by Meg Cabot
“Oh.” Nicole leaps up, her tears forgotten, and shoves the huge, ornately wrapped box at me. “Here, Heather. I know this can never make up for what I did, but I wanted you to know I’m not only sorry, I want to make amends. So I bought this with my own money, even though I’m unemployed, broke, and probably prediabetic. My parents didn’t help pay for it at all, and neither did Jessica.”
“I didn’t help pick it out either,” Jessica says. She’s been digging around for something in her purse, an enormous white designer tote with metallic-gold accents. “Nicole did this one all on her own.”
“Wow, Nicole,” I say, reaching up to detach the large silver bow. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Obviously, I don’t mean this.
“Actually I did,” Nicole says. “It was wrong of me to call your wedding planner and give her all those extra names and addresses that I stole from your Rolodex and address book. Although, to be fair, I did it because there seem to be so many more guests on the groom’s side than the bride’s, which I felt was unfair, even though Cooper explained to me that’s how you wanted it. And it was seriously unprofessional of your wedding planner to believe that it was okay with you, and not to call you and check to make sure it was okay before going ahead and sending the invitations out. If you think about it, there’s something wrong with Perry. I’d make a better wedding planner than her. At least I have your best interest at heart.”
“It’s hard to dispute that,” I admit, especially since the stupid woman still hasn’t returned any of our calls. I’ve torn the wrapping paper from Nicole’s gift and now I can see what it is she’s gone to so much trouble to lug all the way from the penthouse apartment in which she lives with her sister and parents. “Oh. My. How thoughtful of you, Nicole.”
“It’s a juicer,” Nicole says unnecessarily, since I can see perfectly well by the picture on the side of the box. “According to the personal shopper who picked it out, it’s the top of the line. So now you and Cooper can start juicing things, like kale and celery and carrots and spinach. It’s way healthier than the stuff you guys normally eat.”
“Oh,” I say, staring at the juicer. A juicer was not on the list of wedding gifts for which Cooper and I registered. I had not wanted to register for any wedding gifts at all, but Lisa, who’d been married in the spring, warned me that if we didn’t register, we’d receive gifts anyway, gifts we did not want. Such as juicers. “How lovely, Nicole. Thank you.”
Nicole beams happily. “I’m glad you like it. When you juice vegetables, as opposed to cooking them, more of the nutrients are absorbed into your system right away. In only a matter of weeks, you’re going to begin to see a difference. You’re going to lose weight, because you’ll be too filled up from drinking all the healthy vegetable juice you’ll be having to eat instead of all that nasty junk food you guys like, such as pizza and cookies, and your hair and skin are going to begin to glow.”
“Wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. I thought my skin was already glowing thanks to my exfoliating brush, but apparently I was mistaken. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Nicole.”
I want to punch her in the face, but I figure this will be even worse for Cartwright family relations than refusing to speak to her anymore, my previous plan for exacting revenge on her.
“Oh, I’m so happy you love it!” Nicole rushes over to throw her arms around my neck. She’s crying again, but this time they’re tears of joy.
I hug her back. What else can I do?
“Yeah,” Jessica says in a sarcastic voice from behind us. “Just what you always wanted, huh, Heather?”
I hear the sound of ice being shaken in a glass. After Nicole lets go of me, I turn around to see that Jessica has pulled several bottles from her voluminous purse and poured their contents into the glasses she’s set along the kitchen counter. Now she’s shaking each individual glass with a salad plate over the top to keep the contents—which are very pink—from spilling out. A cocktail shaker would have been a more appropriate gift from Nicole—there is one on our registry—but apparently she did not consider that to be healthful enough.
“Jessica,” I say curiously. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you a present you’ll really appreciate,” she says. “Key West lemonade. Vodka with triple sec, lemonade, and a little cranberry juice. I figured everyone could use a drink.” She pauses her shaking to eye me. “Unless you’d like me to run down to the deli to buy some kale. We could juice that up really quick, if you’d prefer.”
“No. It’s okay. The lemonade sounds great.”
Trust Jessica to drop by with a portable bar in her purse.
“Jess,” Nicole says disapprovingly. “You know I don’t drink hard alcohol. Why did you make one for me?”
“It’s not for you, dummy,” Jessica says. “It’s for Rambo downstairs.”
Jessica lifts two of the drinks like she’s procuring one for herself and intending to take the other down to the basement for Hal.
I know this is a really bad idea, not only because it will freak out Hal, who has always seemed a bit uncomfortable—to say the least—around women, but also because of what I suspect she’s going to find in the basement. Not that I think Jessica will disapprove. On the contrary, I’m pretty sure she will like it . . . so much that she’ll probably snap photos and post them all over her many social media networking sites. Then Cooper will be hauled up in front of whatever private eye board reviews these kinds of things and stripped of his license, and also probably sent to prison.
“You know what,” I say, snatching both glasses from her hands. “Let me. You stay here and make one for Cooper. He should be here any minute.”
Nicole brightens. “Really? You’ve heard from him?”
“And isn’t he more of a scotch drinker?” Jessica asks. Sometimes, even as different as they are, the twins think uncannily alike.
“Oh, no, he just texted,” I lie, moving quickly down the hall in the direction of the basement door. “He’s on his way. And no, he loves fruity drinks.”
If there’s a hell I’m going straight to it for all the lies I’ve told in the past hour alone.
I have to nudge the basement door open with my foot because my hands are filled with sweaty-sided drinks, but I’m able to make it down the dark, narrow staircase unscathed. Cooper’s brownstone was built around the same time as Fischer Hall, so it has many of the same odd features as the dorm, such as a basement that was originally used to store coal and ice and possibly even dead bodies—or at least hanging carcasses of meat—so it’s dark and creepy down there, and has a tendency to flood because of an underground stream that runs beneath Fifth Avenue, Washington Square Park, and most of Greenwich Village.
Though most similar buildings have converted their basements into laundry rooms or at least parking garages (for which they charge shockingly high rent), Cooper’s grandfather never bothered, nor has Cooper since he inherited the place, so it’s continued to look like that malformed guy’s cave from The Hobbit (which I’ve never seen or read, because it looks quite dull, but I’ve heard Gavin go on about it ad nauseam).
I find Hal sitting in a puddle of light at a worktable Cooper once purchased during a fit of HGTV-induced home-repair fervor. Only instead of fixing a broken lamp or sawing an unstable chair leg, Hal is loading .22-caliber bullets into a small blue-finished, rubber-gripped revolver. Before him are four or five open gun cases, each revealing other revolvers of various designs and finishes, along with a great many boxes of bullets.
I see that Cooper’s gun safe is closed and locked, so I know none of the weapons came from there, and besides, only Cooper and I know the combination, which is Lucy’s birthday. The gun cases all seemed to have come from Hal’s duffel bag, which is lying on the floor beneath the worktable, right next to Lucy, who is studiously chewing on her left paw.
I’m not certain what to do. Hal hasn’t yet noticed me on the stairs, so retreating is definitely an option. I could sneak back up
stairs and tell Jessica and Nicole that there’s a gas leak and they need to get out of the house, then call Canavan and ask him to get back here, pronto: there’s a gun-hoarding madman in my basement.
But before I have a chance to do this, an ice cube in one of the drinks I’m holding shifts, making a loud tinkling noise, and Hal looks up, the lenses of his glasses flashing in the light from the work lamp. He’s seen me.
“Why, hello, Hal,” I say brightly. “Had a bad day? Violence is never the answer, you know. Let’s have a nice refreshing drink and talk about it.”
Hal smiles sweetly.
“These aren’t for me,” he says, gesturing to the gun cases. “Cooper asked me to bring them over.”
“Oh?” I take a hesitant step or two down the stairs. “Is Cooper planning on arming a small militant group?”
Hal’s smile broadens. “No,” he says. “They’re for you, actually.”
25
There’s the vow row
There’s the mom bomb
There’s the not now
That’s the whole song
“The Whole Shebang,”
written by Heather Wells
I have to continue the rest of the way down the stairs and hurry to sit down at the stool opposite Hal’s. Otherwise I’d have dropped both cocktails in shock. Once I’m safely seated, I take a long, restorative sip.
Jessica’s right. Key West lemonades are quite refreshing.
“Excuse me, Hal,” I say politely. “Did you say Cooper asked you to bring over all these guns for me?”
“Well, not to use all at once,” Hal says, in his soft, breathy voice. “You’re supposed to pick the one you feel most comfortable shooting. I was trying to remember the last time you were at the range. Didn’t you like this twenty-two?”
I want to enjoy more of Jessica’s drink, but guns and alcohol are a terrible combination, so I set both glasses to the far side of the worktable where I can look at them longingly.
“Hal,” I say carefully. “Why did Cooper ask you to bring over such a large and varied selection of guns for me?”
“Did he not mention it to you?” Hal looks surprised. “He told me there’s someone trying to kill you. Or at least, someone who’s already killed one person where you work, and may come after you next. From what I understand . . .” Hal looks nervous. This is probably the longest conversation he’s had with a member of the female sex since the last time he visited his mother. “ . . . this kind of thing happens to you a lot.”
“Okay,” I say, after taking a deep breath. “I do get where Cooper is coming from. But I work in a seven-hundred-bed dorm, Hal. I mean, residence hall. I can’t go around shooting a gun off in there. I might seriously injure—or kill—someone.”
“Uh,” Hal says. “That’s sort of the point. The nice thing about these pistols is that they’re for small-game hunting. Squirrels, rabbits, gophers, maybe a fox or coyote—varmints. You won’t do much damage to varmints of the two-legged kind with one of these unless, of course, you’re deliberately aiming at them, and they’re standing very close to you.”
I swallow. “Varmint of the two-legged kind” is a pretty good way to describe Hamad—or whoever it is that killed Jasmine and tried to kill Cameron Ripley.
Still.
“I do not need, nor did I ask for, a gun, Hal,” I say, as politely as I can. “Not even one for small-game hunting. Where is Cooper, anyway?”
Virgin Hal looks uncomfortable as he sets aside the first pistol and opens the case for another. “He asked me not to tell you, because he doesn’t want you to worry. But he said he’ll be home soon, and in the meantime he asked me to stick around here to make sure you’re all right, in case you have any visitors. Male visitors,” he adds hastily, looking toward the ceiling. “I don’t think he meant his sisters.”
I latch on to only a single word Hal’s uttered. “Worry? Why doesn’t Cooper want me to worry about him? Is he in trouble, or something? I thought he was working on a simple case of insurance fraud.”
“He is,” Hal says quickly. “That’s what I mean. Nothing to worry about.”
So why am I only worrying more?
“Great,” I mutter beneath my breath. “I’m the one Cooper’s marrying, but he doesn’t tell me anything. You, the arms dealer, he tells everything.”
“I’m not an arms dealer.” Hal looks hurt. “I would never sell any of these. I’m a collector. I only loan them to special friends. And don’t you think it’s better that someone like me has them than some mutt who’s going to do something terrible with them?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait a minute. Did you just say ‘mutt’? Hal, are you a cop?”
“I . . . used to be,” he says, with his head ducked. I can’t see his eyes, because of the thick glasses, but he appears unhappy. “I don’t really enjoy discussing those days. Could we please concentrate on selecting a weapon for you instead? It would make me very happy. You’re a good shot, you know.”
Now I widen my eyes at him. “I am?”
“I saw you at the practice range,” he says, glancing up shyly. “You shot very accurately, even though you hadn’t had much experience. Many women do, though.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice as he adds, “They tend to have a lighter touch on the grip than men, and more stability in the”—his gaze dips below my waist, and he clears his throat uncomfortably—“lower body area. A lower center of gravity helps with stance.”
I have no idea how to respond to this. “Is that a fact?”
Hal is warming to his subject. “Oh, yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “The only reason you don’t see as many women as men in shooting competitions is because often the women who are the best shots are the ones least interested in pursuing shooting as a sport or hobby. They tend to be like you: they think guns are too violent, or too loud, or are only for criminals, or hunters. That kind of thing. It’s a shame.”
He sighs sadly, and it’s evident in that moment why Hal is still a virgin (if his nickname is accurate): he simply hasn’t found the right girl . . . or is too shy to have opened himself up this candidly in front of her.
“Really,” is all I can think of to say.
I remember the few times I’d reluctantly allowed Cooper to drag me to the shooting range where he and his friends go to practice firing their weapons (something he feels he’s required to do as a licensed gun owner in the state of New York, and also, I suppose, as someone in his line of work). The men had far outnumbered the women there, but there’d definitely been a few women.
One of them had been a bleached blonde wearing head-to-toe pink: pink stilettos, pink minidress, pink hair band, and even pink shooting gloves (to protect her manicure) to go with her pink-handled Ruger. She had fired a perfect heart shape (in bullet holes) around the center of her target from fifty feet away, then lowered her pink-tinted eye protectors, nodded with satisfaction, and walked out, swinging her pink Hello Kitty plastic gun case.
That was the only part of my trip to the gun range that I’d enjoyed. I’d mentioned to Cooper that I’d go with him more often if I could have an outfit color-coordinated with my gun, like the pink lady, but I’d been kidding.
So it isn’t completely out of the blue that Cooper has sent Hal over on a mission not only to protect me, but to offer me a weapon with which to protect myself.
Sadly, none of the pistols Hal has on offer are pink. I sigh. I have absolutely no intention of taking a gun to work, but I figure I might as well play along to keep Hal happy.
“Okay. Which one did you think I shot best with?”
Hal looks pleased, and shows me. Once I’m holding the smooth handle in my hand, I remember.
“It’s basically a target pistol,” Hal explains. “Not at all what I or anyone else would recommend as a gun for personal safety. But you seemed to feel comfortable with it—at least, you hit the target pretty much dead to center every time—and at close range it will definitely maim someone, so that’s all that matters.�
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“How nice,” I say.
“Also, it will easily fit in your purse or a deep pocket,” Hal goes on, missing my sarcasm. “It only holds nine rounds, but you won’t need more than that. The key is to shoot and get out. Never let anyone take the gun off you. Unless they’re a police officer, of course, in which case you have to surrender it, but then you’ll go to jail because you don’t have a license to own a gun, let alone carry it around the streets of New York City. Otherwise, though, never ever give up your weapon, no matter what.”
“Okay,” I say weakly. Simply holding a weapon outside a shooting range makes me feel a little sick. How does Cooper wear one every day? Maybe Hal is right, and I’m one of those women who is a good shot but simply doesn’t like guns. “Are you sure I’m in enough danger to need this?”
“Well, Cooper seems to think so. And if he thinks so, it must be true.”
It’s kind of funny that just as Hal says this, Lucy, who’s been lying worshipfully at his feet, suddenly lifts her head, her ears perked up. A second later, she’s barking excitedly and racing up the stairs to the first floor, her foxlike tail streaming behind her.
This can only mean one thing, as confirmed when Jessica’s strident voice shouts down the stairs, “Heather! You’d better get up here. Cooper’s home. And you’re not going to believe this.”
26
Hearts and flowers, ribbons and lace,
The look of love upon her face.
A happy heart that’s hard to hide,
This woman is soon to be a bride.
Source unknown
Jessica’s right. I don’t believe it.
Cooper’s coming through the front door, supported around the waist by another one of his bosom pals, Sammy the Schnozz. This is because Cooper’s right foot is swathed in a black-fabric-and-metal cast, from his bare toes all the way up to his knee.
