Chocolate pusher-man Jack was there to greet me when I walked into the shop.
“The usual?” he asked.
“Yes.”
I slid a wilted five-dollar bill across the glass candy counter at him. Jack eyed it skeptically, then handed me a paper napkin containing two dark-brown lumps the size of ping-pong balls. He took a step back and cringed in knowing anticipation of what came next.
I crammed both beautiful, hand-dipped chocolate-covered cherries into my mouth, bit down and grinned like that creepy person in a horror flick that you know is up to no good.
Yes. All was right in my little world.
I TURNED MY PHONE BACK on. The clock registered 11 a.m. as I left Chocolateers. I still had some time to kill before lunch, so I decided to take a pleasure drive along the downtown waterfront district. I was idling at the corner of 4th Avenue and Beach Drive when I got nailed. I never saw it coming.
I stared, slack jawed, at about a dozen guys clad in shorts and sweat-stained-shirts. They toiled away like ants on an open stretch of green grass in Straub Park. Working together, they assembled the huge, metal ribcage of a forty-foot-tall artificial Christmas tree.
It may as well have been a forty-foot tall effigy of my mother’s disapproving face.
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the weather. Soon I’d be obliged to keep a promise I’d made months ago in a moment of sniveling weakness. I’d have to go visit my mother for the holidays.
A horn honked behind me. I made a hasty left onto Beach Drive. An old, familiar knot gripped my stomach. Its name was Lucille Jolly. Lucille was my adoptive mother – a fact I’d discovered less than two years ago. Up until then, I thought she’d been the real thing. I had to confess, as shocked as I’d been when I’d found out Lucille wasn’t my biological mother, the news had left me feeling somehow relieved. It meant I hadn’t come from her gene pool.
I supposed everyone had a love-hate relationship with their mother. Since I’d only known Glad Goldrich, my true mother, for six weeks before she’d died, we’d never gotten around to the hate part. But on that score, Lucille and I’d had nearly fifty years of dutiful practice.
My brain turned to mush, my arms to lead. I drove slowly and aimlessly along North Shore Boulevard, as if I’d suddenly run out of gas. Tampa Bay was to my left. Sunlight danced a billion bright diamonds on the wide expanse of water. Vinoy Park was to my right. Huge oaks canopied over wooden benches and scattered flowerbeds bursting with red and white blooms. But all I could see was doom. I pulled into a parking spot and sighed.
The mere thought of having to spend time with Lucille Jolly drained me like a used-up battery. The woman knew all my buttons and how to push them. Hell, she should’ve. She’d pretty much installed every one of them. Like a snowball in Florida, I didn’t have a chance in hell against her mysterious ability to instantly vaporize my self-esteem.
My cellphone rang, startling me out of my melancholy malaise. I looked at the screen. It was my cop boyfriend, Tom.
“Hey you!” he said cheerily. “What ’cha doing?”
“Thinking of running away and joining the circus.”
He laughed. “Sorry, Val. You’re not weird enough.”
“Tell that to Lucille.”
“Uh oh. Already getting antsy about the trip?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Val, it’s just for a few days. Family is family. You’re stuck with them, whether you like it or not.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Hey. I’m going with you. It’ll be fun.”
I smiled cynically. Even though Tom had already met my mother, it was a pretty brief encounter. He’d never made the acquaintance of my other relatives. This fact had not been unintentional on my part. My family was a Croker sack full of crazy. At the best of times, they were comically tolerable – in very small doses. But the holidays were different. Christmas was to the Jolly clan what a full moon was to a pack of werewolves. Tom had no idea of the level of lunacy he was getting himself into.
I blew out a jaded puff of air.
“Yeah, sure Tom. It’s gonna be a blast.”
Chapter Two
As I crammed my toes into my work heels on Friday morning, I realized I’d fallen back into an old, robotic routine I’d thought was a thing of the past. Ten years ago, I’d had a thriving copy-writing business, aka a steady job. Then I’d freaked out, certain that I’d become nothing more than a cog in a machine. My mid-life crises culminated in me ditching my entire life and running off to Europe. I’d ended up spending seven years in Germany as an ex-pat wife and house renovator. When that fell apart three years ago, I’d returned to St. Pete as an estranged ex-wife in dire need of renovation myself.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There I was, methodically preparing for a day at the office just like I used to – as if the entire last decade had never happened. Maybe getting ready for work was like riding a bicycle. Once you had it down, you never forgot.
But I didn’t want to remember. Not if it meant becoming a mindless, dreary robot again. I shook my head as if to clear away the cobwebs inside it. I couldn’t allow that to happen. If I did... good grief! It would mean I’d wasted my entire forties!
The fear that I’d once again lose myself to my job was the real reason I’d played hooky yesterday. I’d needed to shake myself up before I’d gotten hopelessly mired in that insidious, hypnotic, nine-to-five maze again. Lord knows I don’t have another spare decade to squander!
I checked my hair in the bathroom mirror and laughed at myself. Look at you and your little rage against the man. You’re such a rebel, Val.
Yeah, right.
I found my car keys and grabbed my purse. Who was I kidding? I needed this job more than this job needed me. As I headed out the door, I suddenly remembered something. I walked back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and grabbed a bottle of rum.
It was amazing what an inheritance could do to ruin a person’s ambition....
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Val Fremden Mystery Box Set 1 Page 66
