by India Ink
“She’ll be out in a few minutes. Meanwhile, how about a cookie?”
I shook my head. “No, but I’ll take one of those sourdough rolls. Lots of butter.” I handed him a dollar and he dropped a quarter and a nickel in my hand. I wandered over to one of the small tables and took a seat.
“So, what are you up to, girl? We haven’t had a chance to talk since Barbara and I returned from Greece.” He set my plate on the table and I saw that he’d tucked a cookie on the side. Dorian firmly believed in the power of baking to make everything okay.
I eyed the roll, planning my attack. “Working up the classes on aromatherapy and herb-crafts for the shop this autumn.”
“Didn’t Barbara tell me you’re teaching a self-defense class now?”
I licked my hand where the melting butter drizzled down from the bread. “Yeah, over at Gulls Harbor Community College. I’ve agreed to teach one per quarter. Barbara should sign up for it—every woman needs to know how to defend herself.”
“I’ll put a bug in her ear.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “So you work for your aunt and you teach . . . that’s good, Persia. Work is good for the soul. Keep the body busy, keep the mind busy, and God will smile on you. Maybe he’ll even find you a husband.”
Coughing, I said, “Let’s hope not. I’ve got enough problems without that!” I winked at him and, with a wave and a laugh, he disappeared around the counter again to help another customer.
Hungry, I bit into the roll. Cursed with the appetite of a horse, I focused most of my intake on healthy food, so that the amount I ate wouldn’t make a dent in my metabolism. All my years at the gym had paid off—the muscle I’d built through Tai Chi, weight workouts, Aikido, Pilates, and yoga burned calories faster than I ate them.
Barbara wandered out, pulling off her voluminous apron. Even though she had a decade on me, we’d been friends since I was ten years old. Barb was petite in a way I would never be. Standing exactly five feet tall, soaking wet she couldn’t possibly tip the scales at a hundred. I towered over her at five-foot ten and a solid one fifty-five. My wavy black hair hit my butt, while she sported a short, sleek, coppery bob. Looking barely thirty, let alone forty-one, she had more energy than most of the teenagers I knew.
She waved toward the door. “Let’s go. I’m starving and want an omelet.” I popped the last bite of the roll in my mouth, grabbed my wallet and the cookie, and followed.
The BookWich, on the corner of Island Drive and Barrow Way, consisted of two stories, with an elevator for those who couldn’t manage the stairs. The café was on the bottom floor next to the periodicals, with parking around back. We hustled through the crowds, managing to secure a table next to a window that overlooked the parking lot and the alley beyond.
Instead of serving yuppie health food like so many small specialty cafés, the BookWich dished up homemade soups so thick they needed a fork, roast beef sandwiches layered with Swiss and dotted with cracked black pepper, and plump frankfurters covered with chili or sauerkraut or cheese. Food you could really sink your teeth into.
Our waitress bustled over with water and menus and pulled out a menu pad from her pocket. Barb ordered coffee. I went with my usual. “A cup of black tea with lemon, please, and could you check to see if somebody found my lesson plan that I left here last night?”
She grimaced. “Do you remember who was on shift, honey?”
“No, but I was sitting in the back booth.”
“That would be Tilda, then. Child, if she was waiting on you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. I’ll go check for you though, right after I bring your drinks.”
I thanked her. While she was gone, we skimmed the lunch specials, but I already knew what I wanted. So did Barb, apparently, for she folded her menu and tossed it back on the table.
“So, tell me about Greece.” We hadn’t had a chance to dish since she and Dorian had returned.
Barb broke into a grin, but I could tell that her mood didn’t match her expression. “Oh, the trip was just peachy. You have to come with us next time we go—I could use the support, though you’d have to put up with Mama Konstantinos.”
I grinned. “I’d love to go and you know it. Don’t tempt me. I was in Greece once, when I was nine. Auntie took me to the Parthenon in Athens and then we visited some of the islands. After that, we swung into Egypt for a look at the pyramids. I’ve always wanted to go back.” Auntie may have conquered her travel bug, but mine was still alive and kicking. “So, how was Dorian’s mother? She still think you stole her son?”
A flicker ran through her eyes and she shrugged, growing sober. “Yeah. She isn’t getting any better. She refuses to move over here to live with us, so his brother Nikola is moving back home to take care of her. Niki’s wife isn’t happy about the decision. She’d rather stay in Athens, but I don’t think her feelings matter in the issue. That’s one hell of a close-knit family. Even though Dorian and I’ve been married almost eighteen years, I still feel like an outsider.”
The rivalry between Barb and her mother-in-law proved to be the one hitch in her otherwise fairytale-like marriage. Barb loved Dorian to pieces, but his family constantly criticized her because she hadn’t joined the church, because she dyed her hair, and because she and Dorian had chosen not to have children. Their opinions were particularly harsh whenever the subject of Dorian’s decision to stay in the United States came up. Mama Konstantinos blamed Barb even though Dorian often said that he never wanted to move back. Dorian defended his wife, but most of his family proved deaf.
“Do you think they’ll ever come to their senses?” I asked.
“Probably not. Dorian says not to worry, but it’s hard when your in-laws treat you like a second-class citizen.” She stopped when the waitress appeared at the table with our drinks.
“I looked all over the back room but there’s nothing there that remotely resembles your paperwork. I’m sorry, honey.”
I sighed. “That’s okay. Thank you for checking anyway. Let me see, I want the clam chowder and a plate of calamari.”
Barbara asked for a Denver omelet and a salad. After June wrote down our requests and left, Barb continued. “So, what’s going on with you?”
I filled her in on the morning’s adventures. “Lydia’s going to get herself in trouble one of these days,” I said. “After awhile, she’ll meet her match. I just hope that Trevor gets over his heartache. It’s never easy, but broken hearts seem especially rough when you’re young and your hormones are still raging.”
Barbara nodded. “I had a run-in with her a year or so ago. We were working together in a production of Into the Woods that the Gull Harbor Community Theatre put on. She was furious because I got the lead and she was stuck as a bit player. The truth is, she can’t act. And she can’t sing worth a damn. She tried to organize a boycott of the bakery, said she saw a rat in there one day. It started to cut into our business until the health inspector checked it out and gave us a green light. You’d better watch out or she’ll try the same thing with Venus Envy now that you’ve made an enemy out of her.”
Just then, our meals arrived and we dove in, punctuating our lunch with snippets of talk.
When I returned to the shop, I dropped my wallet back inside my purse and got back to work. Luckily, my afternoon clients were far more pleasant than Lydia had been, and the last one decided to sign up for my upcoming Bath Rituals workshop. She also took a brochure for my self-defense class and said she’d hurry over to Gull Harbor Community College and register for the summer course, which would start at the beginning of July. Two hours later, I looked up to see that it was almost time to close up shop. I still needed to blend the Lite Dreams oil, so decided to stay late.
“Tawny, go ahead and leave for the day. I’ll finish here.” I put up the Closed sign so nobody would wander in by mistake.
I flipped through my journal of recipes and pulled out my oils. When I first arrived at Venus Envy, the selection had been sparse. Now we carried several fragrance lines that I’d
concocted. Every few weeks, we added a new line and kept an eye on how fast it took off. So far, each blend I’d come up with had sold like hotcakes, and people were clamoring for more.
I readied a sterilized bottle that would hold four ounces of the concentrated oil. When first developing a new scent, I created it drop by drop until I found just the right proportions. Sometimes I had to start over but that was okay. After all, I was searching for perfection, for just the right scent to capture a mood, evoke a response, intoxicate the senses. Alchemy at its most fragrant. Once I worked out the recipe, it was a simple matter to translate it into larger measurements to cut down on time.
Selecting lemongrass, sandalwood, and lilac oil, I measured them out, pouring them carefully into the bottle. After each addition, I swirled gently to blend. Once the foundation had settled, I added a top note—carnation—and then tossed in a few small pieces of rose quartz and capped it. Sitting back in my chair, I grasped the bottle between my hands and focused my thoughts on restful sleep and sweet dreams to wake up the elemental essences of the oils with which I was working. A little extra touch that might or might not do anything, but I felt like it tapped into the core of the energy I was attempting to reach with the fragrance.
As I jotted “Lite Dreams Concentrate” on a label, I glanced at the clock. Almost nine o’clock. Auntie had called and asked me to pick up a few groceries on the way home at the Shoreline Foods Pavilion. I tucked the oil away in the bottom drawer and yawned as I shrugged on my jacket and zipped up.
Something jangled in my pocket. I slid my hand in—my keys? What were they doing there? I was sure that I’d dropped them in my purse this morning. After a fruitless moment trying to remember, I gave up, shrugged, and headed out, turning off the lights and locking the door firmly behind me.
All the shops along the street were closed with the exception of the Book Wich and Trader Joe’s, and the empty street was damp as mist began to rise. In an hour or so, it would roll low along the ground, a shroud to cloak the pavement. Raindrops on the sidewalk shimmered under the streetlights, looking for all the world like liquid diamonds that had been splashed from the heavens.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the salty tang of moist air that drifted in off the inlet. Gull Harbor was the only real home I’d ever known, and I was thrilled to be out of Seattle, back in the island community that had become my safe haven when I was young. As I headed for the car, my skin tingled and I could feel the hairs stand up on my arms as a shiver raced up my spine. A storm was brewing, heading in off the water, I could feel it. And it was going to be a monster. As I slid behind the wheel, I thought I caught a whiff of danger on the wind.
Chapter Three
By the time I found a parking place in the Shoreline Foods Pavilion and fought my way through the aisles, I realized I’d left the list at the shop. If I remembered right, Auntie had asked for sliced roast beef and French bread, and either chicken or ice cream—something with C in it, but I couldn’t recall which one, so I bought both. I knew there had to be more on the list. After debating whether or not to call her from the pay phone—since I’d left my cell in my car—I decided what the hell, why not just pile the cart full of anything that looked reasonably good to eat? Chances were I’d get at least some of what she wanted. Fifteen minutes later I was tired, hungry, and had over sixty dollars worth of munchies in the cart.
The Mohawk-clipped nitwit behind the counter double-charged me for an item and it took yet another ten minutes to get it through his head that no, I was only buying one jar of sun-dried tomatoes in basil olive oil. I ended up proving I was right by taking everything out of the bags and piling it on the counter. If the over-charge had only been a quarter, I would have let it go, but at $4.59 a bottle, I wasn’t going to just suck up the loss. By the time we’d haggled it out, it was almost nine-forty. I debated on calling home, but since I’d be there within ten minutes, I decided not to bother. Aunt Florence could reach me on my cell phone if she was really worried.
I parked in the driveway, stepping out of the car at the same time that a huge squall gusted off the bay. The sky cracked open with a dazzling array of thunder and lighting. Soaked by the sudden cloudburst, I grabbed the groceries and raced into the house, only seconds before the lights flickered and went out.
“Jeezuz!” Both grocery bags went flying, spilling oranges and cookies and packets of sliced deli meat every which way as a stab of pain spread through my foot. Great, my toe had decided to play full-body contact with the heavy wooden frame of the sofa. I hopped, holding my injured foot off the ground, trying to maintain my balance, but a rush of fur blazed past and knocked me to the ground amid the scattered groceries. Yep, Monday all right. The day was ending on the same note on which it had begun.
Forks of white-hot lightning flashed across the inlet, putting on the light show of the century. Excited by the storm and the sudden feast, Beauty and Beast barked with joy as they bounded over to help themselves to the food. Still on my hands and knees, I grabbed one end of the roast beef package that was hanging out of Beast’s mouth. He promptly decided we were playing tug-of-war and began to growl, shaking his head, the beef, and me with it.
“This—is—not—your—sock!” I said, giving one last yank as he opened his mouth and sent me tumbling back. Good God, the dog was a brute. Auntie didn’t know what breed he was, but I bet his parents had been from opposite sides of the tracks. His head was too big for his body and his legs were too short and skinny. However, butt-ugly or not, the Beast was one of those lick-your-face, sit-in-your-lap, good-natured pooches, if a bit on the dopey side. He promptly rested on his haunches and began to howl as another crack of thunder split the sky.
Beauty, on the other hand, was a gorgeous black cocker spaniel who adored everybody and everything. Not only was she good natured, but she was smart as a whip and let the cats walk all over her. She eyed the food in my hand and then looked at me, big brown eyes dripping with love. I sighed and ripped open the slobber-drenched package.
“Here, you moochers.” I handed them each a slice. Of course, all the cats came running when they heard Beauty’s excited yips, and so did Pete, the oldest of the dogs—an eight-year-old golden retriever. I passed out slices of roast beef left and right, managing to stuff the last one in my mouth. The ache in my toe had slowed to a dull throb, and I was about to get off the floor and pick up the rest of the groceries when Aunt Florence bustled downstairs, holding a candle. She took one look at me and snorted.
“I thought I told you to put the groceries away before you play with the dogs,” she said, a grin creeping across her face as she offered me a hand. As wide as she was tall, my aunt was a formidable figure to contend with. She had a strength belied by her soft, rounded body. “I’ll go fire up the generator and then we’ll have some dinner.” She was about to pull her rain poncho over her head when the lights flickered and came back on. “Well, good enough, though I don’t know how long they’ll last.”
We picked up the groceries and took them into the kitchen. “The radio says we’re in for a week of bad weather, if not more. Why don’t we just heat up some tomato soup tonight, and toast French bread with parmesan and butter? And we can break out that venison sausage I’ve got tucked away for a rainy day,” she added.
I was starving, and anything hot sounded good, but venison sausage set my mouth watering. While I sliced and buttered the bread, my aunt heated the soup, stirring in a few bacon bits and some leftover broccoli and a handful of grated cheddar. She whistled while she cooked, and as she glanced up to catch me watching her, she winked.
Feeling more at home than I had in many years, I impulsively threw my arms around her waist and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “I sure missed you all these years, and never realized how much until I came back. The past six months have been wonderful. You’ve been mom to me ever since I can remember. I guess living in Seattle sometimes made me forget that. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Imp. I know you lov
e me, and that’s what matters.”
Auntie was a driving force directly out of the “when I am old I shall wear purple” crowd, except at sixty-three she wasn’t really old. Clad in flowing Hawaiian mu’u-mu’us, when she went out she always wore a wide-brimmed fuchsia straw hat that sported a stuffed parakeet balancing precariously on one side. A real stuffed parakeet. The bird—Squeaky—had been part of the Menagerie until he bit into a faulty wire by mistake and electrocuted himself. She’d taken Squeaky to a taxidermist and had him stuffed and shellacked, and now he went with her wherever she took a notion to go.
Aunt Florence had taken me in when her sister—my mother—died. My father was listed on my birth certificate, but he and Virginia hadn’t been married and he didn’t want anything to do with me once she was gone. Auntie had become mother, father, and family, all rolled into one. I could barely remember what Virginia had looked like—I’d been so young.