor. I’m tugged to that place like a fish on a line. So I locate Tosh’s info, slap it on a pad, hand it to Pen.
“Here you go, boss.”
Sucking at her latte, she seems to commit it to memory.
Fresh from Newport, Marsh meets us in the studio that Sunday at six, her kid sisters in tow. Their mother and New Pop will steal an extra day and night of vaca-tion, Marsh happily agreeing to watch the girls—focus-ing on them will keep her mind off her woes and her mood relatively buoyant. We notch it up more when we tell her about Chest-ah-Fest. Everybody’s juiced about it: A bona fide gig could mean tons of opportunities.
“I can play the tambourine,” says Willa, who’s baby blond and sparkling.
“No you can’t,” counters Charlotte, who shares big sister’s large foal eyes.
They’d been quiet, almost awed, for the first half hour, but take after take of “Swear”—digitally documenting it for our demo—has made them antsy.
Pen steps in—she’s killer with kids. “You guys know what?
Mrs. Williams has got the most yummiest snacks in the kitchen.
They’re English! Doesn’t that sound good?” Will and Char bob agreeably and Pen leads them out. “Back in a flash, and then enough of ‘Swear’ already. I want to hear that other Stones song.” Over her shoulder, she says, “I’m not so sure Dice can pull off ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’”
Oh, come on—if anyone has sympathy for the devil, I do. Want proof? The Williams place being so close to the Swoon town center, everybody’s cell phone actually works.
Mine vibrates my butt, and I pull it out, saying hullo to an unidentified caller.
“Dice.”
Pulse quickening, temperature rising—it’s ridiculous, embarrassing, the effect Sin’s voice has on me. I curl into myself, hoping to deflect attention from my bandmates. “Uh . . . hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
He tells me. My reaction puts all eyes on me. I can’t help it.
The word spews out in horror and disbelief: “Jail!?”
XXVI
Sin on Swoon lockdown—again! Unjustly—again! Or so I leap to assume.
“I’ve been taken in for driving a vehicle registered to Crane Williams.”
His voice is composed, but how he must hate this. Forget Sin’s centuries-long feud with local law enforcement; it’s got to be killing him, calling me for rescue. Who knew he even had my number; I can’t remember him ever reaching for me this way. I guess I’m flattered to be his one phone call—a toss-up, no doubt, between me and Kurt.
“Though I’ve yet to be charged with any crime,” he goes on, “so far they are not partial to my assurances that the car had been loaned to me. Apparently they’re unaware that Crane has a brother called Duck; indeed, one of the officers is of the opinion that I’m a smart-ass.”
“Simon, his real name’s Simon,” I say. “Don’t worry, Sin; I’m with Duck now. We’ll be right there.”
The Swoon PD is in the center of town, maybe even on the same site of Sin’s initial incarceration, prior to his capital punishment. I can’t help but wonder what’s keeping him there this time around. The Sin I knew last fall had a highly hypnotic patter; he could talk his way into and out of virtually anything.
If that failed, with his brute golem brawn, he could simply pull apart the bars of any Podunk prison cell. Is he merely mortal in his current incarnation? The thought of him sitting there, head in hands, helpless on a bench, mystifies me.
Swoon hardly being a hotbed of nefarious activity, the police station is far from bustling, and since we’re with Duck’s parents, we get prompt attention. Paul Williams does ample fist shaking and foot stamping, and we manage to spring Sin, and the impounded vehicle, in under an hour. Charm no worse for wear, Sin apologizes to the Williamses for the unconscionable inconvenience, thanks them for their efforts on his behalf, and insists that they rely on him for anything, anything at all, so that he might repay his debt. Then they drive home in their car (not the Rolls, just the Jag), while Duck, Sin, and I take the Cutlass.
“Where would you like us to drop you?” Duck asks.
Sin doesn’t answer at first. Then, from a demoralized slouch across the backseat, he says, “I simply don’t know.” He really is at a loss, like he has no reason for being now. Since, clearly, his reason for being isn’t me.
Duck and I trade a queasy look. “You’re welcome to join us at the house,” he offers.
Ooh, bad idea. Duck still must not know how Sin discovered me and Tosh midclinch. And now Sin sits up, leaning between the bucket seats, vaguely heartened.
“We’re rehearsing, of course,” Duck adds. “But as I remember, you’re quite musical too. Perhaps you’d like to sit in?” Sin sinks again, fuming, futile.
Holding the headrest, I swivel to study him, and our eyes engage for about an eon. Then we’re up the drive of Forsythe Manor, and he says, at length, “Very well. Why not.” Why not? A thousand scenarios flit through my head as we enter the house.
“That was fast,” Pen says. “Good, now we can—” She stops, snapping her trap with an audible clack of perfect teeth.
Clearly she didn’t expect us to go completely insane within sixty minutes. Except for the flash glance at her party, she’s had no confrontation with Sin. It’s been a long time coming.
Chipped ebony manicure sinking into the arm of her deep suede chair, she holds herself back, though from what—leaping up to hug him, or slug him? Instead she simply stares, probably recounting internally the litany of things the boy did to her, how monstrous they were, and how she loved every minute.
If he’s thrown by her ravaged hair, studded lip, and extra pounds, it doesn’t register, yet he can’t fully meet her eye, either.
“Pen,” he says hoarsely. “I hope you’re well.” Narrowing her eyes, she can’t look away. “Oh, I’m well,” she tells him. “Well as hell.”
Meanwhile, Tosh would no doubt like to grow wings. Maybe he’s kicking himself for not telling Duck details of his previous encounter with Sinclair Youngblood Powers. Maybe he thinks throwing the two of them together again was my idea—and I wish he’d look at me so I could give him a don’t look at me look.
The only one who can be relatively normal about it all is Marsh. Of course, I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet how not helpful he’s been on the Antonia tip. She ambles over, puts a light hand on his shoulder, and kisses his cheek. “Sin,” she says, her smile a Kustard Kup confection. “It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you, Marsh. You too.” He takes her into a quick but true embrace, then says, “I’ve learned about Crane. I wish there was something I could do.”
“There isn’t?” Blanching, her eyes fly from Sin to me and back again. “But we . . . you . . . Antonia . . .” At the mention of the name, he seems to struggle—his posture tightening, his expression wavering. He’d told me, absolutely adamant, that the girl with whom he’d had a passing acquaintance centuries ago is dead, gone, buried, and beyond the scope of our current situation. Yet somehow Marsh’s anxiety strikes him in a way my inquiry of the other night did not—
as though her slim frame might collapse, her fraught eyes burst with tears. Maybe he’s actually getting it now, how it felt for her to hear her true love break from a dream with “Antonia!” cracking his larynx.
Only Marsh does not buckle, does not bawl; she’s stronger than she looks and sniffs, hard, to thwart the threat of sobs that’s with her constantly now. “It’s okay, Sin—I understand.” She says that, though of course she understands nothing but heartache and loss. “It’s just really hard . . . to be without . . .”
“I know,” Sin says, turning from her to me, and I think, I know too.
The painful moment passes and Duck, no doubt verging on weeping himself, mans up and turns deferentially to Tosh. “I hope it’s all right that I asked Sin to jam.” Tosh responds like cement. Small blessing, though—he knows it wasn’t my brilliant idea.
“Crane had always meant to learn harmonica,” Duck continues, roving the room, panning the clutter. “Give me a second . . . or several; I’ll find one.” Tosh to Sin: “You play harp?”
Sin to Tosh: “Some.”
Tosh mulls. “We could use another melodic line. Could work.”
“Here we are!” Duck wags a vinyl pouch. “Ooh, look, there’s a bunch. Lovely!”
He tosses it to Sin, who lifts an arm to snatch it from the air without altering the ram-tough posture he and Tosh maintain.
Removing a C harp, he blows through a riff, lickety-split, and then another, chug-chug-chuggier. Tosh’s foot can’t stop itself—it taps—and his lush lips turn up. I begin to think this might actually, somehow, impossibly, turn out okay.
So we go, Sin adding fills to the still uber-mega-gonzo hit we’ve claimed for our own, lending even more of a Bruise Blue stamp. Making music dissipates weirdness, not entirely, but enough to make me think maybe Sin could join as a full-fledged member. It would certainly address Pen’s point about male sex appeal. I’m musing on the notion when little Willa rushes into the room.