“Nah, I should let her cool off before trying to talk to her, but I think I will text Gav to make sure he’s okay.”
I quickly type a message on my phone. “Please don’t hate me.”
“Since your hands are full . . .” Brody feeds me some of his pie while I wait for a response.
After chewing and swallowing the scrumptious bite, I lean forward and press my lips to his to show my gratitude. Things get heated for a few minutes after that. “Mmmmm . . . cherry-flavored kisses,” I murmur against his mouth when we break apart. “Can I have seconds?” Before he can reply, my phone dings. “Shoot! Sorry.” I pull back and look down at the text.
“Never. I know your heart was in the right place.”
“It was. I thought I could help. Sorry about Sloane.” I add a sad emoji with a tear falling down its face.
“Sloane who? I think of you as an only child now. Seriously. I don’t wanna see or hear her name ever again.”
I flip the phone around so that Brody can read Gav’s text.
He winces with sympathy. “Ouch. Your sister really did a number on him. I’m glad I got the nice twin.”
“Sloane can be nice.” I automatically rush to my sister’s defense.
He gives me a dubious look.
“Okay, maybe not nice in the strictest sense of the word, but she has lots of other good qualities. Gav wouldn’t love her so much if she didn’t, and neither would I. We both know the real Sloane, the one who’s buried beneath the gruffness.”
“I’m coming over. Will have Brody drive me,” I text Gav. As much as I don’t want to cut short my date with Brody and postpone us consummating our relationship, my friend needs me and I am partially responsible for his pain, so . . .
“No need. I’m headed out. Got plans.”
No, no, no, this is not good. Gav’s in a dark place emotionally. He shouldn’t be going anywhere. He’ll just get into trouble. “Bad idea!!!!!!! Hooking up with some rando will NOT make you forget sister I don’t have.”
“Worth a shot, j/k. No randos, I promise. Have fun with Brody. TTYT”
I sigh and place the phone back on the coffee table, next to Brody’s now empty pie plate. “Gav’s going to do something foolish. I just know it.”
Brody frowns, making this cute, little dent in his forehead that matches the cleft in his chin. “Is he prone to self-destructive behavior?”
“No, but Sloane is his Achilles heel. He’s very vulnerable where she’s concerned. I shouldn’t have interfered. I just made a bad situation worse.” My lower lip starts to quiver, which means tears won’t be far behind.
Brody takes my hand in both of his and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t do this to yourself. You didn’t cause a rift between Gav and Sloane. They managed that all on their own.”
“I guess,” is my half-hearted reply. “It’s just really depressing. The three of us have always been so close. I can’t imagine a world where the two people I care about most, excluding present company . . . and my mother . . . and Tommy, are at odds and not speaking to each other.”
“Come here,” he beckons me into his arms, and I don’t hesitate to go, because I could really use some comforting and I know from experience there’s no better hugger than Brody.
I snuggle up against him in the corner of the couch, nestling my head beneath his chin. He rubs my back, and I close my eyes, enjoying the warmth of his body and the feeling of being taken care of. It’s wonderful to be involved with a man I can share things with and rely on, in good times and bad. In the past, I was always the soother, supporter, and sounding board in my relationships. I can see now that those relationships were all pretty one-sided, with me doing all the giving and not receiving much in return. What Brody and I’ve got going feels like a real partnersh– A phone starts ringing (definitely not mine since it’s the Cantina Band Star Wars song), and I groan in protest, not wanting anything to disturb our lovely moment.
“Sorry. I thought I shut this off earlier. I’ll do it now.” He reaches down and pulls the noisy device out of his khakis’ pocket.
“Go ahead and answer,” I say, pulling back so that he has room to maneuver. “Fair’s fair, and you didn’t mind me texting earlier.” I grab his iPod and turn off John Legend, giving him the quiet he needs to carry on a conversation.
“You’re the best.” He tosses a quick smile at me before checking the screen of his phone. “Huh, it’s a client I haven’t spoken with in a few months.”
A client calling at nine-thirty in the evening? That seems strange. Is there such a thing as a rose emergency?
“Hello?” Brody answers the phone. “That’s all right. What can I do for you, Mrs.–Yes, I heard about that. I’m so sorry. I know how difficult– Right, I remember, and I didn’t keep any copies of the map as per your– Well, that’s unfortunate, but don’t worry. I know exactly how I implemented your request, so I don’t need a map. I can drive out to Hillsborough tomorrow and show you– Tonight? Uh . . .” He trails off uncertainly, but then he locks eyes with me and that seems to strengthen his resolve. “No, I’m sorry. That won’t be possible. I’m in the middle of something here and I can’t–” His client interjects something that makes Body grimace. “I see. There’s definitely some urgency then. Okay, yes, we can do it tonight. I’ll text you my address. See you in a bit.”
Disconnecting the call with a beleaguered sigh, he says, “Forgive me. I’d much rather stay here with you, but this client needs to retrieve something from the garden of the home she used to share with her husband, the cheating, self-entitled jerk she’s divorcing, and she lost the map I made for her. Even if I send her instructions, I don’t think she’ll ever find the right spot, because the garden’s an elaborate maze spread out over an acre with a hundred and thirteen varieties of roses, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t know her Noisettes from her Bourbons, even in the day–”
I place a finger on his lips to shush him. “No need to apologize. You’re rescuing a damsel in distress. I would expect no less of you, Sir Brody.”
He kisses my finger. “As long as I don’t lose my lady’s favor by performing a chivalrous act for another.”
“Definitely not. In fact, I think your lady will be even more inclined to bestow favors upon you when you return from your heroic quest.”
Brody’s eyebrows shoot up. “So, you’ll wait for me? I thought you’d want to go home since I’ll be gone for a couple hours.”
I left Cicero in Tommy’s capable hands for the evening, so there’s no rush for me to get back to the apartment. “That’s okay. I have Roxie to keep me company, and we can keep ourselves entertained with a movie on TV until you return. All this talk about damsels in distress and heroic quests has put me in the mood for The Princess Bride. I wonder if it’s On Demand?”
“You’re in luck! I just so happen to have that movie on DVD.”
I smile at him with affection. “Of course, you do.” Another thing the two of us have in common – our great taste in movies.
“I came very close to naming this one . . .,” he points down at the sleeping dog on the rug, “. . . Buttercup, but . . .”
He doesn’t have to say anything else. Justine was obviously the one who vetoed it. I’m not surprised. She doesn’t strike me as a woman with a lot of whimsy.
“It’ll be a great name for dog number two, if she’s a blonde female.”
“Uh oh. You have me adopting another dog?” Brody rises from the couch.
“I’m sure Roxie would enjoy having a sibling, or two, or three . . .” I muse aloud as he walks over to the DVD cabinet by the TV.
He opens the cabinet door and pulls out The Princess Bride – Dread Pirate Edition. I recognize the DVD set as I own its mate, the Buttercup Edition.
Brody casts a smirk over his shoulder. “I’m going to need a bigger house if you and I keep dating, aren’t I?” He pops the DVD into the player.
“Oh, no! I love this little cottage. It may be cozy, but there’s still plenty
of room for multiple animals and people.” I blush when the last word leaves my mouth, because I didn’t mean to imply that he should invite me to move in or anything. We only just started seeing each other, after all. Living together isn’t something we should even consider until we’ve been dating for a good, solid month. “It’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect,” he says. Walking back over to the couch, he bends down and gives me a soft, sweet kiss. “My client will be picking me up soon, so I’m going to go change into something a little more appropriate for after-dark gardening. Here’s the universal remote.” He hands me a device with a lot of buttons. “And a blanket if you get cold.” He places a chenille throw next to me. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Just save a little bit of that pie for later.” He gives me a wink, and I chuckle. Looks like we’re on the same wavelength about finding some creative uses for that cherry filling.
* * *
I’m having the most delightful dream about Brody. He and I are riding on a merry-go-round; our brightly-colored horses, which have our names painted on their bridles, bob up and down in time to the cheerful strains of the carousel music. We’re talking and laughing and every few seconds we lean across the space separating us and enjoy a brief smooch. Suddenly, we have Push Ups in our hands (The frozen treats Sloane and I used to order from the Good Humor man when his truck would roll through our neighborhood on summer afternoons.) Of course, the magically appearing Push Ups are the red, cherry-flavored ones, because cherries are my thing with Brody. Halfway through eating my icy treat, it slips from my fingers and falls down onto the floor of the merry-go-round. I’m very sad, but Brody saves the day by offering me his. Best boyfriend ever! I tell him I love him. A wide grin spreads across his handsome face and he starts to say, “I lo–,” just as I’m startled awake by a loud, trilling noise.
At first, I’m disoriented, not recognizing where I am. Feeling a weight pushing up against my feet, I look down at the couch I’m curled up on and see that the dog snoozing on the other end is Roxie. Okay, now I remember. We were watching The Princess Bride, and I got so sleepy around the time Buttercup was being forced to marry evil Prince Humperdinck that I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I wonder how long we were out? I pick up my ringing cell phone and am shocked to see that it’s a couple minutes past one. Brody’s been gone for over three hours! That can’t be right. He said his errand wouldn’t take more than two hours. Ohmigod, what if he was in a car accident, or fell into a sinkhole in that rose maze, or ran off with the client who’s getting a divorce? My imagination runs wild with all the awful possibilities. I answer the call, with my heart hammering in my chest. “H-h-h-hello?”
“Willa, I’m so sorry. I hope you haven’t been worried. We ran into a little bit of a . . . problem.”
I’m so relieved to hear his voice and know that he’s okay; I don’t even care what this problem is. How bad can it be?
“Can I help? Where are you? Hillsborough?”
“Um, yeah, at the police station. It seems I’ve been arrested.”
Chapter 35
(Willa)
I wish I could say I’ve never had to pick up someone I was dating from jail before, but . . . At least this time I’m not having to provide bail money. Brody said that he and Mrs. (I’m blanking on her last name) were just brought in for questioning at the HPD. No charges have been filed . . . yet. I’m not sure what the cops are waiting for. I’m not even sure what Brody and Mrs. ??? did that would be considered a crime. Brody really couldn’t go into detail on the phone. He just asked if I would bring his car down to the police station.
So, I hop into his Jeep Grand Cherokee, punch the address of the Hillsborough PD into his GPS, and head south on the 101. As it’s the middle of the night and there aren’t many vehicles on the road besides me, I’m able to make the trip in a little over twenty minutes. The police station is located just a couple miles off the freeway on Floribunda Avenue. Ironic, right, since floribunda’s a class of roses and Brody’s a rosarian who got arrested in a rose garden? We’ll probably laugh about that later. Or not. Because there’s really nothing funny about being arrested. Poor Brody. I hope they didn’t handcuff him or throw him in a cell with a bunch of gangbangers and axe murderers. I don’t think he’d fare very well in that rough company. Not unless the gang members had floral tattoos they wanted Brody to identify, or the murderers were thinking about using gardening tools as weapons and needed an expert’s opinion on whether a trowel or a lopper would cause more bodily harm.
Pulling into a visitor’s space at the front of the well-lit parking lot at the police station, I turn off the ignition and exit the SUV, clicking the LOCK button on the remote attached to Brody’s keychain. I toddle toward the station’s entrance, regretting that I decided to wear heels for my date this evening. These red peep toe stilettos may be sexy, but they are not made for walking. Although I’m tempted to take them off and go barefoot, I resist the impulse, because I imagine the Hillsborough PD has the same “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service” policy that restaurants do. As far as police stations go, this one is incredibly nice. It’s designed in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, with a yellow exterior, terracotta barrel roof tiles, and ornamental cornices which make it look more like a pricey, suburban home than a warehouse for criminals (and cops). Maybe this was a residence at one time and it was bought by the local government, then converted into a police station. I’d love to know the history behind the–
“Thank you so much.” I smile at the gentleman in the dark blue uniform who’s leaving the station as I’m about to enter. He’s kind enough to hold the glass door open for me and ask if I need any assistance. When I inquire as to where I can get information on someone who’s in custody, he points me down a hallway and tells me to speak with the officer on duty at the front desk. The police station is just as lovely inside as it is out. The white marble floors are so clean they practically sparkle, the fixtures overhead emit soft, diffuse light rather than a bright fluorescent glare, and there are courteous signs like “Please deposit all rubbish in the receptacles provided,” and “Kindly remember to renew your alarm permit annually,” posted on the walls.
I limp up to the front desk (These darn heels are giving me a blister!) and delicately clear my throat to get the attention of the fresh-faced young man sitting behind it, staring at a computer screen.
He glances up and gapes. I’m not sure why. Maybe he doesn’t see females in tulip-printed cocktail dresses at the station very often. “Yes, ma’am. H-h-how can I help you?” He stands, which is very mannerly, and I appreciate it.
“I’m looking for–”
“Ohmigod, this is like the worst cappuccino ever!” I’m interrupted by a busty blonde in skinny jeans and a very snug-fitting tank top who barges up to the front desk like I’m not even there. “When’s the last time you cleaned out your machine. BLECH!” She pushes a paper cup filled with a foamy, brown liquid toward the policeman.
“Sorry.” His ears turn red with embarrassment. “I might have done something wrong when I was ma–”
“Whatever.” She holds up her hand, obviously not interested in his excuses. “I can’t sit around this morgue another minute without a caffeinated beverage that’s actually drinkable. You need to send one of your people out on a coffee run.”
“Um . . .” His eyes dart around nervously, probably looking for his “people.” All I see is one other cop at a desk in the back, but he’s on the phone. “It’s one-thirty in the morning. I’m afraid there’s nothing open right now. I could try to make you another–”
The very idea makes her lip curl with disgust. “Don’t even bother. The toilet water in your bathroom would probably taste better. Where’s your supervisor? I’m tired of waiting around here. I wanna leave.”
The officer perks up. “So, you’d like to drop your complaint against Mr. Wyatt and your aunt?”
Woah, wait, this very opinionated, top-heavy woman is responsible for my Brody being in this place? How? W
hy? Who is she?
“Not a chance! I told that detective to throw the book at Renee. That bitch stole from me, with the help of that gardener boyfriend of hers.” Skinny Jeans snorts disdainfully. “She’s so pathetic. Screwing a manual laborer who’s on her payroll – how low can a woman sink?”
I gasp, offended for Brody on so many levels. First of all, he is not a manual laborer, or a gardener. He’s a botanist with several degrees, an award-winning rosarian, and an artiste who creates beautiful tableaux with flora. Secondly, he would never get romantically involved with a cli– Okay, so I did hire him to bring Lovey’s garden back to life, which means I was technically his client when we fell for each other, but–
“Good question, Madison. Why don’t you tell us? Seeing as how you’re sleeping with a man twice your age, who’s also your uncle by marriage, I’d say that no one has more experience in debasing themselves than you.”
With a squeak of surprise, Skinny Jeans jumps behind me and crouches down like I’m some sort of human body shield. “I thought she was locked up!” She points at the fortysomething, auburn-haired woman who just joined the conversation. I’m assuming this is the aunt, although there’s absolutely no resemblance between her and SJ. The aunt’s tall, slender, and fine-boned, and she has a refined air about her that’s not diminished in the slightest by her attire (track pants and a hoodie) or the dirt that’s smudged on her cheek and forehead, while the niece is small, curvy, and well, refined is not a word I would ever use to describe her. “She’s a criminal!” Skinny Jeans shouts. “She shouldn’t be allowed to roam free around the station.”
The young officer steps out from behind his desk and addresses the aunt, “Ma’am, you really should stay in the interrogation room until your lawyer and your husband get here and we can get this all straightened out.”
Skinny Jeans stamps her booted foot indignantly. “James isn’t going to straighten out anything. He’s going to make sure the law is enforced. That woman is a thief, and a trespasser, and a bunch of other bad, illegal things! She should go to jail. Now! And not a nice, white collar jail, either. A really gross, scary one, where everyone’s strung out on drugs, and the guards perv on you, and you have to pee in front of the other inmates, like on Orange Is the New Black.”
Twin Piques Page 34
