Twin Piques

by Tracie Banister

  He cuts quite a dashing figure all dressed up in a navy suit and boldly striped tie, with his dark hair brushed back and a crisp white shirt making his tanned skin look even more brown. Several women have been casting appreciative glances in his direction since we exited the car, but I’m not jealous. On the contrary, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world because this smart, interesting, decent, dog-loving man chose me. For the evening, anyway. I don’t want to get ahead of myself and start naming our kids just yet, although Elodie Rose Wyatt does flow off the tongue so beautifully it almost sounds like music. Not that I’ve been saying it out loud a lot or anything.

  Once we’re over the bridge, we go left, down a long flight of stairs that deposits us on a dirt path running between several large beds of roses. Our way is lit by blue mason jars, giving off an otherworldly glow. They look to be filled with fireflies, but Brody tells me they’re just battery-operated lights, which isn’t quite as whimsical, but certainly better for the bugs who might have been confined against their will. The dirt path ends on a stone walkway, which leads to a semicircular terrace partially covered by a redwood structure Brody calls a “pergola.” This pergola has roses of all colors climbing and twisting around its posts, and on this particular evening there are wind chimes and star-shaped paper lanterns hanging from its latticework roof. On either side of the structure, I can see long rows of festively-decorated tables offering food, drink, and who knows what other goodies.

  “Do you want to get something to eat, or would you like me to take you on a tour of the garden?” Brody asks.

  I know how much he’s been looking forward to showing me his floral handiwork and the refreshments will still be here when we get back, so I say brightly, “Tour please.”

  The Berkeley Rose Garden is built like an amphitheater, with tiered rows of rose bushes leading down to ground level. Although its stone steps are well-lit by more of the mason jars, as well as the fairy lights wrapped around the roses’ greenery, Brody slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close, cautioning me to, “Be careful,” as we start down. Such a gentleman! And wow does whatever cologne he’s wearing smell good, warm and inviting with a hint of spice (cardamom?). Forget these roses; I want to bury my nose in his neck!

  Stopping at the first terrace, Brody explains, “The roses in this garden are organized by color, starting here at the top with the red, descending through bronze, pink, and yellow, with white at the bottom.”

  “So pretty. Just like a painting,” I murmur dreamily as I admire all the lovely splashes of color from the blooms. My enjoyment of this picturesque scene is enhanced by the soft, lilting instrumental piece that’s floating up to us from the small, stage-like area down by the white roses, where a quartet of formally-dressed musicians is playing.

  “This music really adds to the ambiance,” I remark.

  “Classical music and roses suit each other, don’t they? Kind of like us.” Brody gives me a heart-melting smile, and I go weak in the knees. I swear, if he didn’t have his arm around my waist, I’d swoon like one of those tightly-corseted heroines in the historical romances I may or may not check out of the library five at a time.

  We’re staring into each other’s eyes, not saying anything, just content to be together in this beautiful place when I hear someone ask, “Would you like some Love Potion?”

  Turning to my right, I see a tuxedo-clad waiter carrying a serving tray filled with martini glasses that contain a dark purpley-red liquid, which I’m guessing owes its color to pomegranate juice.

  “One sip of this brew, ‘Will make man or woman madly dote/Upon the next live creature that it sees,’” claims the young man, quoting Shakespeare.

  “I’m already doting pretty hard here,” Brody says, his eyes still fixed on my face. “I’m thinking I don’t need the help of a love potion.”

  “Me neither,” I assure him breathlessly. “But thank you . . .,” remembering my manners, I address the waiter, “. . . for the offer. Ooooo, what’s that?” I notice another server walking by with a tray full of bubblegum pink cocktails in big, bell-shaped glasses with skinny stems.

  “That’s ‘The Dreamer,’” the waiter informs me, after looking back over his shoulder to see what I’m talking about. “It’s made from pink lemonade and Bacardi rum and it’s topped with–”

  “Whipped cream!” I squeal. The waiter nods and takes off, apparently frightened by my enthusiasm.

  Brody smirks. “You’re a fan, I take it.”

  “What’s not to like about something so scrumptious? Everything’s better with whipped cream on it. That’s just a fact.”

  “I’d better go and grab that drink for you then. Why don’t you head down to the next terrace and check out the Bronze Stars? They’re double blooms, which means they can have up to twenty-five petals, and they smell like honey.”

  “I love them already!”

  We part company, and I leave the red roses behind to check out the bronzes. I’m not quite sure why they’re designated as such since they look kind of orangey to me. I wonder if they’re a cross between a yellow rose and a red one? I want to sniff the Bronze Stars to determine if they really do have a honeyed scent, but bending over and taking a whiff while wearing a dress that’s cut above the knee doesn’t strike me as being a very ladylike move. Glancing around to see how the other females are handling this dilemma in their cocktail attire, I don’t notice anyone who seems to be as interested in the flowers as I am. They’re all drinking Love Potion and chatting with one another.

  Okay, so I’ll have to figure this out for myself. Bending down on my knees is no good, because I don’t want to get my pretty dress, or my bare shins, dirty. Maybe squatting down will work. I attempt to execute this maneuver as gracefully as possible and am quite impressed with myself for pulling it off. Who knew that all those years of crouching down to dog and cat level would pay off in a social setting?

  My face is right in front of the Bronze Stars now, so I lean in and inhale their aroma. Mmmmmm, reminds me of those delicious Bit-O-Honeys I liked to buy when Sloane and I were little and Lovey would take us on a candy run up to the 7-Eleven. Sloane always got Sour Patch Kids, which were way too tart for my taste. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and instantly recognize the touch as Brody’s.

  “You were right about these ro–,” I stop speaking when I gaze up and see that Brody didn’t come back from his cocktail search alone. There are two suited men and a blonde woman in a simple, but nonetheless striking, black dress with him. “Oh, hi,” I greet them before accepting the hand up that Brody offers.

  “Willa, these are the Berkeley friends I told you about, fellow botanists Paul Lovett and Craig Forsyth, and this lady,” he sweeps a hand toward the blonde, “who’s smarter than all of us according to the IQ test we took senior year, is Craig’s wife, Tara Hagen-Forsyth. Oh, and here’s your Dreamer.” He gives me the drink, which has a cute, little, pink-striped straw peeking out of the whipped cream.

  “I still think that test was rigged,” Paul teases Tara.

  “We can retake it any time, plant boy, but be prepared to score even lower since I’m sure you’ve lost some IQ points due to the emissions from all those volatile organic compounds you’ve been working with the last few years.” She smirks at Paul before extending her hand toward me. “Nice to meet you, Willa.”

  “Same here.” I shake her cool, perfectly-manicured hand and smile at both of the men after they give me nods of acknowledgement.

  “So, fill us in,” Tara urges. “Brody’s been really stingy with the details, and we want to know how the two of you met, how long you’ve been seeing each other, etcetera, etcetera.”

  I quickly take a sip from my drink, because I’m feeling intimidated by this woman and I think a little alcoholic fortification might buck me up. “Uh, well, let’s see . . . we met a month ago today, in the green room at Daybreak on the Bay . . .” I turn to Brody, and an amused grin spreads across his face.

  “You’ve got some whi
pped cream on your . . .” He swipes off a small blob of white fluff I didn’t realize was on the tip of my nose, then licks it off his finger.

  SIGH How can one man be so sweet and sexy at the same time? I just want to grab him and kiss him and– Oh, wait, we’re not alone, are we? Guess I should finish answering Tara’s question. Looking back at her, I say, “Brody was there to talk to the show’s hosts about this charity event.”

  Craig grimaces. “We haven’t watched that interview yet. Sorry, man. I’m sure it’s still on the DVR. You didn’t erase it, did you, Tar?”

  “Of course not, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the DVR deleted it to make room for another inane episode of Duck Dynasty.” Tara crinkles up her pert nose as if she just got a whiff of the swamp frequented by the men on that reality show. Clearly, she’s not an enthusiast. “So, what were you doing at the TV station, Willa? Do you work behind-the-scenes on Daybreak?”

  “Nooooooooo . . .” I glance over at Brody again because I’m not sure if he’s okay with me telling his super smart, science-minded friends what I do for living. They might scoff, which wouldn’t bother me since I’m used to that response, but I don’t want to embarrass him. Maybe I should just say I work with animals. That’s the generic way Sloane always describes my job.

  “Willa’s a pet psychic,” Brody announces matter-of-factly. “She can communicate with animals. It’s a gift.”

  My eyes widen with surprise. I’m stunned he just put it out there like that, no hemming or hawing, no excuses, no eye rolls or chuckles indicating to his friends that he thinks I’m a bit of a kook, just a simple statement showing his support and belief in me. Wow.

  “All animals?” Paul asks, forcing me to stop staring googly-eyed at Brody and reply.

  “Dogs and cats mostly.”

  “Fascinating. I’ve never met an ASP,” murmurs Tara as she pulls a pair of glasses from her evening bag. Affixing them to her face, she begins to study me, and I’m instantly reminded of my sister who looks similarly intense and focused when she’s got a math problem in front of her.

  “An asp?” I’m confused. Last time I checked I wasn’t a poisonous snake.

  “An Anomalously Sensitive Person. We neuroscientists prefer that to the term ‘psychic.’ I would love to test you on the HISS Biological Predispositions scale.”

  “Run, Willa, before she turns you into her guinea pig,” Craig warns in an exaggerated whisper.

  “No harm in asking the subject a few questions while we’re both here, is there? I’m just curious to know if she fits the profile of a typical ASP.”

  “Uh oh, you’re her subject now.” Paul winks at me.

  “Yeah, I don’t know about this . . .” Brody drapes a protective arm across my shoulders. I’m not sure what he’s worried about. I think it’s neat that a neuroscientist is interested in learning more about my psychic abilities.

  “Fire away,” I tell Tara.

  “Which hand do you write with?”

  “The left. Oddly enough, my identical twin is right-handed.”

  Tara claps her hands together excitedly. “You were born as one of a multiple birth! That’s a classic ASP trait, as is the left-handedness. Have you ever had any developmental learning or speech disorders?”

  “No. Sorry,” I apologize when I see her frown.

  “You’re not hypopigmented, either,” she observes.

  Oh dear, I think I’m failing this test. I hope I can say “yes” to the next question, or Tara might declare me a fraud. I gulp down more of my cocktail nervously.

  “Would you categorize your sexual orientation as unconventional?”

  This query elicits a shocked gasp from me. Unfortunately, the gasp occurs at the same time I’m swallowing my drink, so I start to choke.

  Brody tries to help, patting me on the back while I cough and sputter. “Jesus, Tara, you don’t just ask someone you barely know a question like that! It’s only our second date!”

  Tara shrugs. “If she’s into freaky stuff, you’re going to find out eventually anyway.”

  “I’m not . . . f-f-f-f-freaky,” I assert in a strangled voice. God forbid Brody should think I’m into bondage, or orgies, or getting intimate with men who dress up like stuffed animals. Yes, that’s actually a thing! I was invited to a Fun with Furries party once and I went, thinking it was a get-together for people and their pets. Cicero and I still haven’t recovered from the trauma!

  “Of course not. You’ll have to excuse Tara.” Brody glares at his friend. “She has no filter.”

  “Yeah, you can see how she earned the nickname ‘Sheldona Cooper,’” Paul says, with a snort of laughter. “You wouldn’t believe the questions she peppered me with when she was doing a study on the correlation between self-pleasuring–”

  “And we’re leaving,” a blushing Brody declares. “Thanks for making such a great first impression on my date, you guys.” Taking me by the shoulders, he gently steers me away from his college cronies.

  I don’t want to be rude, so I look back and wave goodbye to the group. That’s when Tara signals me to “call” her, probably because she has some more embarrassing things to ask me in the name of neuroscience.

  “Well, that was mortifying,” Brody says. “I’m sorry if my friends made you feel uncomfortable.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sure Tommy will say or do something even more cringe-inducing when I introduce you to him. Be prepared to tell him what color underwear you’re wearing. He has a whole theory about that.” I lean in to Brody and whisper, “White is never the right answer.”

  Brody chuckles. “Duly noted. You want to get some food?”

  “Are fairy cakes on the menu?” I have my heart set on eating one this evening. Or maybe two or three if they’re as small as I imagine.

  “Why don’t we go find out?” Brody grabs my hand and pulls me toward the stairs.

  Chapter 25

  (Sloane)

  I’m sitting on my couch, staring at my laptop screen, trying to absorb and quantify the figures in front of me, but it’s no use. I can’t concentrate. I haven’t been able to concentrate since I stepped off that elevator at work and found out Josh had put a ring on it. “It” being that horrible, tanorexic daddy’s girl, Monica McAllister. I still can’t believe it’s true – Josh is going to marry that woman, not for love, not even for money, but for ambition, to secure one of those big offices up on the twelfth floor and his name on the company letterhead. Maybe I should be impressed that he’s so shrewd and calculating, that he saw a chance to elevate himself and he took it, not letting silly things like morals stand in his way, but my feelings about Josh and his tactics are currently limited to disgust and I’m offended to my core that he thought I’d want to participate in this scheme of his. I’ve made a career out of exposing people who cheat and twist the truth; there aren’t enough fancy titles and salary bumps in the world that would compel me to join their ranks. He should have known that!

  I take a swig from the bottle of Cab I opened earlier, which came from a case that was gifted to me by a Napa Valley winery I did some work for last year. This isn’t the kind of wine you buy in bulk at Costco; it costs a couple hundred dollars a pop and has words like “reserve” and “select” on the label. I’ve been saving this fine vintage for a special occasion, like a big promotion at work or me being nominated for Bay Area Accountant of the Year, but I think that finding out the guy you’ve been sexing up for almost a year got engaged behind your back qualifies as a special occasion. It’s certainly not something that happens every day.

  I gulp down another mouthful of the ruby-colored alcohol that tastes like berries and wonder how many glasses of wine are in a bottle. Six? Eight? Guess it would depend on the size of the glass. If I wasn’t feeling so lethargic, I could fetch some wine goblets from the kitchen and do an experiment, but I’m just not motivated to move, or tax my brain, or do anything but throw a pity party for myself.

  Leaning back against the sofa cushions, I exhale a sigh of exa
speration. I can’t believe I have to keep working with Josh when I’ve lost all respect for him and will never be able to trust anything he says or does again. That’s not exactly a solid foundation for a synergistic professional relationship. If I had my druthers, I’d just detach from him and do my own thing at the office from now on, keeping our contact to a bare minimum. It’s not like I need his supervision or input; I’m perfectly capable of being autonomous. Of course, if there were to suddenly be a change in the easy camaraderie that’s always existed between Josh and me, everyone would notice and become suspicious. GROAN I’m pretty much screwed any way I look at this. Why did I ever start sleeping with Josh? I should have known that things would end up getting messy. They always do when men are involved. I should just swear them off. I really don’t need the hassle, or the drama, or the distrac–

  A knock on the front door interrupts my getting-tipsy inner monologue. Did I order food? I thought about doing that when I got out of the shower and even went so far as to pull some to-go menus from that junk drawer in the kitchen, but I don’t remember ever following through. I rise from the couch and pad to the foyer on bare feet, bringing my new friend, the wine bottle, with me. Maybe there’s a takeout fairy who sensed my need for MSG, and she’s dropping by some wonton soup and cashew chicken. Hmmmm, fairies . . . tonight Willa’s playing Titania to Brody’s Oberon at Shakespeare in the Rose Garden. I bet she’s come over to borrow something or show me what she’s wearing. I don’t know why she didn’t just use her key, then I wouldn’t have had to get up.