by Elise Sax
It was worse than jealousy. It was the fear of losing Spencer, which was weird because I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep him.
Yes, I loved him, but forever was a long time. I wasn’t good with forever. I had only become good with two months, and forever was a lot longer than two months.
I swallowed, willing the worry to disappear, but it was wedged in my heart, and it refused to budge.
Damn it.
Love sucked donkey balls.
I reached my grandmother’s house in about ten minutes. The house across the street was still selfie-central. Grandma’s house was pretty busy, too, which was normal. Not only did she have daily classes and a steady stream of clients, but it was the center of activity for every Cannes organization. The driveway was packed with cars, and I squeezed between them to get to the front door.
“Daffodils!” I heard someone shout as I opened the door.
“Now, Morris,” I heard my grandmother say calmly. “I’m sure we can come to a solution that will make everyone happy.”
Inside, there were about a dozen people in the parlor, some on folding chairs and the others on the couches. I recognized most of them. I waved to Meryl, the blue-haired librarian, and she waved back. Morris was the head of the Daffodil Committee, and since we were in the middle of daffodil season, tensions were high. Not only was half of the town blooming with daffodils in front of every house and building, but the Daffodil Competition was coming up, and from what I had heard, it was dog-eat-dog to the blue ribbon and twenty-five-dollar gift card award to the local nursery.
Not wanting to take part of whatever daffodil drama was going on, I tiptoed away, but Morris called me back in.
“What do you think, Gladie?”
I stopped in my tracks and pointed at myself. “Me? I don’t know much about flowers.”
“Daffodils,” one of the other committee members corrected. “Not regular flowers. Cannes is known for its March and April daffodil bloom. It’s very important. Zelda, haven’t you explained to your granddaughter about the importance of daffodils?”
“Gladie is very busy making love matches,” she said, coming to my rescue, but the woman harrumphed and adjusted herself on her seat.
“Gladie, this town has been known for its yellow daffodils since the beginning of time,” Morris told me. “Now these young upstarts,” he continued, pointing to the ancient group of geriatrics. “want to do a white daffodil display at the Cannes Daffodil Competition. White, Gladie. White.”
“White,” some of the committee members said, tsking loudly.
“Well…” I started, but my grandmother shook her head, warning me off giving my opinion. Actually, I had no opinion. White or yellow…what did I care?
Luckily, one of the women stood up and interrupted me. “Get with the times, Morris! White daffodils! White!”
He pointed at her, dramatically with his arm outstretched. “Heretic. Barbarian. Jezebel.”
Grandma stood. “Now, now, Morris. Let’s not get personal.” Behind her back, my grandmother waved at me, signaling me to escape while I could. I took the hint and got out of the room and made my way to the kitchen.
Sanctuary.
It was just me, the linoleum floor, the Formica counters, and the seventy-year old appliances, table, and chairs. I made a pot of coffee and took a mug out of the cabinet. I opened the refrigerator and stuck my head inside it.
“You need to be careful, Gladie,” I heard and turned around with the milk in my hand. Meryl had come into the kitchen, and she filled my mug with coffee and brought it to her lips.
“I don’t know about daffodils,” I said. “I tried to stay out of it.”
She swatted the air. “Not that. Larry Doughy, your new match.”
I took another mug out of the cabinet and filled it with coffee and milk. “Wow, news spreads like wildfire in this town. What about Larry? I know he’s a little odd.”
Meryl brought the cookie jar to the table and sat down. “He’s cursed, not odd. A week ago, he was straight as an arrow. A log cabin Republican. He came into the library every Thursday to check out a new book on investment banking. Then, it all went to hell, and that man’s cursed. If I were you, I’d stay far away from him.”
I sat down and took a sip of my coffee. “Meryl, come on.”
“Did you hear what happened to his foot?”
“No, but I saw his foot. I think he’s just having a run of bad luck.”
Meryl snorted. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Thank you, Meryl. I don’t believe in curses.”
“Neither did I until Larry Doughy. That poor shlub is cursed.” She put emphasis on the last word, and it sent a wave of anxiety up my spine. Could she be right? Could Larry Doughy be cursed?
Meryl grabbed a couple more cookies and went back to her daffodil meeting. I looked at the cookie jar and wondered if I should add them to the pie a la mode, which was digesting slowly in my stomach.
A scent of familiar, expensive cologne wafted up my nose, and Spencer walked into the kitchen. He plopped down on the chair next to me and slapped a battered bouquet of white daffodils onto the table.
“They were nice when I came in, but I was attacked when I walked past the parlor,” he explained. “Crazy-ass town. Anyway, they’re apology flowers. Gladie? Are you not talking to me?”
I felt myself blush, so I kept my gaze fixed on my cup of coffee.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t totally honest with you,” he continued. He had the nicest voice. It was deep and all male. It reminded me of when he spoke to me in bed at night, cradling me in his arms while he made love to me.
I couldn’t help it. I looked up at him. We locked eyes, and he arched an eyebrow. “She’s a hardass cop. Very competent, from Los Angeles. You know that I’m trying to make the Cannes police force halfway decent. It’s not easy. I have to recruit good talent.”
I nodded. Except for Remington, Spencer had to work with the Keystone Cops, and he hated it.
“For example, we had to call in the paramedics for Fred today because he has butt trauma. I mean, his butt is fine, but he was traumatized by a butt. How many police chiefs in this country have to deal with their desk sergeant having butt trauma?”
“I’m guessing not a whole lot,” I said.
Spencer smiled. “There’s my girl. I was worried I lost you.”
“You’re lucky you have me. Any other woman would have killed you.”
He ran the back of his finger along my jawline. “I’m a very lucky man. Very lucky. Speaking of lucky, I’ve got some time. How about I get more lucky?”
“Your detective looks like Angelina Jolie.”
“A young Angelina Jolie with bigger boobs and longer legs.”
I sighed.
“Not that I noticed,” he continued.
“Don’t you need to be at work, preparing for the conference?”
“Oh, Pinky. After your visit today? Your English accent? When will you start to understand me?”
Spencer stood and pulled me up. He slipped his arms around me, crushing me against him. Then, he walked me to the wall and lifted me, wrapping my legs around his waist.
“The Daffodil Committee,” I began.
“They’re in there for thirty minutes more, at least. I need five.”
“Five minutes isn’t the best sales pitch, Spencer. I don’t care that you’ll be satisfied in five minutes.”
His fingers reached between my legs and began to caress me through my pants. “Who talked about me? This is all you, Pinky. Give me five minutes, and I’ll give you ecstasy.”
“Big talker,” I said, but Spencer backed up his words with deft fingers and deep kisses. True to his word, I climaxed in four minutes, and he quieted my cries of ecstasy with his mouth on mine.
The Daffodil Committee were none the wiser.
CHAPTER 3
No matter what, no matter how much they don’t want to, no matter how little they’re enthusiastic about a date, make
sure your matches always put their best foot forward. This isn’t always easy to do, bubbeleh. A lot of people put their worst foot forward or only half of their best foot forward. You understand what I’m saying? Their best foot means that they dress nicely, brush their teeth, smile, and think of nice things to say over guacamole before the meal. It doesn’t sound like much, but you’d be surprised at how much of a pain in the tuchus it is for many people. Naches to you, dolly, if you can get your matches to do their best. In other words, do your best to get your matches to do their best and love has got a shot. If you don’t and they don’t, they’re shit out of luck.
Lesson 66, Matchmaking advice from your
Grandma Zelda
I woke up with Spencer kissing my nakedness from my naked upper half to my naked lower half. It was the best way to wake up, even better than breakfast in bed, although breakfast in bed sounded good, too.
“It’s conference day,” I moaned.
“Lift your knees up.”
“You’ve got people coming in forty-five minutes.”
“Pinky, let’s work on us coming first, and then we’ll worry about the conference.”
Mitchell Shaw, who Grandma had matched with a retired foot model, delivered breakfast to the house as a thank you for finding him love, and it was ready on the table when I went downstairs after my quick shower with Spencer.
“This is called grits, dolly,” Grandma said, holding up a bowl. “And this is country ham. That’s different from regular ham, according to Mitchell. There’s a whole world of food out there that I knew nothing about. Isn’t that amazing? Live and learn.”
Spencer ran in, adjusting his tie. “Oh my God. What’s this? Look at those pancakes.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got twelve minutes.”
He sat down and piled food on his plate. “Zelda, this is great. You should get more clients who can cook.”
“I like cooking matches, but even non-cooking ones seem to like to give me food,” Grandma said, scooping grits onto her plate. “I haven’t been hungry in sixty years.”
“I’ve had to add five more miles to my daily run since I’ve started to eat here,” Spencer said with his mouth full of pancakes and country ham. He pointed his fork at me. “Speaking of food, you’re coming to lunch, right, Pinky?”
The conference was going to be a series of lectures, discussions, and social events. The night before, I was thrilled that Spencer actually invited me to participate in some of the social events. Normally, he insisted that I stay far away from his work, but since nobody had been murdered, I guessed it was okay.
Either that, or Spencer was feeling guilty.
I gnawed at the inside of my cheek, worrying about what Spencer felt guilty about.
After breakfast, it took me two hours to get ready for the law enforcement conference lunch. Grooming to show up the most beautiful woman in the world, who I was jealous of, was so much harder than grooming for a man or grooming for self-respect. Instead of looking good, I had to look good without looking like I was trying to look good so that Detective Hotsy Totsy would think that I always looked this good, and since she already saw me looking just so-so with chocolate-flavored lip balm, I had to look extra good without looking like I was trying to look extra good to make her forget about me looking so-so with chocolate-flavored lip balm.
Phew. Being jealous was exhausting.
By the time I was done, I was wearing a sheath dress, which was a size too small and strangled my body in such a way that I looked like Sophia Loren and made my c-cups look like double-Ds. Sure, I had grits and country ham working their way up my squeezed esophagus, but it was worth it. I practiced walking in my four-inch heels, and I applied another coat of base on my face like I was spackling a hole in the wall.
I took one more look at myself in the mirror. There. I was perfect. I was as hot as I could get and not get arrested for indecent exposure.
Take that, Detective Bitch Lady.
I changed purses into a small one with a spaghetti strap and walked slowly down the stairs, gripping the handrail for dear life so I wouldn’t trip over my nosebleed shoes and fall to my death.
There was a frantic knock on the door, and Grandma went to get it. “Hold on with both hands, dolly,” she told me as she passed. I held on, tighter and slowed my pace even more. “Coming,” Grandma sang.
She opened the door, and I was surprised to see my new client, Larry Doughy. Uh oh. With all of the worrying over my competition, I hadn’t started to find a match for Larry.
Grandma shot me a look that said everything. She would never have let a match down. She was constantly searching for love matches. Meanwhile, I was spackling my face.
“Larry,” I said, brightly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m cursed. I’m cursed,” he said. He looked like a terrorized man. His hair was standing on end, and any remnants of a tie were long gone. “Uncurse me, now. Please.”
“You’re not cursed, Larry,” I said, finally reaching the door.
“Maybe a little cursed,” Grandma said, surprising me. I checked her face to see if she was joking, but she was dead serious.
“Will you give us a minute?” I asked Larry.
“Okay, but this house is structurally sound, right?” He asked, studying the doorframe.
“It’ll be here until 2096,” my grandmother told him with certainty. That seemed to mollify Larry.
I pulled my grandmother aside and whispered in her ear. “Is Larry really cursed?”
“Larry believes he’s cursed. That’s enough to curse him,” she whispered back.
“What do I do?”
She put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “You know what to do, bubbeleh.”
“Uh…” I said. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have the eensiest, beensiest idea what to do. I knew how to build a nuclear weapon more than I knew what to do with Larry Doughy and his curse. But since I often had no idea what to do in any given situation, I had this covered.
“Larry,” I sang, like I was the hostess at a high-end spa, and he was a techie billionaire who wanted to lose twenty pounds in a weekend. I took his hands in mine. “I’ve been thinking nonstop about your problem, and I think I’m very close to a solution.”
His face lifted with a burst of hope.
“You are?” he asked.
“I sure am.” I was so going to hell. I was evil incarnate. I was worse than Detective Hot Body Witch. Actually, I wasn’t that bad, but I was pretty bad.
“I’m so relieved, because I don’t think I can handle having my house flooded again. Once this week was enough.”
“It hasn’t rained in two weeks,” I said.
“I know.”
“Well, I have to get going,” I said. “I have a lunch at the police station to get to.”
“I’ll take you, and you tell me about your plan on the way,” he said.
I had run out of excuses about why Larry shouldn’t drive me to the police station. He had a counter-argument for everything I came up with. In the end, time was ticking away, and I felt guilty. The man was obviously hurting. The very least I could do was to talk to him for the ten minutes it took to drive to the station.
“I heard about a woman who does a ritual with goats that’s guaranteed to remove curses,” he told me, driving away from the house.
A goat ritual sounded perfect. That way, I wouldn’t have to think of my own way to get rid of his curse. “That’s what I was thinking of. Remind me of her name, again. Turn left here.”
“Moses Rathbone,” he said, and I willed myself to remember the name. “I heard she treated John Travolta, and then he got Pulp Fiction.”
We drove outside of the Historic District. “I’ll get right on it, and I’m sure you’ll be uncursed very soon and will find love, too.” Come to think of it, I had better get him uncursed on the double because no woman wanted a man who needed goat rituals.
Larry honked his horn. “People don’t know how to drive trucks,
” he said. Ahead of us was a large truck, and Larry was trying to get around him. I pulled the visor down and looked at myself in the mirror. We were two minutes away from the police station, and I was getting nervous. I wanted to make a big entrance. I wanted to be noticed and make a statement. I wanted to show Spencer that I was something special, more special than Detective Snooty Bitch.
But I looked good. I was completely put together and ready to be the hostess with the mostess to Spencer’s guests. I put the visor back in place. Larry honked the horn again and revved the motor.
“Bastard is blocking me,” he grumbled.
“That’s okay. The police station is up here. See it?”
The truck slowed down to a crawl, and Larry got around it and began to park in front of the police station. Outside in front of the station building, I could see Spencer with a group of people dressed in business attire. I assumed they were the top cops there for the conference.
“Thank you for the ride,” I told Larry. “I’ll call you in the next couple days to discuss the uncursing and possible matches.”
“Do it quick before it gets worse.”
I put my hand on his arm, reassuringly. “I’m certain you’re going to be fine. I’m going to make sure of it.”
The truck that we had been following crawled to a stop in front of us, its brakes screeching in protest. It sort of died there, parked at an angle. There was an explosion when it backfired. To my right, the top cops jumped in fear, and Detective Quick Draw Supermodel drew her gun and pointed it at the truck. The truck driver tried to start it again and ground the ignition. He pushed on the gas hard, and the truck roared to life, its tires screeching on the pavement as the truck shot forward.
“I’m sorry,” Larry said to me.
“For what?”
“Wait for it.”
I didn’t have to wait for long. The truck lurched forward with surprising speed and quickly it lost control, swerving to the right, clipping the front of Larry’s car. The back doors of the truck flung open, and its contents came flying out.
“This is going to be bad,” Larry moaned.
