by Gregory Ashe
Somers laughed and pushed him away to get drinks.
Then there was dancing, and they had modified tradition so that they each danced with their mother. Somers’s mother was lovely as always, toned and coiffed and tan and perfectly preserved under the cosmetics. He caught a whiff of her perfume, Chanel, and felt like a kid again as they whirled across the dance floor. When the song ended, she touched his cheek and said, “I’m very happy for you.”
When Somers found Hazard for their dance, Hazard’s eyes were red.
“Are you ok?” Somers asked.
“Fine,” Hazard said with one of those Emery Hazard smiles. “I want to dance with my husband.”
“My flat ass isn’t going to stop you?”
“As Rebeca said: it’s all relative.”
“This is not the Pretty Pretty, Mr. Hazard,” Somers warned as he let Hazard take the lead. “You can’t grind on me in front of God and these good people.”
Smirking, Hazard said, “I can do whatever I want. It’s my wedding day.”
Hazard’s eyes, though, kept drifting back to his mother.
“Are you sure you’re ok?” Somers asked.
“I’m sure.” They danced a little longer, and then he said, “She said she thinks my dad would be happy for me. She thinks he liked you.”
Somers swallowed and touched Hazard’s jaw. “Will you kiss me, please?”
Hazard did, and Somers barely heard the roar of cheers and applause.
They left just after the party had peaked; Maria had coordinated everything, and the crowd was already downstairs, waiting on the covered driveway where the Mustang was waiting. The guests formed an aisle for Hazard and Somers, and Somers grinned as eco-friendly confetti and bubbles drifted around them, mixed with the cheers and shouts and congratulations. At the Mustang, they stopped, kissed one last time—Somers liked to give a good show—and then wedding poppers started to go off.
He spun, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. He had specifically told Maria no poppers. No firecrackers. Nothing like that. Nothing that might trigger Hazard.
When he looked at his husband, though, Hazard was smiling at him.
“You’re not—” Somers fumbled for words. “But they’re—and it sounds like—and you aren’t—Ree!”
Hazard slid both arms around Somers and pulled him tight. “I told Maria to add them back in. I thought you’d be happy.”
“You tricked me,” Somers said. “God damn it. You knew this whole time? Please tell me you didn’t know this whole time.”
“Of course not,” Hazard said, those scarecrow eyes bright. “Remember? You pulled a fast one on the great Emery Hazard.”
“God damn you. For once in your life I want to surprise you with something.”
“Well,” Hazard whispered, his voice gravelly as he spoke into Somers’s ear. “You’re just going to have to get better at this. Don’t sit out in your car for forty-five minutes making phone calls, and don’t have lunch dates with Wesley at the Astoria, but most importantly,” Hazard grinned, a genuine, huge grin that split his face, “don’t accidentally give Maria my cell number when you’re still making the arrangements for the reception.”
“No, there’s no way I—wait a minute.” Somers pushed back, studying Hazard’s face. “You’re better. You didn’t freeze when the poppers went off or—you’re getting better.”
Hazard shrugged. “I’m married to you now. I don’t know how much better I can get.”
Wiping his eyes, Somers said, “That’s very cheesy.”
“We’re allowed one cheesy line per year.”
“I think I’ll save mine,” Somers said with a grin, and then he wiped his eyes again.
Turning Hazard toward the Mustang, Somers gave him a little push to get him into the car, and then he closed the door for him. He went around to his seat, gave friends and family a last wave, and then they drove off into the night.
“Are we going on a honeymoon?” Hazard said.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“The British Virgin Islands.”
“God damn it, Emery Francis Hazard.”
“It’s very cute,” Hazard said, leaning across the console to kiss him. “Just keep trying.”
After a few more miles, as they headed toward the hotel in St. Louis where they’d spend the night, Somers took Hazard’s hand and threaded their fingers together.
“Do you want me to change my name?” Hazard asked.
“What? No, I hadn’t really thought about it. Do you want me to change mine?”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Evie has your last name. It makes more sense for me to change mine. Besides, yours is more distinguished.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course.”
Somers smiled and shook his head. “You know what? I kind of like the sound of Hazard and Somerset.”
THE SAME BREATH
Keep reading for a sneak preview of The Same Breath, the first book in a new series by Gregory Ashe.
1
Teancum Leon had barely gotten home from the Division of Wildlife Resources when someone knocked at the apartment’s door. Scipio, his black Lab, was in the middle of doing a welcome dance-slash-please take me out for a walk, but the Lab adjusted his priorities and lunged at the door, barking.
“All right,” Tean said, stroking the dog’s ears as he bumped him out of the way.
Mrs. Wish, his neighbor from the end of the hall, was wearing her usual ensemble, regardless of day or night: a full-length house dress, something Tean could have imagined her picking from a color page in the Sears Catalogue, and a chemically pink terrycloth robe over it. Her long white hair was free of its usual bun, and her eyes were wide.
“There’s an intruder,” she said between gasps for breath.
“Oh my gosh. Did you call 911?”
“Not that kind,” she said, and then she grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the apartment. “It’s a spider.”
“In that case, I’ve got to take Scipio for a walk,” Tean said.
Mrs. Wish drew herself up, glancing back at Tean’s door and then looking down the hall toward her own home. “I’ll walk him,” she said, like a woman offering to step in front of a firing squad. “You deal with that nasty little murderer.”
Tean sighed and nodded. While Mrs. Wish hurried back to rescue Scipio, Tean made his way along the hall and pushed open her door. He had to snag the domestic short-hair that tried to slip out of the apartment—he thought this one was Senator Frank B. Bandegee, because he remembered the white patch on her chest—and then he was inside the apartment, pushing the door shut behind him.
Very little ever changed about Mrs. Wish’s apartment: the smell of dander, animal and human, mixed with wet cat food and a floral potpourri. Pewter dishes, holding mounds of the potpourri, were placed on occasional tables and shelves and ledges around the room. Doilies. A million doilies. A framed, larger-than-life portrait of President Woodrow Wilson, hanging where most people would have placed a television (once Mrs. Wish had sent Tean into the bedroom to examine a . . . deposit that Senator Henry Cabot Lodge had left on the carpet, and he had stumbled onto an autographed photograph of President Gerald Ford in a heart-shaped frame. President Wilson’s illicit rival? Tean was dying to know). And, of course, the Irreconcilables, perched on bookshelves and the back of the sofa, crawling through their cat mansion, swishing past Tean with disdainful looks that said they would accept a display of affection, albeit unwillingly. Their numbers varied between twelve and eighteen; Tean no longer tried to keep track.
Setting down Senator Frank B. Bandegee, Tean made a quick tour of the apartment. He made the mistake of getting too close to Senator Poindexter, a vicious Siamese, and earned a nasty swipe at his ankle for his mistake. In what Mrs. Wish optimistically called the guest bedroom, which was a confection of pink, sateen, and
spills of creamy lace—canopy bed included—he found the intruder: the closet doors were open, and Mrs. Wish had dragged one of her heavy dining chairs into place so she could reach the shelf at the top.
Tean climbed up onto the chair and examined the shelf: several folded blankets, a lacquered wood box, and a manila folder. On the tab of the folder, Mrs. Wish’s Palmer script read: Reagan – Shirtless. In smaller letters below, she had added, with quotation marks included, “The California Showboat.” Tean was reaching to open the folder when he heard the front door. He jerked his hand back.
“Oh, Dr. Leon,” Mrs. Wish said, wringing her hands from the guest bedroom’s doorway. “You really have to be careful.”
Tean shifted his attention to the intruder: a small black spider hanging from its web in the closet’s upper corner.
“He looks like a nasty customer,” Tean said.
“Well,” Mrs. Wish said, obviously at a loss for words. “Smash him!”
“I don’t think we need to do that.”
“Dr. Leon, I know a black widow spider when I see one. They can kill an adult. Think of what their poison could do to the children.”
“Venom,” Tean said absently. “Not poison. Do you have a pen? Never mind, I’ve got a Blackwing in my pocket.” He drew out the pencil, got the eraser as close to the web as he could, and thumped the wall. The spider scuttled along the web, following the vibrations. Tean withdrew the pencil, watching as the spider searched for its prey.
“Perhaps my bust of the lesser Roosevelt,” Mrs. Wish offered.
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Be honest, Dr. Leon. How much danger are the Irreconcilables in? I’ll book a hotel. I assume you’ll be available to help with their carriers. We can transport them in two trips—”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Tean said hastily.
“If something happened to one of the children, I’d die. I’d just die.”
“Well, we’re all going to die, Mrs. Wish. And they’re technically not children. They’re cats.”
That seemed to throw off the rhythm of Mrs. Wish’s performance. She put her hands on her hips, staring up at him, and said, “I hardly think a crisis is the time to wax philosophical.”
“I’m not being philosophical. I’m just pointing out that we’re nothing but complex molecules chains that will eventually dissolve and be recycled into something else.”
Mrs. Wish stared at him.
“Err. Like catnip. Some of the same basic building blocks that make up Mrs. Wish could one day be inside a cloth mouse, giving some lucky cat hours of entertainment. That’d be nice, right?”
For a moment, Mrs. Wish didn’t seem to know what to say. She settled for: “I should think not.”
Wiping sweat from his forehead, Tean said, “Right. Well, about the spider—”
“I’ll get the lesser Roosevelt.”
“Hold on, and then you can decide. First of all, it’s not Latrodectus hesperus—not a black widow, I mean.”
“I know what a black widow—”
“You can see for yourself.” Tean offered her the chair, but she shook her head. Pointing with the Blackwing, he said, “No hourglass marking on the ventral abdomen.”
“Perhaps you’re confused about which side the marking should be on.”
Tean thumped the wall again, and the spider started scurrying across its web, exposing its dorsal side, which was dark and unmarked.
“Well,” Mrs. Wish said, tugging on her terrycloth sleeves. “What is it then?”
“I think it’s Steatoda grossa, what’s called a false black widow.”
“I still think a good smashing is in order.”
“If you like. But, just so you know, Steatoda grossa preys on a variety of pests, including Latrodectus hesperus. Real black widows, I mean.”
Mrs. Wish thought about this. “It won’t harm the children.”
“No, it won’t bother you or the cats.”
“And it might even stop something from harming them.”
“That’s right. There’s almost always one thing higher on the predator chain. Predators who prey on predators, you know? All the way up to the apex.”
After a moment, Mrs. Wish nodded and proclaimed, “Then it stays. If you’d please hand me that folder, though, while you’re up there.” She murmured something vague about “important documents” and “setting my affairs in order” and tucked the Reagan folder inside her robe like she was robbing a bank.
Tean carried the dining chair back to the front room, with Mrs. Wish dogging him.
“Violet will be very sorry to have missed you,” Mrs. Wish said. “She’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
Tean smiled and nodded.
“I’ll send her over with a plate of cookies.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“She’s already got age lines, unfortunately,” Mrs. Wish said, tracing them on her own forehead to illustrate. “But I imagine if you squint, or perhaps if you close your eyes when you kiss her, they won’t bother you too much.”
“Uh. Yes. Well—”
“Twenty-seven, poor dear. Practically a spinster. We tell everyone she’s twenty-five because it’s just too embarrassing otherwise.”
Edging toward the doors, Tean nodded.
“I think she’s had the one dead tooth fixed,” Mrs. Wish was explaining, “so you won’t be bothered by that, at least. Don’t get me started on her weird leg, though.”
“I hear Scipio barking,” Tean said, throwing open the door. “I’ve got to run.”
“I don’t hear—”
But he was already sprinting down the hall.
When Tean let himself into the apartment, Scipio was waiting for him, pressing a cold nose against his arm, snuffling, trying to scent out all of the Irreconcilables that had dared to get close to Tean. Tean thought of Mrs. Wish’s granddaughter coming over with a plate of cookies that were the sugary equivalent of hard tack. He grabbed Scipio’s harness and asked the Lab, “What do you think about another walk? A really long one, this time.”
2
“People suck,” Tean said, letting Scipio off the leash. The dog park was busy that day, and Scipio ran off to join Bear, a hundred-and-thirty-pound St. Bernard who dwarfed Tean’s black Lab but had still become a regular playmate.
“Ok,” Hannah said with a sigh. She was still removing the leash from her own dog, Divorcee. She worked with Tean at DWR, and she had called as he was leaving the apartment to ask if he was interested in being set up on a blind date with a guy she knew. When Tean tried to dodge by explaining he was going to the dog park, she had insisted on joining him. It was nice to have company, even if Hannah probably didn’t realize she was helping a fugitive.
October in the Salt Lake Valley was beautiful; the underbrush on the Wasatch Mountains to the east burned red, and the sun setting over the Great Salt Lake to the west painted everything else gold. Autumn in Utah was a precarious pleasure, always ready to slip early into winter and stay there. Days like this one, with the breeze coming off the mountains and the skies perfectly clear, made sure the dog park stayed busy.
“What does that mean?” Tean asked.
“It means you’re trying to get out of this date.”
“Everyone’s trying to set me up today. Why won’t anyone let me have forty or fifty years of peace before I die?”
“Go have fun, princess.” This was directed to Divorcee; the teacup Yorkie scampered five feet away, stopped, and looked back. “Go on.”
“I’m not trying to get out of a date,” Tean said.
“Ok.”
“I’m just pointing out an incontrovertible fact.”
“Here we go.”
“People suck,” Tean said, varying the tone a little in case she’d missed the point.
Hannah just sighed. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Miguel asked me if you
were single today.”
“Did you tell him I’m married?” Hannah said.
“Yes.”
“Great. End of conversation.”
“I saw those reports you put together on—”
“Not work.”
“Well, I wanted to ask—”
“Nope. Work stays at work. I don’t want to think about work. Sook’s funeral is this weekend, and I don’t need anything else making me think about work.” Hannah studied the leash, which she wrapped around her hand as she asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything new from the detectives.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy.”
Hannah nodded.
“I’m sure they’re doing all they can,” Tean said.
“I know.”
“I went through her logs and reports, and I made some calls. Nobody could tell me anything out of the ordinary. And I gave all the information to the police.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know; the detectives would have looked at it on their own eventually.”
“No, I mean, you’re a good guy for doing it.”
“I’d be a better guy if I weren’t planning how to ditch this blind date.”
Hannah slapped his arm. Then she wiped one cheek. “Sorry. I told myself I wasn’t going to bring Sook up again.”
Scipio and Bear had both gotten hold of a rope, and Bear was dragging Scipio around in an uneven version of tug-of-war.
“We could talk about books,” Tean said.
“Pass.”
“If you ever read a book . . .”
“Let’s talk about the very exciting date that I’m setting you up on. Why do you think you won’t like Rand?”
“Because his name’s Rand. Why can’t Utah people name their kids anything normal?”
“You are Utah people. And you have a weird name too. Anyway, he’s a nice guy, and he’s cute. I showed him your picture, and he said you were hot.”
“That doesn’t say much for his taste,” Tean muttered.
Hannah slugged him.
Across the park, Scipio and Bear were wrestling. Bear’s owner was a young guy with a lot of muscles and who apparently owned only tank tops. A couple of times he and Tean had talked. He had a faux-tribal tattoo on his shoulder. Between the tank tops and the tattoo, he was the closest thing to a bad boy Salt Lake City seemed capable of producing.
