by Josh Lanyon
“Well, something works anyway,” J.X. said as I went to answer it.
“You want me to drive you to the airport?”
He shook his head. “I’ll take my car.”
I picked the phone up. “Hello?”
“Christopher,” came the not-so-dulcet, semi-British tones of my agent, Rachel. “You made it!”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”
“Ha.” I winked at J.X. I’m not really much of a winker, so it had the reverse intended effect of making him pay closer attention. He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of the earthenware mug.
“Have you changed your mind about the convention?”
“What in our previous acquaintanceship would lead you to believe I’d change my mind about that?”
“The fact that you’re speaking to me from San Francisco.”
“Aside from that.”
“Christopher, your career is in a delicately-balanced position right now.”
I couldn’t hide my weariness. It leaked out in a long sigh. “When is it not?”
“You can’t afford to go off the grid again. We have to talk, really talk about your future, and it makes sense to do it at the convention.”
“Probably not. Since I won’t be there.”
She made an exasperated sound. I get that a lot from the women in my life. Not that there are a lot of women in my life.
“This is no time for a midlife crisis.”
“I agree. That was so last year.”
“Christopher! I’ve had an idea…” she burbled on, but half my attention was on J.X. who set his coffee cup in the sink and came over to me.
He said quietly, “Honey, I’ve got to go.”
I nodded politely, which was not the right response, as I could tell from the way his brows drew together. He leaned in, and I leaned in, and somehow the phone was in the way—where did all that cord come from?—our mouths latched on—mostly. It was a fleeting kiss, tasting of coffee and toothpaste on his end, and coffee and exasperation on mine.
“I’ll call you when I get to the hotel,” he whispered.
“…dragon tattoo,” Rachel said.
“I am not getting a tattoo,” I said. “Thanks to you, I already have two piercings in my ear and a wardrobe that looks like the Hollywood version of what writers wear—which, incidentally, I still haven’t finished paying for.” I nodded enthusiastically to J.X. so he could see I was listening to him.
“Have you heard a word I said?” Rachel demanded.
“I love you,” J.X. said.
“I heard you,” I said shortly.
Rachel’s silence and J.X.’s expression seemed equally taken aback.
“Love you too,” I said hastily to J.X.
He smiled uncertainly. My smile was equally doubtful.
“Christopher?” Rachel inquired. “Are you still there? Christopher?”
“I’m here,” I said automatically, as J.X. raised his hand in a final farewell and disappeared into the hall.
A few moments later, and from what felt like a long way away, I heard the front door close. This was followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock.
So much for milestones and relationship markers. Love you too.
Love. You. Too.
Somehow I had intended the first time I managed to say the words to J.X. to be a little more…meaningful.
Chapter Two
In New York publishing circles Rachel Ving is known as Ving the Merciless.
With reason. She’s a good agent and we’ve been through a few things together—including a murder investigation. There’s nothing like a little unplanned homicide to show you who your real friends are. I liked Rachel and I respected her—and I didn’t blame my currently floundering writing career on anything she had or hadn’t done for me—up to and including dragging me into that previously mentioned murder investigation. That said, not all her ideas are good ones.
“Scandinavian crime fiction,” she was still jabbering as J.X. walked out of our new house. “I keep waiting for someone to send me another boy in the suitcase.”
I tuned back in with difficulty. “Huh?”
“The Boy in the Suitcase by Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis. We should have thought of it before. Have you read Jo Nesbø? You must have. Harry Hole?”
“Hairy… What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about saving your career.”
“Yeah, well I’m not sure I—” I stopped cold. What? What?
If Rachel heard that revealing start and stop, she didn’t acknowledge it. “This isn’t just about you, you know. You’re my biggest client. When you don’t earn money, we don’t earn money.”
“I understand that, Rachel. But.”
But what? I stared, frowning, at the glass-enclosed breakfast nook and the pretty garden outside. More weathered brick, more topiaries. Rococo patio furniture? In robin’s egg blue, no less. Did people really sit on those uncomfortable-looking chairs? It did not look like the garden of anywhere I had ever lived. Or would live. There was a pool at least. Somewhere. Somewhere behind the tiny terraces and low hedges was a small, secluded, kidney-shaped pool. That had been one of my stipulations for the house hunting. Must have pool. And separate offices. And a fireplace in the master bedroom. And gardens, front and back. And a skylight. An older home in a quiet neighborhood. But with a fully modern kitchen. In case I ever wanted to cook something.
Somehow I had expected it to take J.X. longer to find such a place. Let alone shove it through escrow at light speed. But no. Four months after our trip to Connecticut, here we were, setting up house together.
Rachel was still delivering her pep talk in a tone eerily reminiscent of Margaret Thatcher readying the troops to take back the Falklands. “I know what I’m talking about. The only way to shake off this writer’s block is to go in a completely different direction.”
“Painting, maybe? Look, I don’t have writer’s block. I just don’t feel like working at the moment. There’s a lot going on in my life.”
“Christopher, you have to get back on that horse.”
Only this horse was looking more and more like a Shetland pony.
“What horse? I’m not Scandinavian, if that’s where you’re headed. The answer is no.” The only boy with a suitcase I cared about was on his way to San Francisco International Airport. Why did he have to throw the words out like that? And why had I not answered with more…attention to detail? Not that it was the first time J.X. had used the L-word. But it was the first time in our new home, in our new situation, in our new life together, and I had wanted to… What? I was probably overthinking this.
Rachel said patiently, “Of course you are. Your mother is Swedish, right?”
“Swiss. Not. She’s American. My grandmother was Swiss. That doesn’t qualify me to write Scandinavian crime fiction.”
“You don’t have to be Scandinavian to write Scandinavian crime fiction.”
“You have to have read some of it though. I’ve never read a word. I saw Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Okay, the version with subtitles. But that’s the closest I got.”
Rachel made a tsking sound. “Then do your homework. Start researching. Just as you do for Miss Butterwith. Only not Miss Butterwith. It’s time for a breakthrough book, Christopher. You know what that means.”
I swallowed. Oh yes. I knew.
Standalone.
Something dark and edgy and psychological. Ideally, a little twisted. Random violence. Grisly murders. Calculated violence. Torture. Maybe some child molestation, if I could work it in. I groaned. “It would be easier to write Scandinavian.”
“Exactly. Especially since you are Scandinavian.”
“I’m beginning to think that’s code for something else.”
Rachel chuckled evilly. “So. The convention? Are you reconsidering?”
“No. For the last time, no. I’ve got to go
buy a sprinkler head. But say hi to my—J.X. when you see him.”
* * * * *
The problem with moving to a new city that you never wanted to live in, is you don’t know where to find the best place to have brunch—or where the nearest home improvement store is. But I don’t write mysteries for nothing, and I soon managed to locate a Lowe’s on Bayshore Boulevard.
See, that’s the nice thing about chains. You always know what you’re getting. Zuppa Toscana soup at Olive Garden or Rust-Oleum paint at Lowe’s, there are no surprises and no disappointments. This is why I prefer chains over indies. You’re not supposed to admit that though.
I wandered aisles wide and mostly empty on a Thursday morning, checking out lighting fixtures and lawn furniture. They had a magnificent selection of garden hoses. Once upon a time, the word kinks was synonymous in my mind with garden hoses. I lingered, fondly considering lengths and widths. I mean, as crazy and inconvenient as this was—my situation, not the home improvement center—I couldn’t help feeling a little chuffed that I was doing it. Doubts and misgivings notwithstanding, I was starting a new life with J.X.
Anywho. My new home and garden center was well organized, and it didn’t take long to choose a sprinkler head: stationary pop-up in a half-circle design. Some things in life are simple.
“Oh my God,” someone said from behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. There was an attractive guy about my age—average height, slender, curly dark hair, blue eyes—staring straight at me over the forest of plants stacked on his trolley.
I nodded politely. Possibly discouragingly.
“It is you, right?” he said.
This time I glanced around, just to make sure he was actually addressing me.
“It was this morning.”
His blue eyes were wide with disbelief verging on shock. “Christopher Holmes? It is you?”
“Yeah.” I unbent enough to say, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“Oh God. Jerry Knight. You won’t remember me. We met years ago at Murder in Midtown. The one in DC.”
Ten years ago. That was the convention after I’d found out David, my ex, was cheating on me. It was the convention where I’d met J.X. So, yes, a lot had been going on at that conference, and it was safe to say I barely remembered the event, let alone Jerry Knight.
“That was a great conference,” I said.
“Meeting you was the highlight. You are my all time favorite writer.”
I laughed self-consciously. “Or at least your favorite of all the writers shopping in Lowe’s this morning.”
Jerry laughed too, rolling his trolley forward and offering his hand. “No, but seriously. I love your books. I’ve got every single thing you’ve written. Even the Japanese edition of Miss Butterwith Plants a Clue. I’m your biggest fan.”
He had a firm handshake. Any clamminess could be put down to the metal handlebar he had been tightly gripping. That and the fact that it was like a rain forest in the garden center. Even now mist was rolling out through the open doors.
“Thank you,” I said. I can’t deny that it was heartwarming hearing this, especially on a morning when I was feeling a little…okay, a long way from home.
“I had you sign five of my books.” His smile was sheepish.
“Now it’s coming back to me,” I joked, but really that wasn’t all that unusual. The only genuinely unusual signing request I’d ever had was to sign someone else’s books—and that had happened twice from two different readers. Oh, and the reader who had asked me to sign her naked breast. That was one for the scrapbook.
Jerry asked, “Is it true you’re done with the Miss Butterwith series?”
“Uh…well, it’s not official or anything. I just think maybe the series has…run its course.” I listened to the echo of these words and waited to feel the reverberating shock of my final acknowledgment of a fact I had avoided facing for so long. But I felt…nothing. No sadness, no regret. No relief or happiness either. Nothing.
Jerry looked disappointed but understanding. “They’re such great characters, Miss B. and Mr. Pinkerton. And of course Inspector Appleby.” He smiled and I smiled because Inspector Appleby was pretty darned appealing, if I did say so myself.
“So what are you working on now?”
I held up the sprinkler head and we both laughed.
“No gardener?”
“Gardener?”
“I guess I always picture big name authors like you living in a mansion with a drawing room and a butler and a private secretary. Cocktails at five and holidays at St. Moritz or the French Riviera. That kind of thing.”
It took a few seconds for all the words that followed big name authors like you to sink in. And then I hated to destroy the illusion. Technically, the house on Cherry Lane wasn’t a mansion, but three thousand square feet was plenty big for two people. Was it big enough? That remained to be seen.
I said, “Ha. Don’t you believe it. Most writers I know have to keep their day jobs. Anyway, we’ll hire someone to take care of the yard, I’m sure.” Of that, I had no doubt. The front yard was pretty, but the Tommy Church back garden was one of the house’s major selling points. Church is regarded as the father of modern landscape architecture. In fact, he’s credited with the concept of “garden rooms,” a quintessentially Californian notion, if there ever was one. No way was I going to risk lowering our resale value by doing something destructive like planting the wrong roses or moving the tall stone urns out of alignment.
“We just moved in,” I added with uncharacteristic forthcomingness. “This morning was the baptism.” I held up the sprinkler head.
Jerry looked interested and surprised. “Really? You’re new to the area?”
I’m not the chatty type, so it had to just be feeling like a stranger in a strange land that caused me to pop out with, “Yeah. Well, my uh…he’s from up here. We just bought a place on Cherry Lane. In Russian Hill.”
“Right. Right, because I thought you were based in Southern California. Russian Hill is a nice area. Pretty views and beautiful old houses and cute little cafes and shops. You’ll love it.”
“Yeah. It’s nice. I’m sure it’s going to be great.”
“Are you going to be doing any signings or book events up here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t do a lot of signings.”
“I noticed!” He was still smiling though. “Well, I’m on your mailing list, so I guess you’ll let us know.”
“Yep. I will definitely keep you posted.” I began to sidle away down the aisle, away from the registers as Jerry pushed his trolley forward. I was ready to check out too, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to stand in line chatting with Jerry. He seemed like a nice guy, but sociable was not my default. Actually, default was my default.
“It was so great meeting you,” Jerry called. “You made my day.”
I waved my sprinkler head in farewell.
I spent a few minutes browsing hummingbird feeders and then thought to pick up a couple of bags of picture hooks before heading to the checkout counter.
I paid for my purchases and left the store. As I approached my car I spotted Jerry loading plants into a minivan parked beside my BMW.
He looked up and his frown reversed itself into a bright smile. “Hello again!”
“Hi.”
“I promise I’m not stalking you.”
“No, I know.” I said, “At this point it looks like I’m stalking you.”
He laughed as though that was really funny, and pushed his empty trolley to the cart return area.
I unlocked my car, tossed the plastic bag with my purchases in the passenger seat, got in and was just starting to reverse when there was a tap, tap, tap on the passenger side window. I braked. Jerry was smiling tentatively through the tinted glass.
I pressed the button to lower the window a crack.
His mouth formed the words, “Hi again.”
I relented and lowered the window all the way. “Hi.”
Oh God. Being the socially backward type myself, I knew only too well how excruciating this was for him. And I did not want to crush him with a refusal. If only I was J.X. who was perfectly capable of accepting spontaneous invitations. In fact, he was always doing stuff like that: going off with readers for dinner after a book signing or attending book club luncheons. But I was me, and I had already exhausted my daily allotment of social niceties. I just wanted to go home. And failing that, get back to the house on Cherry Lane and start unpacking all those boxes and crates.
“That’s really nice of you, Jerry. It’s just…there’s so much to do right now. Moving in, you know. Nothing is unpacked. I couldn’t even find the toaster this morning. There are people coming to hook up. I mean, to hook things up. You know. You know how it is.” I was starting to babble in my own discomfort.
“Yeah, of course.” Jerry looked crestfallen.
I made an effort. “But it’s been really nice meeting you. I don’t get a lot of opportunities to talk to readers.” In the back of my mind I could hear J.X. and Rachel chorusing that if I’d ever go to conferences I could meet all the readers I wanted. What they failed to understand was that was already the case.
“No, I totally understand,” he said. “It was a dumb idea.”
“No! It was very thoughtful. I appreciate it. It’s just…you know. Another time.”
“Right. Sure.” He smiled sadly and I smiled too brightly, and threw the car into reverse again. He stepped hastily out of range of my tires.
I stopped at a market on my way back to Cherry Lane and stocked up on a few essentials like frozen pizzas, frozen fried chicken, frozen pot pies, frozen egg rolls, frozen lasagna, frozen burritos, beer, frozen popcorn shrimp, chocolate muffins and ice cream. Also a bag of limes, a bag of pre-washed romaine lettuce and two bottles of sparkling mineral water. After J.X. and I had started seeing each other more regularly, I had tried to make a conscious effort to eat better and exercise more. There’s nothing like having to get naked with someone younger and trimmer to make you start worrying about dimples where there should be none. I’d lost a few pounds and toned a few muscles. But whether it was stress or the fact that J.X. and his sleek, taut body would be out of sight for a few days, I found myself craving cardboard-flavored pizza.
