All About Evie (ARC)

by Cathy Lamb

  “I want to be on a boat and make new friends and drink wine,” my mother said. “We can share our love of flowers and hats with everyone. If it’s a small group, hats for all! We’ll add tiny penguins and polar bears and octopus!”

  Hats and flowers and wine, that’s my mom.

  “So,” my mother said, turning to her sisters, “back to the pot cookies for the chief. I’ll create a scrumptious recipe, and we’ll see how they taste.”

  Hats, flowers, wine, and pot. Unbelievable. “I can’t believe this.” This conversation was making me eat another chocolate croissant. Butch put his nose up to Mars’s nose. Mars meowed.

  “You three are going to end up in orange jumpsuits.”

  “Then we’ll make orange hats!” my mother announced.

  “We’ll wear orange panties!” Aunt Camellia said. “We’ll embroider ‘Jail Birdies’ on the butts.”

  “We’ll use the time in jail to study history,” Aunt Iris said.

  “Look back. All the answers you need in life can be found in history.”

  They are in their seventies.

  They are breaking the law.

  They are going to make pot cookies for the chief of police.

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  Sundance barked. He thought this was funny, I could tell.

  Butch and Cassidy licked the aunts’ hands.

  Those dogs were irritating sometimes.

  I picked up the stack of books that Venus knocked over, then studied my books.

  Literary friends, all of them. I even had a library card catalog!

  But it was getting a tad out of control. . . . I probably was a book hoarder.

  “I have the food worked out for the wedding. I talked to Mom and Aunt Camellia and Aunt Iris about it last night,” Jules said.

  With one hand I held my cell phone and with the other I pet Alpaca Joe and Virginia Alpaca. Alpaca Joe spit. “Don’t do that, Alpaca Joe.” He spit again.

  The sky was cloudless, blue as blue can be, the ocean lapping at the edge of our property. Behind me were rows of bearded irises. The huge type. The type that look like they are the queens of all the flowers of the world. Sundance stood right by me, Lizard in his mouth, Butch and Cassidy barking as they ran around the property. Ghost was walking along the goats’ fence.

  I don’t know why. She likes to do that sometimes.

  “What are we eating?” I asked.

  “All American food: Barbeque!”

  Barbeque. Yum. “I love barbeque.”

  “I can’t stand any of those fluffy, silly, fancy meals that people serve at weddings. Everyone’s starving after the ceremony. So we’re having ribs! Corn on the cob. Potatoes with sour cream.

  French bread. Plus, hamburgers, too. So you can have ribs and burgers.”

  “Sounds delicious.” Casual food for a casual, loving ceremony. Everyone would love it.

  “And . . . we’re getting kegs,” Jules said. “Everyone likes beer so we’re rollin’ ’em in!”

  “And wedding cake.”

  She laughed. “Oh, wait until you see the wedding cake! Plus,

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  we’re having pies. You can’t have barbeque without apple pies.

  I know you love pie, Evie.”

  “I can’t believe the date is sneaking up on us like this,” I said.

  “I know!” Jules said. Then she burst into tears. “I’m so happy to be marrying Mack. He is so thoughtful in bed. Last night he brought me a pink box and inside was a pink nightie with a motorcycle on the front. He also bought me black garters and black heels. He knows I love garters! He’s a huggy, sexy bear.”

  “And he’s smart.” I was hoping we could talk about how Mack was out of bed. How was he out of bed, dear sister?

  “Oh, I know! Mack is so smart at sex.”

  Nope. We couldn’t.

  “He knows when having sex twice in one night is all I can do.

  Hey! We’re thinking of getting tattoos of handcuffs on each shoulder, to say that we’re handcuffed to each other in marriage. Well”—she giggled—“in bed, too. One time I lost the key.

  Did I tell you that? I couldn’t find the key to the handcuffs! But he’s so strong. After an hour of searching he broke the bedpost.

  Then we had to buy a new bed!” She laughed again, then she burst into tears. “I can’t wait to marry Mack and become Mrs.

  Jules!”

  I teared up, too. I can’t help it. Jules cries, I cry.

  “You’re making me cry harder, Evie!”

  I sniffled. I blinked hard. The tears ran.

  “I’m so glad you’re my love-sister!”

  “Me too! Me too!” I blew my nose, and we burst into another round of wet silliness.

  I was watching a whale in the distance from our cozy beach at sunset when the car crash premonition came to me again. I grew cold, like a corpse, then sweaty. It was the same as always, mountain to my right, cliff to my left. Narrow road. Twists and turns. Orange poppies. The sun in my eyes.

  The red car came from around the curve, straight at me, and at the last minute I turned the wheel to the left so she would hit my passenger side. I didn’t understand why I did that. Why did

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  I turn my truck into her car? She slammed into my side, and the steering wheel was wrenched out of my hands. We seesawed on the cliff for a millisecond, as if to give us a last peek at life, and then we both went over the edge and down the cliff.

  My head was filled with noise. Metal on metal. Glass breaking. An engine smashing against rock. The roof of my truck folding in. The truck rolled and rolled before I was hit with a blast of pain and then . . . darkness.

  Someone died. That time it was probably me. Maybe. I wasn’t sure.

  There was something in the premonition I didn’t understand.

  Something mysterious. Something I couldn’t grasp. Why did I turn my wheel left, smack in front of an oncoming car? Who was the other person? What was hanging over that premonition, and why the fogginess, the lack of clarity? Why did the premonition change? That never happened with other premonitions.

  “Evie,” Olec Lavender said to me in the science fiction section of my bookstore. “If you please, I need to know what you see in my future.”

  “I see you buying a lot of books here.” Olec is about thirty-five. He has some recognizable OCD, but it doesn’t get in the way of his inventing stuff that he patents and sells for a fortune.

  Only way I knew that he had a boatload of money was because he was on the cover of a national newspaper a few years ago.

  They called him Super Genius. I call him Slightly Nerdy, Somewhat Eccentric Olec. He lives in a tiny, old log cabin with only a fireplace for heat but has tons of land and six dogs.

  “I buy two a week, as you know, Evie.” He twitched, then adjusted his glasses. “Monday mornings you and I meet to share information and thoughts on literature, the classics, contempo-rary nonfiction and fiction, and any new science or history-based books. Reading time is from seven until nine o’clock at night. Nine o’clock until ten o’clock is for online Calculus Club.

  Then a fruit snack before sleeping.”

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  “Right. It’s a solid reading schedule.” And there was that tiny OCD. Who was I to judge? I had some of that myself. Plus, general anxiety and a battle with depression and fear.

  “And what is in my future, based on your findings?”

  “I can’t see into the future.” I moved over to the gardening section, which lines the yellow rose wallpaper wall, and he followed. We have a ton of gardeners on San Orcanita, and tour -

  ists love picking up gardening books featuring their lush gardens.

  My mother and aunts’ garden is featured in several books.

  When they are included, of course they are wearing their gasp-inducing flowered hats.

  “I believe that is incorrect information, Evie, and I am experiencing some befuddlement as to why you are d
ownplaying your phenomenal gift. It is my understanding that you have premonitions.” His face scrunched in some confusion.

  “You’re an engineer. You also have a doctorate in physics.

  Why would you believe that I could see the future?”

  “I have a master’s in chemistry and biology, too, but that is neither here nor there. I say that only because I want to present an accurate academic résumé.” He twitched again. “But I have deliberately left room in my mind for the possibility of things unexplained. You are in my brain as a thing unexplained.”

  “I am not a thing.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” His forehead puckered above his thick glasses and he appeared worried. “I apologize. I misspoke.

  We have had a misunderstanding. May I continue, or has my offense brought on an insurmountable barrier and therefore it is impossible for us to continue our conversation?”

  “We can still talk, Olec, don’t worry.” Sure we could. I liked Olec.

  His shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you for your gracious-ness. Here is my quandary: I have met a woman in Seattle.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” I smiled at him. “I hope she is brilliant enough for you.”

  “She is . . . I believe the correct word is lovely. Extremely friendly. She is talkative and complimentary of me. She is affec-tionate, although we have not had intercourse. Excuse me, per-

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  haps that was too forward? Too much information, as the modern saying goes.”

  “It’s okay, Olec. I’ve heard more personal stuff than that.”

  “Thank you for understanding.” He twisted his hands together. “There is a concern: She does need money now and then.”

  “For what?” Ah, no. Bad news.

  “Sick father in Texas. Sick grandma in Mexico. Another sick grandma in Louisiana. They couldn’t afford health insurance and they fell on hard times, so she, being a generous and kind soul, stepped up for them.”

  “You mean, you stepped up for them by giving her money.”

  He squirmed. “We love each other.”

  “You love her? How long have you known her?”

  “Three months. One week. Four days.” Checked his watch.

  “Six hours. Twenty minutes. We met online. We talked on Facebook.”

  “And then you met her face-to-face in Seattle?”

  “Yes. We have been together, face-to-face, two times. Once commencing at one o’clock on a Saturday, at a Russian restaurant with forty-two types of vodka. But there was a Thursday meeting also, in a coffee shop that sold twelve types of pastries.

  She says we are soul mates. I am still exploring that possibility.”

  Yeah. Sounds like they’re “money mates,” with the money going in one direction. “How much money have you given her?”

  “So far? Precisely to this date? Twelve thousand one hundred sixty-four dollars.”

  I tried to keep my face expressionless. I wanted to slap him upside the head and knock some sense into him, but I also wanted to bang her face into a bookshelf for taking advantage of a brilliant but vulnerable man.

  “What I need to know, Evie, is if we have a future together.”

  Olec was eager. He was sweet. He spent way too much time flapping around in his billions and billions of extrabrilliant brain cells and didn’t have a clue about women or social dynamics.

  “Let me think.” I had zero premonitions on Olec. I stared into the air. I raised my eyebrows. I tried to drum up a faraway

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  expression in my eyes. I frowned. I looked mad, then sad. “Yes.

  I see it. I do have a premonition about this situation. Now, don’t tell anyone, do you promise?”

  “I promise.” His eyes were open wide, waiting for my miraculous wisdom.

  “It doesn’t work out. You keep dating her and she keeps taking your money. It’s a request for money here and there at first, like with all the relatives you’ve helped, and she kisses you and gets you all steamed up and says all sorts of romantic things, but then it’s more and more money. You believe her because you have a warm heart, Olec, and you marry her and you lose almost everything in the divorce, even your log cabin and all your land,” I shook my head, so sad. “You lose half your dogs.”

  His face twisted in pain. “No. No, not the dogs!”

  “And she leaves you and moves out of the country.”

  He gasped. “She is from Russia!”

  “Does that make sense then, Olec, for her to have a sick father in Texas and a sick grandma in Mexico?”

  “And a sick grandma in Louisiana.” His shoulders sagged.

  “Lotta sick family members.”

  “I knew it.” He shook his head, balding, but in a cute way. “I knew it in my brain, but I let my heart do the talking and the believing.”

  “I’m sorry, Olec.”

  “Me too.”

  I gave him a hug.

  “I will stop thinking with my heart.”

  He went on Facebook on his phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m telling her I don’t want to speak with her any further because she is going to near-bankrupt me in the divorce and take my log cabin and half of the dogs, then I am blocking her.”

  “Decisive.”

  “I know you would never lie to me, Evie.”

  “Never.”

  And that is where ethics and morals and decision making comes in again, but I knew I did right by Olec.

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  * * *

  A new chief came to our island. He was about five years older than me. He’d been an assistant chief in Seattle.

  His name was Reginald Ashburn III. Not Reggie. Not Reg.

  Reginald. Don’t forget the III.

  “Fancy pancy,” Gracie said.

  “Too good for us,” Mr. Jamon said, leaning on his cane.

  “He’s not an islander,” Koo said. “How did he get the job?”

  I had no idea. The islands have an assistant police chief, Mandy Lass. She’s smart and tough and brave, and she should have been named as the temporary police chief. Chief Allroy himself had told me that she was “definitely my successor. She’s smart as a whip and knows how to deescalate situations, which many don’t. She’s tough, too. Black belt and military training.”

  “She’s a woman,” my mother drawled. “That’s why she didn’t get the job as chief.”

  “Because of her femaleness she is judged harshly, seen as weak,” Aunt Camellia said. “Weak like a flower. This was sex-ism. Discrimination. Mandy should have been chief.”

  “For God’s sakes,” Aunt Iris huffed. “Will misogyny never die?”

  The new chief, quickly earning the nickname Reginald Ass Burn, did not fit in. He was rigid and unsmiling. He actually gave out jaywalking tickets in our tiny town. He walked into businesses and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He was immediately way too hard on the teenagers, arresting them for drinking or being out past curfew. He gave out parking tickets and driving tickets for minor infractions by the dozens. He harangued people about their dogs in town, reminding them of the poop laws, which offended all dog owners. Did they look environmentally unconscious? Of course they would pick up the dog poo.

  Chief Ass Burn looked at everyone as if we were potential criminals. He glared. He stared. He was one of those men who had to throw his weight around. He had to display his power.

  “This isn’t the middle of a prison,” Jolla muttered, Bella Mae beside her holding Mr. Pitto, the aggrieved iguana. “We’re is-

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  landers. Proud of it. And we don’t need this outsider coming in and making us miserable.”

  “Not even Mr. Pitto likes him,” Bella Mae said. She swung Mr.

  Pitto around in the air, poor thing, his little feet trying to run.

  We learned later that the new chief was the brother-in-law of Chief Turner in Seattle.

  For revenge,
most everyone on San Orcanita Island wrote a letter to Chief Turner and mailed it over.

  It said, “NEPOTISM SUCKS.”

  We signed our names.

  Going to bed at night is like going to bed with a dog and cat zoo.

  Butch the dog is close friends with Mars the cat. They play together all the time, wrestling and rolling and chasing each other. Butch and Mars curl up on the end of my king-sized bed, bought because I knew I’d end up sleeping with my dogs and cats. Sundance sleeps on the other side of me, on his own yellow pillow. Yes, I know. That’s ridiculous that Sundance has his own pillow, but whatever. Dog lovers unite! He also has his pink blankie and his stuffed lizard, which I’ve had to sew up and restuff several times over the years. Cassidy sleeps with her head on Sundance’s back.

  Jupiter and Venus sleep on a thick blue blanket all swirled up together on the floor, but if they get cold they crawl in bed, too.

  Ghost sleeps in a cat bed on the dresser right near me. It seems like whenever I wake up, Ghost is awake, too. The cats go in and out of the bedroom at night, but the dogs are pretty much down for the count.

  Every night, after the dogs and I take our last walk, saying good night to the alpacas, the lambs, the goats, and the horses, we head home. I say, “Okay, everybody, it’s time for bed,” and off we go. I go to bed and read, they come up on the bed and play and roll around, but when I’m done reading, and that can take a while, especially if I’m reading a scary thriller or a biography that is particular intriguing, it’s time for quiet.

  I shut out the light and say, “Good night, everyone,” and they

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  settle down. Listening to them snoring on my white comforter with the red and purple embroidered roses makes me laugh. I mean, who does this? Three dogs, four cats on a rose comforter?

  I am an odd, odd woman.

  “Evie, are your mother and aunts home?”

  “Yes, they all are.”

  Mrs. Gaddo’s face lit up. She was wearing her best Sunday church outfit, as it was Sunday and she was trotting off to church.

  I was in town, quiet at this early hour, my insomnia a plague last night, to check on my bookstore and to grab a piece of Kick-Quick Cowboy Coffeecake and a mocha. It’s always wise to start off the day with a healthy breakfast. I had Butch, Cassidy, and Sundance on their leashes beside me.