Miss Danvers Decides

by Christy Carlyle


(Miss Danvers Decides is a continuation of an earlier free short read, Lord Pennington's Proposal. If you wish, you can read that first part of the story here.)

London, 1867

“Marry me, Bella.”

Lord Jonathan Pennington’s words, spoken in his smooth baritone, echoed in Isabella Danvers’ mind as she stood in the cozy comfort of his study. Though a fire in the grate still gave off a bit of warmth, Bella pulled her shawl up around her shoulders to stifle the shivers that had begun to rattle her body.

Jack’s handsome face was as familiar to Bella as her own, but the words coming out of his mouth were strange as a foreign language. The eagerness in his tone and raw excitement in his gaze set her heart racing, while the three words shattered her composure. For a woman with a secret writing life, relying on words to write stories under a nom de plume, Bella could not rally a single phrase in response to Jack’s unimaginable proposal.

In the tangled jumble of her thoughts, she could only hear an echo of his words. "Marry me, Bella."

Marry Jack Pennington. It was a notion—an impossible dream—she had kept hidden within her heart and mind for more years than she could count. Her secret had been kept so close that even Father had been unaware of the feelings she harbored for the aristocrat who had been her childhood friend. When her father named Jack as her guardian in his will, he had bound them together but given the duty of finding a husband to the only man she had ever mused about marrying.

“Bella?” His tone had lost its exuberance and concern for her etched creases of worry across his forehead, just under the errant lock of black hair that dipped down toward his brow, always refusing to behave. “I’ve shocked you.”

Shocked, yes. That was it. Shock, fear, and a slice of unreasonable hope were among the riot of emotions making her tremble. Though she had suggested marriage to Jack moments before, she never imagined he might take the tease seriously.

The whole idea was ridiculous. Impossible. Jack might be the same man who had encouraged her strident opinions as a girl and derided her love of Gothic novels as a young woman, but he was, above all things, the Earl of Pennington.

He had never wanted the title; he’d made that clear. But she never doubted he would do his duty—to his father and the family name. Marrying the daughter of the Pennington’s longtime butler was out of the question. In fact, it would spark gossip and scandalize the society misses and mothers who would surely consider the Earl of Pennington a prime catch in the coming season.

From the moment he had inherited his father’s titles and estates, Jack had been the soul of propriety. He had always been a clever man, and as a child Bella adored his sense of adventure. But there had been little adventure since he’d assumed his father’s title, and she sympathized for the rounds of inane social visits and dusty estate ledgers with which he spent his time. Jack needed a bit of adventure, truth be told, but this—marriage to a completely unacceptable young woman­­­­­­—was precisely the kind of adventure he did not need.

“I am going to take a turn in the park.”

After finally finding her voice, Bella offered Jack a reassuring grin, but he seemed anything but reassured. When she stood, he shot up too and reached a hand toward her.

“Let me accompany you.”

“No.”

Harsher than she intended, her tone wounded him. She could see it in the flicker of disappointment that shadowed his green eyes.

“I promise I won’t be long.” She smiled up at him again, but turned toward the door, not waiting to see if he returned her expression. Though she spent a portion of nearly every day in his company, looking at the beautiful planes and angles of his face was suddenly painful.

“You heard my question, did you not?”

That tone was familiar and a grin tugged at her mouth at the sound of it. It was Jack’s I-am-six-years-your-senior-and-not-at-all-pleased tone.

“Was it a question? I thought perhaps you were teasing me, in return for my making such an outrageous suggestion.”

Bella still couldn’t look him in the eye, but she turned her head in his direction. They might tease each other, but there had never been a moment of rudeness between them.

He stalked toward her, boot heels clicking on the polished wooden floor. Bella did not move, and she dared not meet his gaze. He came close, just behind her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck.

When he spoke, his voice was low, quiet, and bone-meltingly tender.

“It was a question. Perhaps the most important of my life.”

Bella swayed toward him, and he placed a firm, warm hand on her upper back to steady her. Such sweet pleasure emanated from his touch that she felt the word bubbling up. Yes. The answer she wished she could give him, ached to say again and again.

“You will give me an answer, won’t you, Bella?”

A flutter in her chest blossomed into an ache as she walked away from him, still unable to meet his gaze. She stopped at the door of the study and turned back.

He had honored her with his question and she owed him an answer. But not yet. She could not bring herself to shut out the possibilities just yet. “After my walk, Jack. I promise you an answer after my walk.”

“Then I hope it’s a pleasant walk.”

Hearing the humor in his voice, Bella finally turned to look at him. She relished the moment as the tension between them ebbed. The moment made it easier for her to walk away.

Once she’d wrapped herself in her cloak and faced the chilly October morning, she longed for the comfort of sitting with Jack beside the fireplace. But she couldn’t face Jack without giving him an answer, and before her answer, there was someone she wished to see.

She met no one as she made her way along Brook Street toward Grosvenor Square. Bella knew it was early for visiting hours, but she hoped Emily would make an exception for her.

Bella did not mind the brief wait in the Earl and Countess of Wharton’s drawing room. Emily’s Grosvenor Square townhouse was always filled with hothouse flowers and, perhaps because of its lavender wallpaper, the drawing room was usually dotted with bowls overflowing with violets. Their sweet, vibrant scent reminded Bella of Eastleigh, the Pennington estate in Hampshire where she and Jack had grown up.

“Bella, my dear, I did not expect you today. Have you brought me another?” The countess clasped her hands together like a child eager for her first gift on Christmas morning. “I read the last one in single sitting. I could not put it down. Charles actually scolded me for spending too much time reading.”

Thrilled to hear her story had so enthralled her friend, Bella giggled. “I am afraid I haven’t brought you another story. I’ve come to ask you a question. And to tell you of a question Jack has put to me.”

“How intriguing. It sounds as if tea is in order.”

After ringing for refreshment and settling themselves on the settee, Emily looked at Bella expectantly. Though their stations were as different as Bella’s from Jack, Emily had always treated Bella like a sister, an honorary member of her large, wealthy family. Nothing had changed when she'd married the Earl of Wharton, and Charles and his family had embraced her as readily as Emily had.

“So tell me of Jack's question.”

“First tell me what it’s like to be a countess.”

Emily laughed, a rich, throaty sound that made Bella smile.

“Are you considering becoming one yourself?”

Her question, asked with a smile and laughter lingering in her tone confirmed the foolishness of the very notion to Bella. How could she ever be Jack’s countess?

“Jack has asked me to marry him.”

For a moment Emily didn’t move, her bow-shaped mouth hanging open in a most unladylike manner, but then Bella's words seemed to ignite her. She shot up from her spot on the settee and clasped her hands to her mouth, stared back at Bella wide eyed, and then sat next to her again. When she reached for her hands, Bella noticed tears in Emily’s eyes.

“Darling Bella, what happy news. I am bursting with happiness for you.” She did cry then, tears slipping down her cheeks as she clasped Bella in an embrace.

Bella hugged her friend back, and felt tears well in her own eyes. “I have not given him an answer.”

“What? Why ever not? My dear, you must. You simply must.”

Pulling back, Bella swiped at her cheek. “I cannot marry him, Em. It’s impossible.”

Emily stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “I don’t understand.”

“I am a butler’s daughter. Butlers’ daughters don’t become countesses.”

“Apparently they do. You will. Bella, you and Jack… Well, it has always been clear to me. You’re meant for each other.”

“He does not know about my writing.”

“Then you must tell him.”

“He loathes Mrs. Radcliffe and all Gothic novels.”

Emily shook her head as if Bella spoke nonsense.

“He’s never read one of yours, Bella dear. You’ve never given him the chance.”

“What will people say? I couldn’t bear to bring him shame.”

Bella continued on, voicing her fears and anxiety, her belief that she might tarnish the Pennington name by marrying Jack.

Emily listened patiently, holding her hand through much of the tirade, offering her a reassuring squeeze now and then.

“Are you quite finished?”

Surprised by her friend’s tone, Bella looked up into the young countess’s clear blue eyes. Her face was set in a firm yet benevolent expression.

“Yes, I’m finished.”

“I have only one question for you.”

Bella nodded her head and took a deep breath. No question the countess might ask could be more daunting than Jack’s.

“Do you love him?”

The question was ridiculous, perhaps as ridiculous as Jack’s. Of course she loved him. She had always loved him. Bella could barely recall a day of her life before she loved Jack Pennington.

Though Bella had not said a word, Emily beamed.

“Well, that’s that.” The countess lifted a gold fob watch pinned to one of the many folds of her elaborate skirt. “You mustn’t keep him waiting. He is an earl, after all. If he’s anything like Charles, he will detest waiting.”

“But—“

“Give him the answer of your heart, my dear. Do not allow fears to steal your happiness.”

Emily led Bella to the foyer, helped settle her cloak around her, and kissed her on the cheek before giving her a gentle nudge out the door.

As Bella descended the stairs, her friend called to her.

“Bella?”

She turned back to Emily.

“I think you will be a magnificent Lady Pennington.”

***

He rubbed his hands together as he watched her. It was a gesture that indicated Jack was nervous, worried, and Bella instantly felt a pang of guilt for keeping him waiting so long.

“Come sit by the fire.” He gestured toward her favorite chair and Bella was relieved to sink into it again.

“Your walk. Was it pleasant?”

“It was short. I didn’t go to the park as I’d intended. I went to visit Lady Wharton.”

He edged back, sitting stiffly in his chair, but he rested his hands on the chair's arms. For some reason, hearing of her visit to Emily’s seemed to ease his anxiety.

“Did you indeed?”

“Yes. I suspect I will be visiting her quite often. Perhaps she can give me lessons.”

Jack opened his mouth as if he meant to speak but then closed it again. He eased forward in his chair, leaning toward her.

“Lessons?”

She smiled at him, willing him to read her meaning, eager to banish the anxiousness she could still read in his gaze.

“You see, I know nothing at all about being a countess.”

He ducked his head, his shoulders sagging as if a great weight had lifted.

“Bella, I am a simple man. Tell me simply.”

He was anything but a simple man, and if the moment had not been so full of joyful anticipation she would have told him so. Instead she spoke one simple word as simply as she was able.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Is this the yes?"

Since the word seemed inadequate on its own, she nodded her head before repeating it. “Yes.”

He reached for her hand as he had a hundred times before, with a warm, easy familiarity. But when he pulled her close and pressed his mouth to hers, everything was new. Heart bursting with bliss and relief, Bella knew theirs would be a wonderful adventure.            

Never Trust a Man with Little Ears (A Bellham Romance) - Part Three of Four

by Danita Cahill

“My name’s Tanner. Tanner Michaels.” He swept off his cowboy hat and held it over his heart, as if paying her homage. “What’s yours?”

A gentleman removes his hat when greeting a lady. It shows respect.

Not Hunter or Trapper, but Tanner. Close. Similar. Oh, I do hope this is the right guy.

“Mia Young,” she said, glad to be distracted from the image of him flying off a wild bronc. She was relieved to note his ears – which she could see clearly now with his hat removed – were larger than average. “Nice to meet you.” She smiled shyly and stuck out her hand.

In quick, fluid motions he dropped his hat back on his head, and grasped her hand as though to shake it. But instead of pumping it in greeting he brought the back of it up to his lips.

When meeting for the first time, a gentleman always kisses a lady’s hand.

His lips were moist, warm, and firmly masculine. A tiny, electrical charge started at the spot his lips touched and tingled up to her elbow. She’d seen men kiss women’s hands in the old movies she used to watch with Papa Pete. But she’d never had her hand kissed before. Not like this. It made her feel silly yet mature all at once.

Tanner’s golden-brown eyes met hers straight on, peering steadily at her as his face hovered over her hand.

Trust only a man who looks you square in the eye.  

Mia silently thanked Papa Pete – more father than grandfather. Although he was gone, his “wisdoms” would always live within her and guide her.

Mia met Tanner’s frank gaze before quickly casting her eyes to her rose-colored boots. She’d bought the boots special for rodeo weekend. Special for this precise moment – to give this cowboy a good first impression. (She was still holding onto hope that this was the correct cowboy. And that hope was growing stronger by the minute).

“Nice to meet you, Mia.” The low, rumbling way he said her name – the same way he’d uttered “uh-huh” earlier – made her suck in a quick breath. Her eyes darted back to his. Her heart beat quickened. Heat flooded her face.

The sound of throat clearing and giggling whipped Mia and Tanner’s heads around to check who was behind them.  

Her friends Justin and Skye stood there, holding hands, big grins on their faces. They joined Tanner and Mia at the rails of the horse corral.

When Mia realized Tanner was still holding her hand she felt like a child caught with her fingers in the candy dish. Embarrassed, she started to yank free. But Tanner tightened his grip, just enough to let her know she was welcome to keep her hand right where it was. As soon as she relaxed her fingers, he reciprocated, cupping his big hand sweetly, protectively around her much smaller one.

~Author Bio~

Danita Cahill is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer. She’s written and published over 2,100 newspaper articles and columns for 11 different Northwest newspapers, and dozens of magazine stories and photo layouts for six different magazines. She has five stories and a photo in two of HCI’s anthologies and has self-published five books – two non-fiction and three fiction titles. Danita lives in the Pacific NW on a small Oregon farm with her family and animals, including a herd of 10 alpacas. Besides running children to and fro and caring for her gardens, critters and family, Danita stays busy working on magazine assignments and her next book projects.

Visit Danita’s author page:

http://www.amazon.com/Danita-Cahill/e/B009NF74I4/

Find Danita on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DanitaCahill?ref=stream

Follow Danita on Twitter: @DanitaCahill

If you’d like to subscribe to Danita Cahill’s newsletter and receive information about book signings, appearances, and new book releases, please send an email to: danita@centurylink.net and put “newsletter” in the subject line. 

Never Trust a Man with Little Ears (A Bellham Romance) - Part One of Four

by Danita Cahill

You can’t trust a man with little ears.

The idiosyncratic bit of advice was one of many that Mia’s late grandfather had left her with when he passed away eleven months ago. Like this one, most of Papa Pete’s sayings were endearing, if somewhat ridiculous. Funny one of his “wisdoms” should pop into Mia’s head during the Bellham, Oregon, Valley River Rodeo. At this very moment, too – the exact moment she spotted the cowboy.

He was the cowboy her best friend, Skye had told her about. Wasn’t he? Tall. Muscular. Red shirt. It had to be him!

His forearms were propped on the metal rail of a horse pen, one boot firmly planted behind him in the dust, the leg nearest the rail bent and relaxed.

Papa Pete’s advice might seem silly, but as Mia moved closer to the cowboy she couldn’t stop her gaze from sliding along his firm backside, gliding over the powerful round of his shoulder, and up his thick neck to land on his lobe – the only part of his ear she could see. His white straw cowboy hat covered the rest.

Good guys wear white hats.  

His earlobe was decidedly full and thick. Mia let out a small sigh of relief and forced her new boots to approach the rail and stand nearby. Bright August heat radiated off the metal stock panels. She leaned her arms on one of the rails anyway and fought the urge to jerk back from the scorch of hot steel against her bare skin.

The dense, sweet scent of horse sweat permeated the air, blending agreeably with her pineapple-scented sunscreen. Mia’s arms absorbed, and adjusted, to the heat from the rail.

Always let the man speak first.

As antiquated as that piece of Papa-Pete advice was, Mia took it anyway. She remained silent and assessed the ten broncs mulling about, scuffling and stirring up dust inside the pen. Some were sleek, regal creatures, with the appearance of tame, honest saddle horses – like Lady, the gentle palomino from her childhood. Others had scarred, rough coats, and a rogue glint in their eyes, as though they’d just as soon throw and stomp a rider as look at him. If the cowboy leaning on the rail beside her was a horse, Mia wondered which sort he’d be.

He was someone Justin, Skye’s bareback-bronc-riding boyfriend knew. Well, kinda, sorta knew through a friend of a friend.

“He’s a bronc rider, too, Justin’s met him before. Heard he’s a good guy, he just can’t for sure remember his name…Trapper…Hunter… something like that,” Skye had told Mia yesterday when trying, yet again, to talk her into going along to the rodeo today.

Mia hadn’t wanted to come, didn’t want to be a third wheel to Justin and Skye and their perpetual hand holding, kissing, and pet name calling. She loved Skye like a sister, but all the lovey-dovey stuff made Mia uncomfortable. And maybe just a teeny bit envious.  

When Mia mentioned her reluctance at being a tag along, Skye took it on as a challenge to find Mia a date. “He’s single. And he’s hot,” Skye had said about the bronc rider, trying to sway her.

So, after much coaxing and coercing, and with the promise of meeting a decent, attractive guy, Mia finally relented.

Justin and Skye were on the other side of the rodeo grounds trying to locate Hunter, or Trapper, or whatever this cowboy’s name happened to be. But it was Mia, by herself, who tracked him down first. She felt a glow of accomplishment. Although now that she’d found him standing in the dust-moated sunlight, she wasn’t exactly sure what to do, or what to say. Especially since she wasn’t one-hundred percent sure this was even the right cowboy.

~Author Bio~

Danita Cahill is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer. She’s written and published over 2,100 newspaper articles and columns for 11 different Northwest newspapers, and dozens of magazine stories and photo layouts for six different magazines. She has five stories and a photo in two of HCI’s anthologies and has self-published five books – two non-fiction and three fiction titles. Danita lives in the Pacific NW on a small Oregon farm with her family and animals, including a herd of 10 alpacas. Besides running children to and fro and caring for her gardens, critters and family, Danita stays busy working on magazine assignments and her next book projects.

Visit Danita’s author page:

http://www.amazon.com/Danita-Cahill/e/B009NF74I4/

Find Danita on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DanitaCahill

Follow Danita on Twitter: @DanitaCahill

If you’d like to subscribe to Danita Cahill’s newsletter and receive information about book signings, appearances, and new book releases, please send an email to: danita@centurylink.net and put “newsletter” in the subject line. 

Alone in the Universe

I’d been so wrong. About everything.

Now I was so screwed.

I always believed life wasn’t real. You know, as if everything was one big hologram and nobody else really existed. Just me. Alone in the world. And I’d acted accordingly.

Never had I imagined I was the center of my universe. Still, no matter how many people surrounded me, no matter how many activities I cluttered into my life, I couldn’t shake an overwhelming sense of isolation. Imagine my surprise when I woke up dead—well, technically when I died and woke up no longer in my familiar world.  My earthly theories were all wet—sopping wet.  So where was I?

And how much trouble awaited me? Would I be punished for my me-centric life?

The scenery loomed dark and forbidding. Despite the intense fog, I didn’t think I’d arrived in hell. At least not in society’s accepted version of the underworld. Where were the fire pits and demons?

The place couldn’t be described as heaven either. Shadows abounded, even without any considerable light source to cast them. Worse, I didn’t feel anything close to eternal bliss.

Weird that I no longer felt alone. On a less positive note, alone suddenly seemed rather enticing. Beings scurried about—cartoonish characters on a mission.  Men, women, children. Not in droves, but I kept encountering individual persons as I drifted. A woman hurried by. A young girl passed with her nose in the air. Every few minutes a man would stride past. Never the same person.

None of the beings noticed me.  “Where am I?” I repeated.

No one acknowledged my words. Not even a “get lost.”

So I walked—actually I sort of moved without walking. And refused to give up.  Whenever I encountered anyone, I repeated the same phrase, “Excuse me.”

Not a single reply.

Maybe I was a ghost.  Cool.

I needed to validate my theory. After looking left, and then right, I spotted a test subject: a rather thin man with equally thin lips.

“Excuse me.”

As predicted, no answer, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. I couldn’t exactly blitz the man without warning.  There was the odd chance I wasn’t a ghost and the hip check I planned to throw might cause Mr. Silent Slim some discomfort.

I headed straight toward him in an out-and-out run. Only my feet didn’t jog because there was no ground. My effort resulted in faster movement and I barreled toward Mr. Slim. “Hey, Mister.” Even with the freight train better known as me closing in, he still didn’t acknowledge me.

For his sake, I really hoped I was a ghost. My body steamrolled toward the man with a speed that frightened me.

At the last second, the man darted to my left. I almost toppled into the mist.

He saw me. Or at least he sensed me. Otherwise he wouldn’t have shifted. Right?

How rude.

Slim kept walking, completely ignoring me. Nu-uh. Mr. Rude wouldn’t get away that easily.

I executed a one-eighty and moved faster than a floaty person with no solid footing should be able to scuttle.  I bumped into Slim’s skinny butt with intense momentum.

And landed on my derriere. The misty ground was surprisingly hard.

Okay. So I maybe I wasn’t a ghost—not the kind I’d imagined anyway.

The man paused. Turning, he frowned in my direction, still managing to avoid eye contact. After shaking his head exactly three times, he pointed to my left.

I gazed in the direction of his extended index finger. The haze parted, revealing a large door with a sign on it:  INFORMATION.

They might have placed that room a tad closer to the debarkation point.

The door looked no more than one-hundred feet away, but the trek took me about fifteen minutes. I knocked once and walked inside. An official looking man in a purple suit sat behind an all white desk staring at a clipboard with a bored expression.  I couldn’t see his face—couldn’t tell if he were old or young.  Again, it was that presence thing.

“Sir. Can you tell me where I am? Where I’m supposed to go?”

He didn’t reply, not with words anyway, but his message came through loud and clear. “Go away.”

“Uh, em, sure, Buster. Exactly where should I go?”

The man actually raised his head. I couldn’t see his features even though no fog or other obstruction floated in the room.  Something cloaked him.

He laughed. Out loud. A real laugh, not some projected emotion like his “go away.” “No one’s ever asked that before. Actually—what’s your name, sugar?”

“Sammie.”

“Well, Sammie. People here are doing things. We don’t interact with others without an expressed reason.”

I bit at my lip, trying to be patient. “That’s all well and good, but….” I paused, figuring it wouldn’t help my cause to call him “Bozo.” My emotion must have been projected, however, because the face I couldn’t see raised an eyebrow. “Eh, excuse me…sir. The problem is I don’t know where here is and I have no idea what this person is supposed to do.”

His brown eyes seemed a bit more prominent in his haze of a face. A strange expression flickered for a second. “My, my. Aren’t you a breath of fresh ozone? You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?”

He raised his head and studied me, his features more clear. Flecks of green and amber danced in his brown eyes—perhaps the most mesmerizing irises I’d ever encountered. Something about the man made me calmer and tense at the same time.

“She certainly is.” Not Brown Eyes voice.

Who’d spoken? After hours of not being acknowledged, having two beings speaking practically overwhelmed my senses.

“I don’t mean to be…” I whirled to address the new voice.

Coming face-to-face with Slim made me forget what I’d intended to say. Hadn’t he been headed in the opposite direction? And in a big hurry?

“Where are your papers?” Slim asked.

I turned to brown eyes, hoping for some clarification, and maybe a little sympathy, but that being had vanished. Crap. I rather liked him.

“Papers, Ms. Samantha Camille Charles. Where are your papers?”

“What papers?” And how did the man who wouldn’t acknowledge me suddenly know my name?

 “Of course you don’t have papers. That’d be too easy.” An insult, no doubt.

“No, I don’t have any papers. I just died—at least I think I did. You can’t get hit by an eighteen-wheeler straight on and survive.”

“Sure you can.” What was he talking about?

I shook my head. “Not when a big ol’ truck pushes you over a cliff and your car bounces off several boulders as it careens toward the earth a hundred yards away. And then explodes in a fiery crash.”

The man smiled. And scared the be-geezus out of me. 

“I’m thrilled you find my demise amusing.”

He kept grinning, showing not one iota of remorse for his abysmal behavior. “You remember that?”

I nodded. “Not something a girl forgets.”

The smirk left Slim’s face. “They usually do.”

Exactly what did that mean? And exactly  when—if ever—would I get some answers. “Can you help me or not?”

Slim sighed. You’d think I’d asked for his first born—or maybe first-dead, given my situation.

“Someone will be here shortly,” he said, reminding me of a DMV employee.

“To do what, exactly?”

“To give us a ride over to Lost Souls.”

Eh, say what?  “Lost Souls?”

The man stared up at the ceiling, as if some divine answer was written there. “Since you have no papers and no instructions, I’m guessing you’re not supposed to be here. Unless…”

My questions about being a lost soul evaporated and a kernel of hope sprouted in my mist-weary psyche. “Not supposed to be here?  Does that mean I can go back to earth?”

“Earth?” His gaze returned to my face—the intensity in his boredom almost a physical thing. “Never heard of it. What dimension is it in?”

Dimension? How the devil would I know? “Eh, the Fifth Dimension? In the age of Aquarius.”

His expression didn’t change. Guess he hadn’t gotten my joke about the 1960s band. “Never heard of that either.”

Crap. The urge to stomp my foot proved overwhelming.  Without a solid surface, the gesture did little to lessen my ever-increasing annoyance. “You’ve really never heard of earth?”

Slim ignored me. Big surprise. Maybe that was my hell—to have everyone act as if I didn’t exist. I might have been able to accept that, but his head spun completely around on his neck. Scared the crap out of me and my hereafter.

“Mister?”

Almost immediately, his head ended the rotation.  “Had to contact Lost Souls.”

Not good. “Am I really a lost soul?”

“Do you know where you are?”

I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know.

“Then you’re a lost soul.”

Smart ass.  “Wait…” I racked my brain—not finding much to help my cause since the whole dying thing had pretty much wasted my neurons.  Hold on. “Before…”

“I am required to tell you that you must board the bus the moment it stops.”

A bus? I couldn’t concentrate. Something nagged at my brain. Oh, yeah. “Wait. Before, you said ‘unless.’ I’m not supposed to be here unless… Unless what?”

Slim’s eyebrow rose, just a little, giving him an expression that looked rather demonic. “Observant aren’t you?”

The man tilted his head to one side. “It’s here.”

“What’s here?”

“The Lost Souls transport. You must hurry.”

No way. The Lost Souls transport seemed like the fire of the proverbial frying pan.

Then a sense of urgency took hold. Without meaning to, I actually ran toward the Transport. I say actually because I could feel my feet actually on a firm surface. Was that Brown Eyes in the front seat?

The vehicle sat in the mist, no sound emanating from the strange shaped exterior, no driver in sight. If Brown Eyes had been onboard, he’d disappeared.

Why was I so disappointed? I stopped to catch my breath, only to remember I didn’t have one.

Then I heard the laughter. Silent Slim, a.k.a. the Thin Man, stood at the bottom of the entrance ramp, effectively blocking the only entrance onto the Transport.

Why did you stop?  Hurry.

Was that Brown Eyes?

Maybe it was divine intervention, but I knew I couldn’t miss the Transport. I ran at full speed.

I’d almost reached the vehicle when Slim pulled out a sheet of paper. He waved them across the door and stepped inside. Slim and the Transport disappeared.

I don’t know what happened next, but I found myself inside the information booth. “The Last Train To Clarksville,” another 60’s hit, played on and on in a continuously loop.  When I’d visited the room before, the sign clearly read “INFORMATION.” From my new vantage point, on the other side of the desk, the sign flashed “PURGATORY.”

Great. I really was being punished, for I could not leave the booth.

I did find some reading material, assuming one considers an operator’s manual reading material.  I devoured the volume.

And wished I hadn’t. The only way a soul could escape purgatory was to steal another’s soul. Translation, some innocent—or worse, some saintly—being would have to take my place in purgatory.

That wasn’t likely to happen. So I sat.

And sat. And sat. Once again, the only soul in the Universe.

I adjusted. What else could I do? Alone was a familiar, if almost unbearable state.  I don’t know how many days I waited. Eternity seemed like a coffee break by comparison .

Then it happened. A soul arrived, seeking direction.

“Do you have your papers?” I asked.

Why had Slim demanded my papers? The manual clearly stated that the booth dweller should reassure the lost traveler.

The boy shook his head.

Odd. The fluorescent sheets glowed like a neon sign.

“In your hands, son. Your papers are in your hand.”

The boy frowned but looked at the pages in his fingers. After a moment, he smiled. “Mom’s there.”

I certainly hoped so.

He grinned again. “Thanks, Miss.”

Before I could reply, he vanished in a glow of light. Cool.

I sat back into my chair, which seemed to have molded to my derriere. When had the hard surface been replaced with memory-foam?

No doubt another decade would pass before another soul came along to divert my tedium, but I could do this. Not like I had a choice. Somehow, things didn’t seem so bad.

“You’re smiling.”

I almost fell out of my newly-padded seat. “Brown Eyes.”

“So how are you, Sammie? Still causing trouble?”

“If only.” I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t focus under the intensity of his stare.

“You could have taken his papers, you know?”

“Do what?”

Brown Eyes smiled, making me feel like purgatory didn’t exist. Even though my thoughts would send me straight to hell.

“The papers. Doesn’t happen often, but new arrivals, especially arrivals who’d had a traumatic passing, don’t always see the papers. You could have snatched the kid’s credentials and been out of here.”

“New arrivals?” Was he kidding? “Don’t you mean Lost Souls?”

Brown Eyes shook his head. “No such thing.”

“So why do they call it the Lost Souls Transport?”

“They don’t.”

“But Slim said—”

“Slim lied. He stole your papers, thinking he’d avoid doing his time.”

“Stole my… When I bumped into him.” I couldn’t see it at the time, but suddenly I remembered everything. Slim had taken my papers.

Brown Eyes nodded. “You could have done the same thing.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

He studied my face. I studied him right back, wondering why he seemed so clear. I could make out every molecule of his handsome face. “Maybe next time.”

“Next time?”

“The next time a confused soul finds your booth.”

I shook my head again. “If that’s what I have to do to get out of here, then I guess I really am stuck in purgatory.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re giving up on heaven? Even if the papers belong to some corporate raider or drug dealer? Someone who deserves purgatory?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It just wouldn’t be…”

“Right?”

I shrugged again, not comfortable discussing right and wrong in a place so full of gray. “What’s your story, Brown…eh, Mister.” Yikes, I’d almost called him Brown Eyes again. “You’re clearly not lost. Or rather confused.”

“I supervise the information booth workers. Make sure they follow the rules.”

Say what? I mean, I liked the big dude—as in really liked him—but letting me lose my spot on the Transport seat just seemed mean. “Yet you let Slim take my seat?”

“Not exactly. Don’t you worry, Slim will get what’s coming to him.”

I didn’t really care about Slim. “What about me?”

He grinned. “Been a long time since someone caused trouble.  Of all the information joints, in all the realms, in all the worlds, and you wander into mine.”

I thought that line came from some old black-and-white movie, but the source of his quote didn’t rank high on my important stuff list at the moment. “Eh, could you translate that into something more understandable?”

“I wanted to keep you on my staff a while longer—see if you’re as good as you seem.”

“Duh—what?”

“What can I say?” Darn man actually winked at me. “I like you.”

I swear, I had to have lungs, because they stopped working. “You left me in purgatory because you like me?

He grinned again, like his killer smile would get him out of trouble.  “I really like you.”

I sputtered.  There simply weren’t words. Even in the afterlife, the male intellect remained an oxymoron.

“Besides…” He pointed at the Purgatory sign—which no longer read PURGATORY.  Instead, COFFEE? flashed into the swirling atmosphere. “Want to get out of here?”

No doubt about it, I wasn’t alone in the universe. And the afterlife had definitely gotten interesting.

The Zander Dilemma

            Zander wore a pirate hat. And nothing else.

I didn’t know whether to jerk him into my apartment or slam the door in his face. I’d been looking after him since he gave me half his PB&J the second day of kindergarten, so I opted for option number one.

Using both hands, I grabbed one of his biceps and tugged. His arm shook. Hell, his entire body shook.

“What’s wrong?” Why had I asked? Zander possessed the sweetest of natures, but the man skirted on the wrong side of too many things. How could any response from a trembling, naked man be anything I wanted to hear?

He stared, his big brown eyes filled with obvious adoration. If only I could conjure a single ounce of chemistry in return, life would be perfect. Well, I’d also have to pretend my best friend wasn’t bat-dung crazy.

“Bad news, Fin-Fin.” Zander pulled me into his arms, holding me tight against his bare chest. “He’s dead.”

Uh-oh. I tried to back away, wondering if anything Zander held against me could be held against me. “Who’s dead?”

“Artie.”

Double uh-oh. Which technically translates to “uh-oh. uh-oh.” Which I’d never say. Stupid thoughts sprout in my head when I’m scared. Actually, my brain activity is pretty bizarre when I’m perfectly calm, but the weird seems to multiply when stress is added to the mix. “Artie? My Artie?”

Zander nodded, his eyes jerking like percolating coffee.  “Yeah. I mean no. Cause he wasn’t your Artie anymore. Dumb ass dumped you. ‘Member? ”

Alrighty then. Zander was clearly confused and I didn’t need that little reminder about my heartache.

I shoved against his chest. Zander stumbled backward, his irises glazed over. Maybe his expression didn’t equate to adoration.  The man who not-so-secretly lusted after me was stoned. Again.

Which meant Artie probably wasn’t dead. Good news or bad, depending on one’s perspective.

The big lug leaned against the doorjamb, pressing his head into his forearm. “Don’t feel so hot.”

“Z-Man, You can’t stay here.” Technically, he could, but I didn’t want him in my place. Our friendship slid down a bumpy slope, especially since Asshole Artie no longer served as the buffer that kept our relationship platonic. “Go home.”

“Can’t find the keys to my car.”

Bugger. Finding Big Foot would be easier than finding a cab at 4:00 a.m. in our part of town. I’d let him stay. Despite his obsession, Zander had always been there for me. Always.

I needed to cover up his sexy parts because all that smooth muscle interfered with my thought processes. I actually considered a Friends with Benefits scenario. And who could blame me? Zander’s body would tempt a lesbian nun.

My little fantasy lasted only a fraction of a second. I’d regret any lapse. Big time. Probably more than I regretted wasting five years of my life on the lying, cheating dung-heap, also known as Arthur Fonzarelli Patterson. Yep, his real name. I might be a pile of crap, too, if my mom shackled me with a name synonymous with “Heeeyyyy.”

 “Let’s get you something to wear.” Could I re-design a king-sized sheet to cover Zander’s king-sized frame? Yep, all his parts were king-sized–I peeked.

I turned toward the small hallway and my linen closet, but Zander stumbled forward. He needed to sober-up. And I needed him out of my living room before he did some projectile upchucking. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

I led him outside to my tiny fourth-floor balcony, hoping the cool morning air would do the trick. “Make yourself…”

Zander had already flopped into my only lounge chair.  He answered me with a loud snore.

Shaking my head, I went in search of my coffee pot, needing a jumper cable for my brain as much as I needed to dilute Zander’s high. I was having some strange thoughts. Sure, I’d never obsessed over Zander the way I had over Artie during the honeypot phase of our relationship, but Zander’s hotness was exceeded only by his goodness—a goodness Artie didn’t possess. Would hooking up with Zander really be so bad?

A pounding on my door knocked the ridiculous notion out of my brain. What the hell?

Probably Artie. Turd probably thought I’d been playing hard to get. Wrong.

Or maybe Zander had made another threat to Artie’s person. Hard to remember the guys had been good friends once. Zander actually introduced me to Artie at his college graduation. Artie had dropped out, but had gone to cheer on his pal—or given what I learned later—probably for the subsequent kegger. The bro-mance died when Artie decided to cheat on me—six different times with six different women.

I know, I know. What kind of dodo tolerates repetitive adultery? Well, sometimes a woman just can’t stay away from a train wreck—especially when the locomotive engine fires megawatts of pure sex and the caboose is a sight to behold.

In my defense, the sextuplet of strumpets happened one at a time during a period covering five years.  Each time, Artie swore he’d never stray again. After six degrees of separation our split became permanent.

Or so I’d thought. Artie’d cornered me last night, trying for lucky number seven.

I so couldn’t deal with him at the moment.  “Go away.”

The pounding resumed. Louder and more insistent.

Bugger times two. “All right, all right. I’m coming.”

I flung open the door, a slew of expletives ready to fire at my ex.

Only Artie didn’t stand there.

A very large, very angry cop narrowed his eyes. “Sarafina Schaeffer?”

I swallowed. My mouth opened but words ran for cover.  I nodded—or at least I think I did.

The officer reached for my arm. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Arthur Patterson.”

****

Eight hours later, I left the police station, taking the walk of shame in my pajamas. Damn cops hadn’t even let me change clothes.  Not that I pushed the issue with Zander passed out on my balcony with who knew what in his system. During my brief incarceration, I worried about him more than my own pending predicament. I really needed to show Zander the leftover chili in my fridge—I’m a really bad cook. I should show him that mess and have the “this is your brain on drugs” conversation. But fear had delayed the tough love too long. What if I made the ultimatum and Zander didn’t quit? I wasn’t quite ready to give up the only person I trusted.

Zander sat on the bench by the police station exit. I blinked, and then blinked again. Believing he’d still be zonked out from the aftereffects of whatever he’d snorted, puffed, or inhaled, I hadn’t made my one phone call. I’d been nothing short of stunned when the lead detective unlocked my cell and said bail had been posted.

Not that I would have called Zander anyway. During my interrogation, I’d gone mute, but the detective still pummeled me with questions. What I’d gleaned from the interview was Zander shouldn’t be within ten miles of the police station. When the cops realized I wouldn’t cooperate, they’d booked me on a second-degree murder charge. I’d thought maybe Zander should’ve been in the cell instead.

“Zander? Why are you here?”

“Nice to see you too, Fin-Fin. Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

“Last time I saw you, you were face down in your birthday suit.”

Zander looked divine in the noonday glare. He sure cleaned up well for someone who’d passed out in the nude a few hours earlier. He definitely didn’t look like someone who’d bludgeoned a former friend to death with a Little League batting trophy.

Did you cover my bail?”

“Fin-Fin, the bail bondsman covers the bail.”

I nodded, having been blissfully unaware of police procedural before my little stay in the county facilities. “Yeah, but you have to pay the bondsman a percentage.”

You didn’t have to be good at math to know any percentage of $250,000 was more than I could afford and still cover rent. I didn’t think Zander was any more liquid. Sure, he had a good job—some IT thingy—but he’d just bought a house and a new car and I suspected he spent quite a bit on recreational pharmaceuticals.

“Don’t worry about it.”

I frowned at him, worried. Where the hell did he get all that money? I hoped to God his involvement with recreational drugs was limited to consumption.

He shrugged, somehow managing to make the goofy gesture look sexy. “I got you a lawyer, too.  He got you released with a phone call. So why didn’t you call me?”

I jerked my head around, not wanting to have any conversation in the police parking lot. “Because you were stoned out of your mind, Dumb Shit.” There. I’d said it. “You’ve really got to stop doing that crap.” I made a beeline for the parking lot, wondering, of all stupid things, where he’d found his keys.

He jerked my arm, forcing me to face him. “I told you I’m clean. Before Artie… You used to ask questions before you accused me.”

Before Artie pushed you. His unfinished sentence erected a row of bars between us. I’d never once lied to Zander, but did he believe I’d simply fallen down the stairs? Not likely.

The police didn’t believe me either, but my ex had been nowhere near me when I blacked out and toppled down a flight of stairs. Catching Artie’s doing the downward facing dog with my yoga instructor, a.k.a. Bimbette Number Six, had surely affected my state of mind, but he didn’t even know I’d fallen. He didn’t check on me, either, which is why I lost so much blood and had to be hospitalized after I miscarried.

Everybody loved easy-going Artie but overnight, he became persona non grata. Everyone thought he’d freaked because of the baby, but he didn’t know. I hadn’t known.

Artie blamed me for his leper status, even suggesting I’d thrown myself down the stairs. A horrible thing for him to say, but his accusation freed me—permanently—from the lure of Arthur Fonzarelli Patterson

 “Geez, Z-Man. You passed out on the floor. A girl doesn’t need to ask a lot of questions.”

He let go of my arm so fast you’d think I contracted some form of rare cooties. “Damn, Sarafina. I didn’t take or smoke anything. I haven’t done drugs in six months—not that you’d notice with your head so far up Artie’s cheating arse.”

“Don’t make this about, Artie. He’s…” Something almost physical rammed into my midsection. Artie was dead. I’d moved on, but… Dead?

Zander pulled my head against his chest. “Ah, shit, Fin-Fin. I’m so sorry, Sweetums. I wanted to kill him for what he did to you, but I didn’t want him dead.”

I pulled away, trying to keep the floodgate on my tears. I’d lost Artie. I could live with that, but in that instant, I knew I couldn’t lose Zander. The cops believed I’d killed Artie because he killed my baby. With a good lawyer, I could plead self-defense, maybe temporary insanity. If the police knew I’d left my cell with Zander—the same phone they found next to Artie’s body—my BFF would look like a first-degree murderer. I’d do whatever it took to protect him. “Let’s get out of here.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and we walked to the car. I looked at the ground, keeping my hand on my forehead in case anyone I knew happened to be out and about. Thank Providence, the cops released me before church let out.

I didn’t see the woman until her pointed shoes almost collided with my Grecian sandals.

“You bitch!”

Before I could respond, she shot me. With a spitball. Eww. Eww, eww, eww.

Worse, I recognized her voice. Artie’s mom.

The woman had given me a serious eww, but I couldn’t work up any anger. Artie might be last week’s fish on my grocery list, but the stink wad was the strawberry of his mommy’s eye. Rather, he had been.

Mrs. Patterson had never been a fan, but she’d always been polite to me. She’d even visited me in the hospital after the fall. As an RN, she was at the hospital anyway, but I still appreciated her gesture.

 “You! This is all your fault.”

Wiping the saliva off my face, I could only wince. She’d never said anything, but losing her grandchild must have devastated her. Losing Artie would finish her off.

Zander stepped between us. “That’s enough, Mrs. P.”

The barracuda woman morphed into a guppy. She turned and fishtailed away.

Zander guided me to his car. I wasn’t sure how long I sat in the passenger seat with my head between my legs. Breathing in. Breathing out.

“Sarafina, are you okay?”

 Seriously? “What do you think? I’ve been up for thirty hours, and, oh yeah, I’m facing a murder charge. By the way, where the hell did you go last night?”

He turned to face me, looking at my eyes the way I looked at his when I suspected he was doing more than inhaling a little weed. “You think I killed him?”

I crossed my arms across my chest, not keen on answering that question. “I believe you’d never intentionally hurt anyone.”

“What the hell does that mean?

“Zander, how did you know Artie was dead?”

“What?”

“Before you passed out, you said Artie was dead. How’d you know?”

He rubbed his temple, scrunching his face into the same expression he wore when doing a crossword puzzle. “I don’t… My memory’s pretty hazy.”

And he hadn’t done any drugs? Yeah, right.

Still, a bubble of hope popped into my hopelessness. If he had no recollection, maybe we could get him off with the temporary insanity thingy. “Maybe you’d better tell me what happened. Start with how you ended up in my apartment wearing nothing but my pirate hat.”

“Ah, shit.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple straining against his throat. “Then it was real?”

I couldn’t answer that. We’d gone to Kelly Davidson’s party. I’d actually become friends with the first object of Artie’s transgression right after I’d discovered Bimbette Number Two. Kelly decided to host a costume party to usher in her big three-zero. I’d gone as a pirate, Zander a ghost—wearing a sheet and probably nothing else.

“Zander?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Let’s see. When Ass-Wipe insisted on talking to you, outside, Gloria parked her skinny butt on your vacated stool.” Zander had been highly pissed when I agreed to talk to Artie. “You took him back, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t. I only went outside because Artie would have said whatever he was going to say in front of God and the entire bar.  You know that.” To preclude my ex from embarrassing both me and Gloria—his current—I’d followed him to the exit.

“And?”

“And once I got outside, I kept walking.” That was a partial truth. As soon as the cool air hit my face, Artie took my pirate hat. When I whirled to get it back, he planted a sloppy kiss on my face. I gave him a shove and took off.

Artie followed, spouting his worn out song-and-dong. “I’ve changed, Baby. Let’s give it another go.”

 I didn’t listen. “I called you as soon as I got home, Zander.”

“You knew I didn’t have my phone.” He had no pockets in his ghostly sheet, so he’d left his cell at home.

“My phone was on the bar, Z-Man. I figured you’d be smart enough to answer it, but you didn’t.”

“Fin-Fin, we swore we’d never lie to each other.”

“Who’s lying?”

“I found your hat, Sarafina.” The color had vanished from his face. “In Artie’s apartment. On his dead body. I took your hat so… I just took it.”

Whoa. If he’d found my hat on Artie’s corpse, maybe Zander didn’t commit the crime. Which meant we sure as heck needed to figure out who did. “Why were you in Artie’s apartment.”

“I…I was pretty ticked at you. Gloria bought me a beer—or I think she did. Maybe it was Macie. I chugged the sucker, and… I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Macie?” A flare of jealousy shot though my psyche at the mention of Zander’s coworker. He’d gone out with her a couple of times and refused to give me details. I should have been happy for him. I wasn’t.

Zander nodded. “I think she was mad but… Shit, I just can’t remember. “

I touched his cheek. “Please tell me the truth. Did you snort anything?”

He glared. “I’ve already told you. No.”

We sat in silence for several seconds.

“Z-Man, I know this sounds crazy, but is it possible someone doctored your beer?”

He snorted. “Why the hell would anyone drug me?”

Maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d experienced Zander-jealousy. I kept that opinion to myself. “How’d you end up in Artie’s place?”

His Adam’s apple did another dance. “I woke up in the alley—behind the bar. Someone took my sheet. I can’t…eh, couldn’t stand the sight of Artie, but hell, Fin-Fin, I was butt-naked.”

And Artie’s place was across the street. “So you wanted to flash Artie? Show him you have a bigger dick?” I winced—I hadn’t meant to sound so crude.

Zander grinned. “Nah, but I do. I figured the Ass-Wipe owed me some clothes. He didn’t answer his door, but I know where he hides his key.”

So did I. Artie hid the key in the space beneath the fire extinguisher.

“He was dead, Fin-Fin. Staring into space like a frozen fish.”

“And you took my hat and left?”

He nodded. “You know what’s sick? I was just glad you hadn’t slept with him.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “You didn’t, did you?”

 I reached for his arm. “I didn’t have sex with Artie. I didn’t go to his place. And I sure as hell didn’t kill him.”

His head jerked up. “Really?” He looked way too happy for someone whose best friend had just been charged with murder. “Good. Then let’s figure this out so we can clear your name and get on with our lives.”

Our lives? I couldn’t deal with “us” and a pending trial at the same time. “I need a lawyer… Or maybe a private investigator.”

“Didn’t you hear me say I’d hired one for you—the best criminal attorney in Charlotte. Addison Aimes has an investigator on his staff.”

The next two days passed in a blur. When we met with the lawyer, Mr. Aimes did most of the talking.

When the attorney paused, I chimed in, “What about Macie Gray and Gloria Williamson? Do they have alibis?”

“’Fraid so.”

Bugger. I’d banked on Macie being the killer. Sounds mean, for sure, but better her than Zander. I’d been pissed when Zander disagreed. He believed Gloria committed the murder, insisting she’d been livid when Artie walked outside with me.

Mr. Aimes reached in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Ms. Gray says you left these on the bar. She also admits she stole your sheet. Said it annoyed her when you brought Ms. Schaeffer to the party, but the woman denies putting anything in your beverage, Son. She’s lying, but we’ll have a hard time proving anything.”

“Forget it,” Zander replied. “Let’s keep our focus on getting Sarafina cleared.”

I could almost love Zander.

“The good news, Ms. Schaeffer, is the police didn’t find your fanger-prints on the murder weapon. Or on anything else in that boy’s apartment.”

The murder weapon? Bugger.

Mr. Aimes’ assistant stuck her head into the conference room before I could say anything. “The mayor is on line one. He insists it’s urgent.”

The Colonel Sanders look-alike grimaced. The taste in his mouth apparently didn’t taste like chicken.

As soon as he closed the door, I grabbed the sleeve of Zander’s shirt. “How did your little league trophy end up in Artie’s apartment?”

He frowned. “My trophy? That wasn’t my…” He stared at me for a couple seconds before he laughed.  “Hell, Fin-Fin. No wonder you thought I off’ed Artie.”

“Zander,” I hissed, not appreciating his chuckles at my expense—especially since the only people roaming around with motive, means, and opportunity currently sat in Mr. Aimes’ conference room.

“Chill, Sweetums. The trophy that… Well, my trophy is still on my mantle. Which you’d know if you had the decency to come see my new house.”

“Huh?”

He laughed again, the dip-stick. “Fin-Fin, everyone on our team got the same trophy. Mine is not the murder weapon.”

I swallowed. Then swallowed again. “Everyone?”

He nodded.

“So Artie also has one ?”

Another nod.

“I’ve never seen Artie’s trophy. Only yours.”

“So?”

I jumped up and raced toward the door.

“Fin-Fin, where are you going?”

“I have to find Mr. Aimes. I know who killed Artie. I just hope we can prove it.”

****

As things turned out, I didn’t have to prove anything. Once Addison and his minions descended on the real killer, she couldn’t seem to confess fast enough. I won’t lie, I felt immensely relieved, but my exoneration didn’t keep the sadness away.

I drove to Zander’s house to tell him the news, hoping he would do what he did best—cheer me up.

He answered the door without a shirt. “Sorry, was working out.”

Yeah, right. I’d called ahead so he should have been expecting me. I swear he wanted to tempt me.

His plan was succeeding. Exposure to all that delicious Zander skin took a chink out of my depression.

“The charges have been dropped.”

Before I could explain further, Zander grabbed me. He whirled me around as if we starred in some jewelry commercial.  “Really.”

When I managed to release my breath, I nodded. “Yes. Poor Mrs. Patterson.”

He hugged me against his chest. He didn’t smell like a man who’d been working out. “How’d you know?”

“Since Artie didn’t have his little league trophy, it only made sense his mother would have it.”

Zander nodded. “I still can’t believe it. Artie was the only apple in her orchard.”

“It’s so sad. She didn’t believe I fell down the stairs, but like you said, Artie’s her everything, so she pretended she did.”

“So what made her snap?”

I leaned back so I could look at Zander’s face. “Gloria.”

“Gloria?”

I nodded. “She had an abortion.”

“Ah, shit.”

Shit was a serious understatement. “The poor woman had cleared out Artie’s old room and dropped by with a box of his stuff. She also knew about the hidden key. Letting herself in, she overheard Artie tell Gloria he hadn’t wanted the baby because he didn’t want her. When Gloria stormed out, Mrs. P. stormed in.

“Double shit.” Which is technically “shit, shit.” Which Zander would—and did—say.

“You know what I’ve learned from all this, Fin-Fin?”

I didn’t want to know—maybe because I already knew. And didn’t want to hear it. I was scared tastes-like-chicken shitless.

“Life’s short. I’m not wasting any more time waiting for you.”

Double uh-oh. And I truly meant uh-oh, uh-oh. I was going to lose Zander.

Just when I’d figured out we might have a little chemistry after all. “Z-Man, I’m…”

“I love you, Fin-Fin.”

“Eh, what?”

He grinned. “I said I love you. The way I see it, you have two choices. Either tell me to go away or embrace me. Embrace us.”

I don’t know about chemistry, but we definitely had electricity. Everything tingled.

I didn’t speak. Instead, I embraced him.

And a whole lot more.


THE END
ROBIN WEAVER, Author of Blue Ridge Fear, Artifact of Death