Goes Down Easy

“No, you didn’t. You just happened to be in the driver’s seat then. Now he’s keeping you on your toes.” Though Perry was quite sure that Claire’s toes were the last body part Randy had on his mind.

Claire’s sigh filled the void in the conversation. “I suppose he’s worth it.”

“Oh, stop it already,” Perry said, drawing little O’s above the X’s. “You know he is, and if you don’t, well, send him my way.”

“No can do, girlfriend. He bakes me cookies.” Claire laughed as if nothing more needed to be said.

And Perry supposed nothing did. She didn’t know a single female who wouldn’t dig on having a man with culinary skills that went beyond throwing burgers on a grill and popping the top on a beer can.

She certainly would, though she didn’t see it happening since her life had always revolved around women. A choice she’d made too many years ago to count. “I’ve still got room in my freezer if you have more you need to unload. Never can unload too many cookies, you know. At least from a calorie/wedding dress perspective.”

Claire laughed a second time. “See? Eloping would get me out of that worry. I could wear blue jeans, and all would be right with the world.”

“Wait. Back up,” Perry said as the bell over the shop’s front door chimed. She glanced up to see a man shove back the hood of his navy hoodie before disappearing into the shop’s aisles. “I thought you didn’t want to elope. That you wanted to know what Della could tell you about your wedding.”

“I did, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Fickle, much?” Perry asked, straightening on the stool to peek over the bookcase that ran like a divider down the center of the shop. She saw brown hair flecked with bits of blond and a touch of gray at the man’s temples. She also saw long, long, long lashes that made her want to cry with envy.

“Probably less than it seems,” Claire was saying.

“How so?”

“Well, for example, if I were to have a baby, I wouldn’t want to know its sex in advance.”

“Hmm,” Perry said, more interested in her customer than in Claire’s attempt at logic. If only the stupid bookshelf were five instead of six feet tall. “Are you and Randy already talking about kids?”

“Please! It’s way too soon for that. We’re still learning what we can about each other.”

“Besides your shared cookie fetish?”

Claire groaned. “I swear. I’m going to be an elephant before we ever set a date.”

“Maybe, but Randy’s a good guy.” Perry smiled to herself, returning the plumed pen to its base. “He’ll be there through thin and through thick.”

“Ha! A comedian in every crowd.”

“I was raised by a woman who sees things she shouldn’t be able to see. I have to get my laughs somewhere.”

“God, Perry. I can’t even imagine a lifetime of dealing with that. I would think it would be so…I don’t know. Frightening?”

Perry shoved a hand through her hair, pushing the wild corkscrew curls away from her face. She had never talked to anyone about growing up with Della, about Della having to deal with the truth of her visions. Having to deal as well with both of their fears that the aftermath might one day debilitate her, leaving Perry alone again and too young to cope. Frightening was only a part of it.

“That. And interesting.” To say the least, which was all she could say for now. “I’ve gotta run. Are you sure you want to cancel?”

“Definitely,” Claire said, and Perry could almost hear the other woman nod. “But let’s do dinner one night this week.”

“Cookies for dessert?”

“What else?” Claire asked, laughing and adding, “I’ll call you,” before ringing off.

Once she had, Perry was left with no reason to stay at the counter. And even if she’d had tons of work to do there, curiosity would still have gotten the better of her. It wasn’t every day a man who looked like the one an aisle over walked into the shop.

She climbed down from the stool, closed the leather appointment book and stored it on end next to the cash register she locked out of habit. Then, smoothing down her skirt and the hem of her paisley-print poet’s blouse, she hooked the key ring on her index finger and went to check him out.

He was well worth checking out. The hint of gray had fooled her from a distance; he was no older than his late thirties, she guessed. He wore jeans and Reeboks with his hoodie. The neckband of a white T-shirt showed above the eyelets where the drawstrings hung loose.

He stood studying a display of ground marble and resin figurines representing the twelve astrological signs, designed by a local artisan. He held a Taurus bull in one hand, an Aries ram in the other. Perry wondered if she should read anything into his selections or just let it go.

She nodded toward the figurines. “Those are one of our most popular items. The artist has made quite a name for herself here. A true hometown success story.”

He didn’t glance up right away. Instead, he silently returned both items to the antique cherry cabinet. Then he turned and stared down at Perry until she was certain she would never again be able to breathe—she who had never been susceptible to the buff and chiseled type.

His eyes were gray, a dark pewter with silver specks. Up close, his lashes appeared even longer than they had from a distance. His eyes were amazing, gorgeous—as was his denim-and-cotton-covered build—but his expression scared her to death.

“May I help you?” she asked when the silence had gone on for too long.

“Della Brazille?”

Uh-oh. “Who’s inquiring?”

“Me. And I’m here to make sure you keep your hocus-pocus fingers out of the Eckhardt kidnapping.”

RED AND BLACK. Welts and bruises. Cuts and scrapes and raw purple skin. An arm. A hand. A missing finger.

The ring. It should be there. A class ring. A sports ring. Heavy and gold. It had been there before.

The watch remained. Platinum links. Multiple dials. The edge of a sleeve.

Torn, not cut, and stained with a rust color that had once been blood. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Only slices of light, crosshatched shadows, herringbone in yellow and blue. And so much watery, fluid green.

Della opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the bed’s periwinkle chenille coverlet to her chin. She blinked slowly and let out a breath of relief. The pain was gone. She felt empty, spent…strangely weak and fragile.

Forty-eight years old and she ached like an ancient crone. It was enough to make her laugh. Except laughing would expend energy she didn’t have to spare.

She scooted to the side of the bed, tugged down the hem of her fine lawn nightgown, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress while picking up the bedside phone and dialing the NOPD.

“Operations.”

“Detective Franklin, please.” She waited thirty seconds before he came on the line.

“Franklin.”

“Book. It’s Della,” she said, and hurried on. “They’ve cut off his finger. He was wearing a ring. A college bowl ring maybe? I can’t say.” She tucked the coverlet tighter. “I can only see the shape. The edge of the insignia.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”