Dream of Danger

Late. Despite the black clothes and, occasionally, lipstick and nail polish, Amy was never late.

And she’d been dropped off by a Jag-driving douche bag outside the gate, despite that it was wide open and he could’ve easily driven her right to the front door.

“It’s Mel.”

Mel was currently trying to execute a three-point turn in my narrow dirt road without getting his tires dirty. I pushed past Amy, Myrtle, my bulldog, sticking close to my side, and walked down the driveway in my fluffy slippers, yoga pants and tank top—aka my work clothes—waving my arms to get his attention and yelling, in case that might help. “Yo! Mel!”

He glanced my way, then did a double take and got the look on his face that a kid gets when caught with his hand in the cookie jar: guilty, but unapologetic. He put his window down about the time I got within talking distance, and I reminded myself it was 9:30 a.m. on the day before Thanksgiving, in Whitney Point, New York. In other words, freakin’ freezing outside. But I was close enough to get a read on the guy. I could tell a lot about a person just by standing close enough to talk to them. Sort of feel them. Being blind for twenty years of your life gives your other senses a boost, maybe even opens up one or two that sighted people don’t have. I’d only had my vision back for a few months now. Since August. And so far my superkeen perceptions hadn’t seemed to fade.

“Hello,” Mel said from inside his toasty-warm car. “You must be Rachel.”

Ms. De Luca to you, buttface. “And you must be incredibly shy, Mel. ’Cause clearly you’d have driven Amy up the driveway to the door otherwise, especially on such a chilly morning.”

He looked at me, the length of driveway between his car and the front door, and then me again. “Not shy, just running late.”

“You can turn around a lot easier if you pull in,” I said, then added under my breath, “should’ve thought of that to begin with.”

By then Amy had joined me and leaned close to whisper loudly in my ear. “Rachel, don’t be a bitch and scare him off. Jeez, he’s already nervous as hell about meeting my folks tomorrow.”

I gaped at her, taking my attention off Mel. Didn’t matter, I’d managed to get a read on him. The guy was hiding something. And he was kind of a jerk. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

“Uh-huh.” Her diamond nose stud winked in the sun. “I invited him to Erie for T-day with the fam.” She smiled. “He said yes.”

He’d already closed his window, backed into my driveway, and was about to pull out again. “He’s going home to meet your parents and I haven’t even got his last name yet?” I waved at Mel again. “Hey, wait up!”

“Rachel!”

He waved back and drove away with a pleasant smile. My antennae were quivering. There was something majorly off about that guy.

But it was thirty-five degrees and way too breezy to stay out here arguing. Myrtle had already peed and was leaning on my calf for warmth, and Mel and his silver Jaguar were vanishing in a cloud of dust on my isolated road. I heaved an impatient sigh and turned back toward my front door. Amy followed behind me, her arms full of mail from the post-office box, because it was Wednesday, and Wednesdays were answer-the-fan-mail days.

Except I had the vet. And the pages. I waited for her to trundle in, then closed the door while she dumped the truckload of mail on the coffee table.

“So tell me about this Mel,” I said as I heeled off my boots.

“What do you want to know?” She talked while she walked, straight through my giant living room, formerly off-white, currently a deep brick-red hue with gold petroglyphs stenciled all around the walls way up high. I liked color. The kitchen, also formerly off-white, was freshly yellow, with big fat sunflowers in every possible location. We’d done it last week, and I was planning to tackle the currently beige dining room next. I was thinking gold. Or maybe orange. How I’d lived in a colorless home for so long was beyond me. You’d think I’d have sensed the boredom, even blind.

“Who is he? What’s he do for a living? How come I haven’t met him yet? How long have you been seeing him? Why didn’t you tell me? How the hell did he wrangle an invitation to Thanksgiving with the family already? Are you having sex?”

She returned from the kitchen with two filled coffee mugs. The maker was programmed to turn on first thing in the morning so I didn’t have to mess with it, and her keen eye always detected whether I had a full cup or not. She handed me my mug and went to sit on the sofa to begin thumbing through my fan mail while sipping. “His name is Mel Brennan. He’s a lawyer. He travels a lot out of state, so I only get to see him a couple of times a month. I’ve been seeing him for six months. And you haven’t met him because I didn’t want to hear your creepy ESP analysis of his deepest secrets. I’d rather find them out the old-fashioned way. Did I miss any of your questions, Your Honor?”

“Yeah. A hundred. And I’ve told you a million times, I don’t have freakin’ ESP. Also, ouch.”

She smiled. “You can meet him later. He’s picking me up.” She looked at me looking at her and added, “Because my car’s getting serviced. Not because we’re shacking up.”

“Are you?”

“No. God, you’re nosy.”

“Your mother’s in Erie. I like to think of myself as her stand-in. How old is he?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“You’re the worst liar in the world. He looks old.”

“Define old.”

I shrugged. “Forty?”

“Forty’s not old.”

“It is when you’re twenty-four.”

She started a stack of fan mail, a stack of junk mail and a stack of possible business mail. “Why the hell don’t they just email you? Who writes on paper anymore?”

“Old people. Like your boyfriend. How old is he again?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s forty-two.”

“And I’m eighteen.”

She eyed me. “You could actually pass for eighteen. Which pisses me off, because I probably couldn’t.”

“Goth is ageless. No one can guess a goth’s age. And you’re a gorgeous goth. Thanks, by the way.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks back.”

“So he’s going to Thanksgiving dinner with your family. It’s that serious?”

She shrugged. “He’s coming to Thanksgiving dinner. What are you doing for dinner tomorrow, Rache?”

Sure, change the subject. “Probably going to Sandra’s, like always. My sister will cook more than ten people could eat. Jim will stuff himself and watch football. The twins will spend all day texting and griping about their identical eighteen-inch waistlines being endangered by their mother’s apple-and-walnut stuffing. And I’ll do my best to make myself useful.”

She puckered her lips at me, bloodred today. “If you could do anything you wanted for Thanksgiving, what would it be?”

I shrugged. “Call Mason and have him run a background check on your boyfriend.”

“Mason.” She nodded like an ancient sage. “I knew it.”

“Don’t even—”

“You’d spend the day with him if you could. Wouldn’t you?”

In a New York minute. The night, too. “I told you, Mason and I decided to go our separate ways. For now.”

“Yeah, yeah. You need time to experience life as a sighted adult. He needs time to get over his brother’s death and help his nephews adjust to life without their dad. I heard all the logical reasons. I just don’t buy any of them.”

“You really think you can distract me from my misgivings about your relationship by talking about mine?” I asked.