by Lisa Hendrix
At the checkout stand, Raine declined the store sack and had the clerk pack her purchases into her canvas bag—bags, actually, since she had another one stuffed inside the first.
“Very ecological,” said Mason. He turned back to the cashier. “I’m unenlightened. I’ll take plastic.”
Transaction complete, Mason grabbed all three bags and headed for the door. As the blast of hot air hit them, Raine leaned close and muttered sotto voce, “I do it for the nickel.”
“Do what?” he asked, silently chiding the portion of his mind that read unwarranted sex into her comment. If he didn’t stop it, he’d drive himself crazy before the salad.
“Drag these bags along. They give you a nickel credit when you bring your own sack.”
“Oh.” See, he told his libido. “I didn’t know that.” They reached the car and Mason deposited the bags in the trunk while Raine watched.
“So how long has it been since you were in a grocery story?” she asked.
Mason laughed and shut the lid. “A couple of years. Is it that obvious?”
“You’re just sort of … overly deliberate. Most of us who have to do this all the time are less enthralled with the process. Are you sure you remember how to cook? I’m pretty hungry.”
“Positive. It’s like riding a bicycle.” He held the door open for her. “You look doubtful again.”
She raised one eyebrow. “I was just thinking I should have picked up a frozen pizza as insurance.”
*
Her doubts proved to be unfounded. Not only did Mason remember how to cook, he moved around her tiny kitchen with such panache that Raine found herself stopping in the middle of sweeping to watch him whisk the vinaigrette.
“You were the Galloping Gourmet in a different life, right?”
“Not I.” He gave the dressing another flick and set it aside. “It’s all show. This is the only meal I can cook. Other than an omelet, of course.”
“Dinner and breakfast. Good combination.”
“I’ve always found it useful.”
Raine spotted a dust bunny under the table and dove after it with a sense of relief. Bending over provided a good excuse for her face to be so red.
While the rice was simmering, she managed to dust, scrub the bathroom, and water the plants. By the time she finished, the scent of saffron and herbs was already starting to beat out the smell of disinfectant.
“How much more time do I have?” she asked.
“The chops are ready to go.” He lifted the lid for a quick peek at the rice. “Say, fifteen minutes.”
“Good. I can wash out a dress.”
She retrieved her dress and ducked into the bathroom. “I hope you liked this pink one. You’re going to be seeing it again. Probably several times.”
“Fine. It looks well on you.”
When she came out, the table was set and Mason was laying a sprig of fresh rosemary across the top of the chops.
“You’ve been outside.”
“Requisitioning garnish. I found that in the garden, too.” He pointed toward the back of the couch, where a tortoiseshell cat lazed in a late sunbeam, eyes half-closed. “Or maybe it found me.”
“Hi, Bugsy. You always show up in time for food, don’t you?” She gave the cat a quick scratch behind the ears, and was thanked with a thunderous purr.
“What’s that you called him, her, er, it?”
“It, formerly him. His name’s Bugsy.”
“As in Malone?”
“Yep. He’s my psychotic Mafia kitty. He has some very nasty habits, like sneaking up behind people and jumping on their backs. Especially people sitting in that chair.”
Mason, who had been about to set a plate down in front of a colorfully painted ladder-back chair, switched directions. He glared at the cat. “I don’t suppose we could throw him back outside.”
“Depends on how much you like the skin on your arm. That’s his other bad habit. He pretty much comes and goes on his own terms.”
“You know, it’s hot in here from the broiler, and we don’t want to disturb old Bugsy’s nap.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I’ll sit there and he usually leaves the other chair alone.”
“Why don’t we eat outside anyway.”
“Chicken,” she said, laughing. “Just for that, I’m going to make you sit on the splintery part of the step.”
*
Oh, good lord. They were coming outside.
Heart pounding, Miranda crouched down low behind the ivy-smothered picket fence that ran along the alley behind Raine’s house.
This was really too much. First, she’d had to park the Explorer three blocks away behind a Dumpster to make sure Mason didn’t spot it—the Goddess only knew whether it would still be there when she got back—and then sneak down back alleys. Then Mason and Raine hadn’t been at the house when she’d finally figured out which one it was, which had left Miranda panicked until she’d heard the Jaguar roar up out front. Then Mason had decided to go herb picking just as she’d been trying to find a spot where she could see into the house better.
And now this. If Mason caught her spying, she’d have to move to Antarctica to escape his temper.
But at least she might be able to hear them now, once her heart stopped pounding so loudly. Miranda crawled to her right a couple of feet, to where a rangy buddleia provided some cover, then cautiously poked her head up.
She had a perfect view of her brother between the long purple flower spikes. He was sitting on the wooden porch step and, by shifting slightly, Miranda could see Raine perched next to him. They were talking about a cat, of all things. Maybe the love potion really had worked. Miranda settled back to listen.
Unfortunately, her makeshift blind was just a few feet from a pair of trash cans, complete with ripe aromas and swarming yellow jackets. Miranda loathed yellow jackets, but she couldn’t go anywhere so long as her quarry was outside. Despite a temperature that still hovered well above eighty, she quietly pulled on the jacket she’d brought for later, snugged the collar tight to keep any bugs from flying down her back, and prayed that the clouds she had seen over the mountains moved in before she succumbed to heat prostration.
She lurked behind the buddleia while Mason and Raine ate their dinner and chatted about everything from art to baseball. Their voices rose and fell, and, what with the sweat running down her back and the yellow jackets buzzing in her hair, Miranda had a hard time keeping track of the conversation.
Well, eavesdropping wasn’t why she was there, anyway, she told herself. Her job was to prevent the Ultimate Disaster.
A particularly bold yellow jacket landed on her sleeve, and Miranda bit back a shriek. Every nerve ending told her it was time to jump up and leave, but she managed to stay still. All it really took was visualizing herself in the Welfare line, an image that came altogether too easily. Of course, people with trust funds didn’t get Welfare, but it was the principle.
Bucking up her courage, Miranda blew lightly on the yellow jacket. It flew off, leaving her to its louder but less assertive coconspirators.
After a time, Mason ducked back inside with the empty plates and reappeared with two bowls. A moment later, Miranda heard Raine’s exclamation of delight.
Vanilla ice cream drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Miranda’s stomach growled. It just wasn’t fair. Here she was, starving in the alley on Mason’s behalf, and he was feeding his paramour her favorite dessert. Miranda gingerly fished around in her bag until her fingers closed around a tiny tin of peppermints. They’d have to do.
It was almost dark before Mason and Raine carried their bowls and glasses back into the house, and by then Miranda had little or no feeling left in her legs. As soon as she was certain the happy couple wasn’t coming back out, she crept away from the trash cans, wincing as the first blood tingled back into her feet. A few of the more persistent yellow jackets followed, but eventually the garbage proved more attractive than she, and they buzzed off.
Luckily, Raine’s neig
hbor to the south had a six-foot board fence, and when Miranda reached it she climbed painfully to her feet. It took a good five minutes to get the feeling back in her legs, but when she could finally stand fully upright, she discovered she had a perfect view into the kitchen.
Mason doing dishes? This ranked up there with Armstrong walking on the moon. Miranda would happily have given up a month’s distribution from her trust fund just to have a video camera in her hands at that moment.
“Whatcha doing, lady?”
Miranda muffled a shriek and whirled around.
There stood two kids, about nine or ten, astride bikes. They both wore cutoff shorts, striped T-shirts—one mainly red and one mainly blue—and looks of deep suspicion.
“God, you kids scared me to death.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Whatcha doing?” Blue repeated.
“Um. Uh.” She sidled down the alley, away from Raine’s house. “I was just getting ready to play a practical joke on my friend.”
They glared.
“You know the woman that lives here, right? Raine Hobart?” She gestured toward Raine’s house even as she took a few more steps away from it.
The boys looked at each other, then nodded.
“Well, I was going to play this trick on her and her new boyfriend.”
“What kind of trick?” asked Blue.
A trick a ten-year-old would understand. Miranda thought quickly. “A stink bomb. You know, wait until they start kissing, and toss it on the porch.”
“Cool,” said Red.
“Why?” asked Blue.
“Raine pulled the same thing on me last year. It’s payback. Don’t give me away, okay?”
They looked at each other again, and shrugged. “Okay.”
“You kids go on home now.”
They made no move to leave.
“It’s getting dark. I bet your mothers are wondering where you are.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe.”
Still no motion.
Miranda stared at them until they squirmed.
“Let’s go,” said Blue. Red shrugged, and they wobbled off on their bikes.
Good riddance. As soon as they were out of sight, she scooted back to her spot.
Mason was drying dishes while Raine mopped in time to a B. B. King recording of “Ask Me No Questions” which blasted through the open windows. She tapped Mason on the shoulder with the mop handle and, laughing, he lifted one foot at a time for her to mop under him.
The air of domestic bliss made Miranda want to storm the front door and yank her brother out by the short hairs. This was not the Mason she knew. It had to be the potion, that was the only explanation.
And yet, so far, she hadn’t seen any signs of passion between him and Raine—not even a kiss, and certainly not the blatant seduction that had been going on at the house the evening before. Very interesting. She leaned against the fence and settled in for the long haul.
*
Raine let the cat out and turned down the stereo, then she and Mason settled down at the table with big glasses of iced tea and a backgammon board between them. “Now this is a summer evening: nice and long, all the work done, good music, plenty of iced tea.”
“And no audience.”
“True. Thank you for letting me get caught up, by the way. I don’t feel nearly so stressed out. Even Bugsy looks happier.”
“How can you tell?”
“He smiled at me.” She shook her head at the way he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, surely you’ve seen Magus smile.”
“Not since Mother decided he was her ‘familiar.’ I don’t think she’s noticed that he runs for cover every time she and Miranda pull out their cauldron and wands.” He handed her the white pieces and took the black for himself. “There have been a couple of times when I’ve been tempted to crawl under the bed and join him.”
“You really don’t like their involvement in Wicca, do you?”
“No,” he said flatly.
“Why?”
“I don’t enjoy being a guinea pig for their toxic brews.”
Raine finished laying out her pieces on the board. “I get the impression it’s more than that.”
His eyes narrowed and he stared at her a long moment, then took a draught from his glass. “I suppose it is. I get so tired of dealing with the nonsense and the way they drag each other from one dippy philosophy to another. If they’d just settle on one thing—anything—I could learn to tolerate it, but I never know from one day to the next whether I’ll be assaulted with tantric chants or gurus in purple robes or primal howls or … love potions.”
“They’re searchers,” she said softly. “That’s not such a bad thing. We’re all searching for something.”
He raked his hair back, and she could see the stress lines around his eyes. “Well, while they’re scouting the universe for karmic bliss, I’m out in the real world, doing real work and trying to keep Alexander Industries afloat.”
By marrying Caroline Wickersham, she supposed, but she kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t her business. She picked up the dice and rolled for starting position. “Six and five. Beat that, Alexander.”
*
Nightfall finally brought the clouds and cooler temperatures the weatherman had promised. In fact, in a period of about twenty minutes it got downright chilly, and a distant flash of lightning in the east announced the end of the dry spell, at least over in Kirkland. The sweat that had soaked her blouse earlier now evaporated in the breeze that had kicked up, leaving Miranda chilled and miserable.
For two hours, the most action she saw was dice passing back and forth across the table. From what she could tell, Mason was trouncing Raine, but that was to be expected—his cutthroat instincts would hardly go dull just because he had the hots for his opposition. The two of them laughed a lot, and Miranda thought she heard her own name several times, but the sound was muffled, and she couldn’t be sure.
She concentrated so hard on reading their lips that her first clue that she had company again was a flashlight beam playing across the fence in front of her. Damn those kids. She took a deep breath and prepared herself to come up with an elaboration on the stink bomb story.
“Turn around slowly, ma’am. Hands out where I can see them.”
Oh, shit. Holding her hands well out from her sides and smiling sweetly, Miranda turned around. “Is there something wrong, Officer?”
“Why don’t you tell me? I have reports that you’ve been hanging around back here all evening.”
“I’m just looking for my cat.”
“Since six-thirty?”
“Oh, I haven’t been here that long. But I have come through several times. Whoever called in probably saw me at different times and assumed I had been here all along. I’m sorry if I scared anyone.”
“Your cat, huh? What kind of cat?”
What had that animal of Raine’s looked like? “A tortoiseshell. Very sweet. He’s been missing for a couple of days, and some boys told me they’d seen him around here. I thought I heard him in this yard.” She glanced away into the dark, as though still hunting her cat, and concentrated on the image of the cat, willing it to appear. “Here, Archibald. Here, kitty, kitty.” Please.
A soft meow answered her.
Wow. Maybe she was starting to commune with animals. Trembling with excitement, Miranda called softly again, “Here, Archie. Come on, baby.”
Obeying her summons, the cat leapt lightly to the top of the fence, then jumped down and came over to weave around Miranda’s legs. She bent down and scooped him up, hugging him close in gratitude. “There you are, baby. You naughty kitty.” She gave the officer a “told you so” look. “I just knew this was the right place. May I go now?”
The policeman flicked the flashlight off. “Okay, lady. Just don’t hang around in dark alleys anymore. It’s not safe.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I won’t. Good night.” Clutching the cat, who rumbled like a dump truck, Miran
da obediently strolled off down the alley. Behind her, the officer’s radio crackled to life. She heard him answer, then counted off his footsteps as he dashed toward the other end of the alley.
Instead of going straight back, however, Miranda turned left when she reached the street and simply walked around the block. The farther she went, however, the less the cat’s rumbling sounded like a purr and the more it sounded like a growl, but she hung onto Puss as an alibi in case the officer hadn’t gone after all.
She was almost halfway around when dear, sweet Archie, or whatever his name was, decided he’d had enough of being hauled around by a stranger. With one last warning yowl, he launched himself toward the nearest parked car, taking a good portion of Miranda’s wrist with him when she made the mistake of trying to hang on too long.
“Ow! You stupid—”
The cat hopped back down from the car and rubbed against her leg again. Sucking on her wounded wrist, Miranda glared down.
“What do you think I am? An idiot?” she demanded in a whisper. “Get lost.” She put her foot under the cat’s belly and gently lifted him aside. In yet another personality swing, the demon made a brief, valiant attempt to debone her toe through her shoe, then dashed off.
“Ppht,” she hissed after him. Thank the Goddess for sturdy English walking shoes. She’d have to write the makers a testimonial: “How Your Shoes Saved Me from a Mad Cat.” Maybe they’d pay her and the evening wouldn’t be a total loss. She headed back toward her post.
