by Scott, D. D.
“The trash can,” I said. “That’s right, Gregory. That’s exactly where I found the vase.”
“I didn’t—I just assumed—”
“You took out the trash,” Penelope said. “At the party, that’s what you said when you came inside.”
“I was just trying to help out.” Gregory’s voice broke. “Are you accusing me of something?” Gregory looked from Penelope to me. “Are you suggesting I broke the vase and stuffed it in the trash, making off with the silver?”
“I’m not accusing you of breaking the vase,” I said. “I’m accusing your dog of breaking the vase.”
“Sadie?” he asked.
The Vizsla barked, and her tongue hung out. She appeared to be smiling as she sat next to her master.
“Sadie was bleeding the day after the party,” I said, “probably from the removal of a sliver of glass from the vase in her paw. The glass left a wound that was reopened with the activity outside.”
“The blood was from where the cattails cut her paw,” Gregory said.
“And she was limping the night of the party,” I added.
Gregory shook his head. “She’s an old dog. Hip dysplasia is common—”
“But she wasn’t limping the day after the party,” I said. “The splinter had been removed. And she’s not limping today.”
“She doesn’t limp,” Penelope said, “unless there’s a reason.”
I looked at Gregory and felt both sad at needing to reveal his lies and worried—worried that he wouldn’t confess to the incident and that the silver and gems from the vase would be forever missing. I tried to force my voice to be as authoritative and deep as I could pull off. “Sadie accidentally knocked over the vase, and you cleaned up the evidence.”
Penelope turned to face her husband as Sadie whined again. Gregory flailed his arms in an odd shrugging gesture. Penelope responded by moving her hands to her hips and staring him down.
“I’ve had to live with you long enough,” she said, “long enough to know your poker face when I see it. Start telling me the truth. Now.”
“Fine.” Gregory said. “Fine! During the party, I went to take Sadie out, and she got overexcited, jumped up on the table, and the vase fell over. I was going to fix everything. That’s—that was where I was going this morning—to try to get a replica of your vase made since you have such an obsessive focus on the Ice Queen. But fine.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple silver handles. Even in the dim house, the gems sparkled and the face of the Ice Queen seemed oddly illuminated as she stared at me, half smiling, like she knew she’d be revealed all along.
“It’s true?” Penelope screeched. “Jade, excuse us.”
I laid the box of Ice Queen pieces on the entryway table and stepped outside, and as I closed the door behind myself, I heard the arguing voices ramp up.
“Penny, this morning, just now, I swear I was on my way to Olivia—”
“Olivia?” Penelope’s voice reached yet another octave.
“—only to see if she could make a new glass vase the same proportion and color as your Ice Queen and attach the silver pieces to it.”
“Of course you’d think of running off to Olivia first.”
“She is an artist, after all. She specializes in blowing glass.”
“Oh, I know what she is. And I know what she specializes in.”
“Penny, this can be mended.”
“Mended?” Penelope asked. “It’s beyond mending!”
The marriage or the vase, I wondered as the argument continued inside. I headed toward my car.
**
“So you think you’re Mrs. Hot Stuff now, don’t you?” Mack asked me as we filed out of the conference room. Rex had just congratulated me on finding the vase, and our receptionist had rubbed her hands together in anticipation of sending Penelope a $1,000 bill.
“I’m feeling pretty good,” I admitted.
“We’ll see how you’re feeling when you get a load of the background checks stacked up and waiting for you,” Mack said.
I shrugged. My cell phone rang with the sticky-sweet love song ringtone Dale had covertly programed in a month ago. I’d not yet gotten around to restoring it to my regular ring. I checked the caller identification: “Pickles.” I sighed and let the call go to voicemail.
The receptionist grabbed my arm and looked at my phone’s screen.
“You ought to give that boy a break,” she said.
“I think I’ve broken him enough. Besides, we’re just friends,” I said. “And I don’t want to turn into some cold, bitter ice queen forty years from now with a house full of things but with nothing to warm it or my heart.”
“Nothing better than a lifelong friendship to keep a house and heart warm, as opposed to a fiery love gone cold.”
I remembered the feel of the vase pieces as I placed them in the box, broken and cold and sharp and menacing. And I thought of Dale Pickles, wholesome and warm and cuddly and welcoming. Like a puppy.
“Maybe I could give Dale another shot,” I said. “Or,” I added, “I could just get a Vizsla.”
I headed back to my desk and the pile of work that awaited me.
About the Author
I’ve always enjoyed writing. In high school, I often cut class to deliver columns to local newspapers and was called into the principal’s office for interviewing teachers about how sports programs received more funding than academics, which resulted in an article that mysteriously never was published after I submitted it.
Finally, while an undergraduate, I received my first paid writing job as a sports reporter (despite my meager knowledge about sports like football and basketball, staples of the sports section). Imagine my surprise when my sports writing won awards from the North Carolina Press Association.
Since then, I’ve held jobs incorporating writing and editing for the North Carolina Museum of Art, the University of North Carolina at Wilmington (where I also received an MFA in Creative Writing), the North Carolina Department of Parks and Recreation, and the town of Holly Springs.
My writing has appeared in various magazines and newspapers, as well as inWindhover, the literary and visual arts journal of North Carolina State University, where I graduated in English with a minor in music. Today, my writing regularly appears in the Holly Springs Sun as I cover the town council beat. An essay about motherhood that I wrote recently appeared in a collection entitled Beyond the Diaper Bag. I’m a member of Sisters in Crime and Cape Fear River Watch.
A resident of a small town near Raleigh, North Carolina, I enjoy wrangling with my two young boys, writing as a freelance journalist, and working on my next Jonie Waters mystery novel. I can’t believe the trouble Jonie is in this time!
The S-Word and the Lady Garden
By
Sibel Hodge
It was that time of year again when the dreaded S-word reared its ugly head. Yes, ladies, the horrible prodding and poking necessary for a smear test. I don’t know about you, but I still haven’t got used to them. Hell, why would I get used to someone wearing a head torch, looking like they’re about to dive into a huge cavern to explore, whilst clamping me open like I’m about to give birth to an elephant. Not my favourite pastime, I can tell you!
Anyway, this time I was in a bit of a rush. I think I’d been trying to put it off for so long in the hope it would slip my mind. Or, better yet, I’d turn into a man overnight and just not need one anymore. I think the shoe sale at Shoe World might’ve had a little something to do with my lateness, as well.
So I rushed into the doctor’s surgery, dying for a pee, wondering if it was possible for a bladder to spontaneously combust.
Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have had two gigantic Starbucks at lunchtime.
I quickly gave the receptionist my name and motioned towards the toilets with a flapping hand, hoping I’d be able to squeeze out a quickie before my torture, I mean, appointment.
I sat down, my bladder breathing an almost audible sigh of
relief. But what do you know? No toilet paper in there. No toilet paper? In a doctor’s surgery? Come on, some people had genuine medical emergencies that required immediate use of the loo! Like a mochaccino overdose, for example.
Humph! There was no way I was going to drip dry before someone poked their explorer’s lamp near my lady garden, so I rummaged around in my bag for a tissue.
Why is it that women’s handbags resemble a black hole when you’re looking for something specific? I could find…
Two lipsticks.
A mobile phone.
A purse (now somewhat lighter after the shoe sale).
Three and a half toothpicks (not sure what happened to the other half).
A dummy (if desperate I could use it as a no entry plug).
A dried and very manky-looking wishbone from a chicken (I know - what the hell?).
Ten pieces of sundry, scrappy paper (receipts and shopping lists).
Five pens (a girl has to be prepared).
A notepad (might be able to use that if all else fails).
Various coins.
A few headache tablets (good, I could feel a dull ache behind my right eye forming).
And at last! A packet of tissues that were…empty.
No!
Wait a sec, though, what’s that?
Stuffed right in the corner of my bag, with the fluff and a lone headache tablet that had wormed its way out of its blister pack, was a sad-looking, crumpled up tissue.
I pulled it out, careful not to rip it in the process, and blew a bit of fluff off it before using it.
There! With my bladder business concluded, I flew out of the toilet just as the doctor was calling my name.
So there I was, lying back on the couch, legs wide in the stirrups, in the most unflattering position a girl could be in, and the head-torch explorer was advancing like he was on a mission to win the National Potholing Championships. I briefly wondered if his wife ever asked him if he had a good day at the office, but then tried to shake that thought as quickly as it arrived.
Screwing my eyes shut, I waited for the, “Just relax, you won’t feel a thing,” routine.
Yeah, right!
Then I heard a loud gasp from him.
OK, that did it! How unprofessional to gasp at a ladies’…well, lady garden.
I unclamped one eye, staring at the look of horror on his face. What was with this man? Was he a pervert? A woman-hater? Maybe he wasn’t even the doctor, just some random patient who’d wandered into the examining room to get some cheap thrills.
I know, I know, highly unlikely, but surely a professional doctor wouldn’t just gasp at a poor woman’s exposed bits and bobs with a look of sheer disgust like that. He must see hundreds of lady gardens a week. Hollywoods, Brazillions, hairy 70s muffs, I bet he’d seen the lot. Mine couldn’t be that odd, could it?
He glanced slowly up at me, mouth open in shock, then back to my now rather embarrassed nether regions. In fact, I could feel my face and my fu-fu having a hot flush simultaneously.
Aagh! Maybe I was getting menopausal! Maybe it was something to do with that. I was sure I’d read somewhere that once you started going through the menopause unusual things started happening down below. Was that it? Could he see something weird? Had I gone bald overnight? Something worse? Had all my hair turned green down there? No, that couldn’t be it. I’d made sure my legs were shaved and had a trim up in preparation, and it all looked normal to me.
I sat up on the couch, craning my neck to look down at what he could see, but the stupid blanket covering my legs wasn’t see-through, and unless I was a cat or a contortionist, I had no chance of actually seeing what he could see from that angle.
‘Hmm,’ he said.
Hmm? What does that mean?
He picked up a huge pair of tweezers-looking thingies that could NOT be a good sign.
Eeek!
He leant in for the kill with his pointy weapon of torture and I felt a quick jab.
‘Ow! What the hell are you doing?’ I yelled, then all the blood drained from my face and my jaw dropped open as I saw what was pinched in between the ends of the tweezers.
A Tic-Tac!
Yep, that’s right, an Xmas Special Edition Mint Tic-Tac, no less! Which had probably been stuck in my bag since the 80s attached to the tissue.
It was my turn to gasp then. ‘Er…I was saving that for later.’
About the Author
Sibel Hodge is the author of best-selling romantic comedy Fourteen Days Later and other chick lit books. In her spare time, she’s Wonder Woman! You can find out more about her and her books at http://www.sibelhodge.com/
Snow Dance
By
Alicia Street
Winter 1998
Amanda stood waiting her turn at the register in Billings’s Paint and Hardware. What little patience she had was eroding by the minute. The wire handles of four heavy cans of Sunflower Yellow paint cut into her palms. She’d worn two sweaters under her pea-coat and leggings under her already snug jeans, which meant she now had rivulets of perspiration tickling her skin.
Worst of all, the guy holding up the works in front of her was the one who’d been checking her out earlier. He even offered to help her choose which color paint to buy. As if this middle-aged bumpkin in a hideous orange parka and army green trousers that looked like his dog had chewed them would know anything about color and design.
She kept her distance, but could hear him yapping away with the cashier, a young dude, probably still in high school. Their folksy chat went on and on. Something about snow plows. And ball joints? Kinky? Doubtful. Boring was more like it.
Time to clear her throat. Audibly.
It worked.
Mr. Orange Parka turned to her, tucking the paper bag holding his purchase into his pocket. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you were waiting.” He reached toward her paint cans. “Those are too heavy for a lady.”
“I’m just fine, thanks.” Amanda sidestepped him and heaved the cans onto the counter. Nearly putting her back out of line. Did they have a chiropractor around here?
“See that, Parker? This is one strong woman.” He extended his hand. “Russ McNeil.”
She sighed, took his hand and mumbled, “Amanda Kushinski.”
Men. At forty-five she’d had more than her fill. They turned up in all sizes and shapes, each with their own come-on. Each one with the same goal in mind: the bedroom.
After a long, exciting career as a Broadway dancer that included a leading role in A Chorus Line and a remake of Kiss Me, Kate, where she got to sing “I Hate Men” — how prophetic that little ditty turned out to be— she’d seen it all. Producers, directors, businessmen and movie stars. Not to mention her illustrious, womanizing ex-husband. Amanda had moved to North Cove because it was one of several small farming and fishing towns out here on Long Island’s eastern tip. It seemed like a place free from all the hype. A good place to find solitude and maybe even some sort of peace.
At least this Russ was the rustic type. Pun intended. But when it came to women, obviously even the cozy, down-home guys turned phony.
He pointed a thumb at the cashier. “This handsome buck is Parker Richardson.”
Parker was, in fact, quite handsome, but he seemed to be brooding or troubled over something. The teen gave her a silent nod, which Amanda barely had a chance to return before he trotted away to the back of the store.
“Parker’s got a lot on his plate right now,” Russ said, watching him, concern in his gaze. He faced Amanda. “You’re the one who’s opening a store that sells old clothes.”
“Vintage clothing,” she said. “There’s a difference. But then I don’t know much about snow plows.”
She assumed her snarky tone would put him off, but when Parker brought back a cardboard box and set the cans in it, Russ offered to carry it out to her car.
“That’s very kind of you, but I can manage.” With her narrow frame, Amanda would have rather hauled the cans by t
he handles than muscle this hulky box, but she didn’t have the heart to refuse Parker’s considerate gesture. “Nice to meet you both.”
Russ hurried to the door and held it open for her. “Sure you won’t let me take that for you?”
Amanda wanted to growl, but she replied in a happy singsong. “No need.”
“Watch your step,” Russ said. “Everything’s freezing up out there.”
He followed her into the gray January dusk, but headed to the opposite side of the parking lot. Thankfully.
A few yards from her black Toyota SUV, congratulating herself on getting rid of him, Amanda stepped in a patch of ice. Her feet went flying. She let go of the box, her hands reaching back automatically to break her fall as she dropped to her butt.
The sound of her paint cans hitting the asphalt brought Russ sauntering over. Amanda tried to get on her feet before he reached her, but all she could manage was an embarrassing crab walk with her high-heeled boots and her raw, ice-burned palms slipping and sliding.
Gripping Amanda under her arms, Russ hoisted her onto her feet. He stayed behind her a moment. Despite her woolen pea-coat she noticed the strength of his enormous hands as he steadied her. Her blue silk scarf had fallen open, and his breath, warm and moist, made the bare skin on her neck prickle.
She moved away and brushed the snow off her coat. “Thanks much.”
He gathered all the paint cans, his thick fingers curled around the wire handles, and said, “I’ll take these. You get the box.”
She grumbled, “I’m still quite capable of carrying—”
“I know that. But there’s something you don’t know about me.”
“Oh?”
