by Erynn Mangum
Ryan lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on the name. “So I came to ask you something,” he says to me.
“Ask away.”
“Want to go get some lunch?”
“Can we get M&Ms afterward?”
“Our stash ran out,” Hannah explains for me. “We had to split the last Milky Way.”
“Horror of horrors,” he responds dryly. “Fine. We’ll get M&Ms. Get your coat, it’s freezing.”
“Ruby’s going out with Nick,” I tell Hannah. “Make sure Brandon eats, will you?”
She salutes. “I’ll do my best.”
Ryan opens the door and Cold Wind invites itself inside, offers itself a chair, and then decides to riffle through Hannah’s papers.
Hannah smashes the papers down on Cold Wind’s icy fingers, and waves. “Have fun!”
“Where are we going?” I ask once Ryan’s climbed into the truck after helping me into the passenger seat.
He shrugs. “Vizzini’s or Halia’s?”
“It’s Thursday.”
“So?”
“So Vizzini’s has their special fried eggplant spaghetti with a side of fresh, albeit fried, vegetables, including squash, onions, and bell peppers, and, for dessert, kumquat.”
His forehead wrinkles. “What the heck is kumquat?”
“An orangelike thing, I think.”
He turns out of the parking lot. “Halia’s.”
“Wise man.”
Halia’s is a good three miles from the studio. We get there in no time at all, Ryan parks, and a bearded male opens the door for us.
“Welcome to Halia’s! The best Mexican food on the planet!”
“Thanks. Is Halia here?” I ask.
The man shakes his head vigorously. “Nope. I’m the new owner.”
I blink. “You are? What happened to Halia?”
“She retired. Two weeks ago.” He’s beaming. “Table for two?”
I nod, surprised. The man fairly jumps in his excitement. “Excellent! Right this way, please!”
He leads us through a mostly empty restaurant to a table near the back windows and across the aisle from an elderly couple. “Enjoy your meal!”
“Thanks.” Ryan strips his coat.
He waits until the bearded man leaves before leaning over the table. “Odd person. Empty place.”
“Yeah.” I take off my coat as well. “I wonder why Halia retired. Every time Dad and I came, she always looked like she loved working here.”
Ryan looks around. “So Halia is Hispanic?”
“No, actually Halia is Hawaiian. But when she came to the continental U.S., she realized she liked Mexican food much better than Hawaiian, so she created a Mexican restaurant.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll get used to this town one day.” I look at the menu. “I’m getting enchiladas. Halia makes great beef enchiladas.” I stop. “Wow. I hope she left her recipes.”
“Enchiladas sound good.”
A timid-looking girl I’ve never seen before with big hazel eyes and limp brown hair tiptoes to the table. “C-Can I take your order?” she whispers.
Ryan smiles kindly at her. “Two rolled beef enchiladas, please. And an order of nachos.”
“And two Dr. Peppers,” I order.
Ryan nods. “And two coffees.”
I clear my throat. Ryan rolls his eyes.
“One with room for cream,” he tacks on.
The girl scribbles furiously, biting her lip. “I’ll have the . . . the drinks right out.”
“Thanks,” he says.
She fairly bolts out of sight.
Ryan watches her. “No wonder the place is empty.”
I frown at him. “Ryan!”
“What? The girl must be hiding a body in the kitchen or something.”
“Well, sure! It’s what they make the carne adovada with.”
He makes a face. “You are gross.”
“And you are paranoid. People are probably just crowding Vizzini’s to get their hands on the Thursday special.”
The old man across the aisle turns toward us. “I heard about that,” he says to us, his voice deep and gruff.
Ryan blinks. “Heard about what, sir?”
“The Thursday special. Vizzini’s changed it. It’s now four-cheese tortellini with a side of buttered broccoli and a slice of cheesecake.”
I dab the drool off my lower lip.
Ryan nods. “Sounds good.”
“We’re going there after this.” The old man motions to his wife, who is decked out in a blue-checked dress, blue hair, and matching blue heels.
“I love cheesecake,” she declares. Her voice, as opposed to the crusty sound her husband makes, is soft and fluid like I imagine Julie Andrews sounding in about ten years.
“Me too,” I say with a grin.
“I just can’t eat it,” she confesses. “My arteries.”
“Verna’s had three attacks this year,” the man says.
“How tragic,” I commiserate.
She waves a blue-veined hand at me that, oddly enough, matches the dress, the shoes, and the hair. “Oh, the attacks aren’t the tragic part, Sweetie. It’s not eating the cheesecake that’s the hardest. Especially when I have to sit here and watch Mr. Smug himself eat it right in front of me.” She smacks the old man’s arm.
Mr. Smug smirks. “I told you that you should have eaten more vitamins years ago. I did and look at me.” He looks at us. “No attacks, no strokes, no cancer.”
“You did not tell me to eat vitamins. You told me to eat Brussels sprouts.” She sticks her tongue out and gags in a very not-so-old-lady action. “Disgusting things, those little cabbage heads are!”
The man lurches over the table, pointing a bony finger at her. “But they’re packed with vitamins! You ate those, you could have had the cheesecake!”
“For heaven’s sake, Arnie, I’m eighty-seven years old! Just let me have the cheesecake!”
“No!”
Ryan leans his elbows on the table and covers his mouth, his eyes crinkling.
Verna slams her napkin on the table. “Fine, you old Pop-Tart! I’ll go there myself and get the cheesecake.” She storms off, not sparing us another glance.
Arnie sighs loud enough for her to hear, waits until she gets to the front door, and gives us a grin. “Making her mad keeps life fun.” He sets a ten-spot on the table and goes after her. “What did you just call me?” he hollers as he leaves.
I look at Ryan and he uncovers his mouth, grinning broadly. I giggle.
“Was that a sign of what our married life would look like?” he asks with a laugh.
I nod slowly. “I would say so.”
“Their kids must’ve been a riot growing up.”
The girl with the limp hair, who has yet to identify herself, skulks to our table, drops the drinks and a plate of half-cooked nachos, and lights for the back room like a lighter lighting . . . and never mind that analogy.
I try very hard not to gag at the nachos. Well, moderately hard, anyway.
“Blegh.” I pull one guacamole-sogged chip from the middle of the plate. “Maybe Halia didn’t leave the recipes.”
Ryan’s nose wrinkles. “I say we skip the nachos.”
The chip wilts between my fingers and plunks with a small glump back onto the stack.
“Blegh! Yuck, yuck, yucky. Give me a napkin, boy.” I shake my hand.
He passes a napkin. “Here, girl.”
I shiver, grossed out. “This place has gone way downhill. They used part of the corpse to make that guacamole. The chips are cold.”
“You are nasty.”
“We’ve covered this, remember?”
He pushes the repulsing plate to the edge of the table.
“Keep pushing.”
“Laurie.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not paying for a broken plate.” He swishes his straw around in his Dr. Pepper. “What do you have this afternoon?”
“Appointments at th
ree, three thirty, and four. Then I’m done for the day.” I take a drink, my stomach still rolling. “Why?”
The corners of his mouth turn up. He leans over the table conspiratorially. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I know what Ruby’s card said.”
“What?” I shriek.
“Nick asked her out to dinner. Congratulations, kid. Your plan worked. Not that I condone it.”
I raise a congratulatory fist. “I’m a genius!”
“No, you’re just plain lucky.” He lowers my fist and pats my shoulder.
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Plucky, then.”
“You are patting my shoulder again.”
He stops and squeezes the back of my neck. “You drive me crazy.”
“I know.”
He grins at me, his eyes sparkling. I smile back.
Some of the guacamole spores must have gone through my nostrils and landed in my stomach because I start feeling weird. Sort of a combo of queasy and tingly.
Worse, I can’t decide whether it’s a good or bad sensation.
The girl squirrels over with the plates and Ryan pulls his hand away. The queasiness stops.
I watch Ryan as he takes his plate and suddenly wonder if . . .
Nah. Not possible. It’s the guacamole. That’s all.
She sets my enchiladas in front of me, and the queasiness jump-starts back into place.
“Enjoy your meal,” she whimpers and runs for it.
Ryan swallows, licking his lips nervously.
I nudge one side of the glob with my fork. “Ryan,” I half-whisper, half-shriek. “There’s an eyeball in this.”
“We’re leaving.” He pulls twenty bucks from his wallet, drops it on the table, and pushes back his chair. “Get up.”
He gets me in the car and drives the few minutes to Merson’s. Shawn looks up as we walk inside.
“Hey, guys.”
I inhale. Look around. Three-fourths of the tables are filled, Dessert Heaven exists in perfect conformity, and Shawn is already pouring two mugs of coffee.
“Shawn, Shawn, I love you.” I grab his spare hand across the counter and kiss it.
“Ease up, Hon.” Ryan pulls me back a few inches. “You’re scaring the man with the desserts.”
Shawn watches me, one eyebrow raised. “Should I be worried?” he asks Ryan.
“No. Just Laurie’s unusual way of expressing herself, that’s all.”
Shawn nods but keeps a wary eye on me. “Here. Coffee.”
I take the cup with a grin. “Thanks, Shawn.”
Ryan steers me to an empty table, and Shawn comes over, notepad in hand. “What did you two want?”
I look at him. “Do you know how to make tortellini?”
My lamp is glowing like milk left out for four days. I squint at it, scrutinizing it. It may be time to change the lightbulb. It seems dimmer.
I shake my head slightly, trying to get myself to focus. My Bible is open on my lap, but I’m having a hard time not getting distracted tonight.
Possibly the fault of the three mochas I consumed at eight this evening.
Rubbing my forehead, I stare at the words of Philippians 4. “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praise worthy — think about such things.”
Paul liked the word whatever.
I slide my highlighter under the verse. There’s a command here. To think about this list of whatevers. True, noble, right, pure, lovely.
Lovely.
A verse Nick had referred to in his last teaching comes back to me, and I flip to Psalm 50:2. “From Zion, perfect in beauty, God shines forth.”
It seems to me, mocha-brained and all, the only thing truly fulfilling this list is God Himself.
I turn the Four-Day-Glowing-Milk lamp off, no longer having trouble focusing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I get to work just before nine on Friday morning. The studio is dark, cold, and quiet. I get the same feeling in the studio on days like this that I get in a church when there is no one there but me. Creeped out.
I peel off my gloves, stick my backpack in the cubby, unscrew the cap on my thermos of coffee, and turn up the thermostat.
Brandon comes through the door whistling and ends the creepiness. “Morning, Laur.”
I swallow. “Hey.”
“How’d Ruby’s date go last night?”
I shrug. “She’s not here. I don’t know.”
Brandon frowns. “She’s not here?”
“Nope.”
“It’s nine o’clock.” He points out the window. “That’s the Stewarts getting out of their van. Ruby has them.”
I follow his finger and note that he is correct. “Hmm.”
“You’ll have to take them.”
“Brandon, I have an appointment in ten minutes.”
He sighs. “Okay. I’ll take the Stewarts, you cover your appointment, and if Ruby isn’t here in half an hour we’re calling the police, got it? This isn’t like her.”
“Ah, love old.”
As the Stewarts walk in, the bell over the door dings. “Ruby couldn’t make the appointment, so you’ll be with me.” Brandon leads them into Studio One.
Hannah arrives just as the door closes behind them. “Hey, Laurie. How’d Ruby’s date go?”
“She’s not here.”
Hannah stops unwrapping her scarf, sets her coffee down, and gasps. “Ruby’s not here?”
“Nope.”
She stares at the closed door of Studio One. “But that was the Stewarts.”
“Correct.”
“They’re Ruby’s clients.”
I nod. “Brandon took them.”
“Weirdness. I hope she’s not home crying.” Hannah’s eyes get big. “Oh, Laurie, what if the date was horrible?”
“Not possible. Didn’t you see them on Wednesday night? Can’t you see Herman?” The bouquet had to stay because it wouldn’t fit in Ruby’s car.
Hannah’s advancing to panic mode. “What if it was to soften the blow that he didn’t really like her like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like he liked her, like, seriously.”
“You lost me after the second like.” I smile.
Hannah rolls her eyes, but sighs and giggles. “Speculating does nothing. I say we get to work.” She shoves her purse in the cubby and sits authoritatively in her chair.
“Good idea.” I take another drink. “What should we work on?”
“When is your first appointment?” She looks at the schedule book. “In exactly four minutes. That gives us plenty of time to sketch out a battle plan.”
“A battle plan,” I repeat dubiously.
“For when Ruby comes in.”
“We’ll battle her?” I raise one eyebrow.
“We’ll assess the waters and bridge the moat if necessary.”
“Mmm. Too much symbolism, Hannah.”
She points at me. “You’ll see how the date went, and I’ll comfort her.”
“Hey! How come I have to be the bad guy?”
“You’ve known her longer.”
I open my mouth to protest.
“The Lawsons are here, Laurie.”
Rats.
Hannah is sharper than she looks, I’ll give her that.
I come out of Studio Two at 9:40 and find Brandon pacing and Hannah wringing her hands. I wave good-bye to the clients and turn to my comrades.
“She’s not here yet?” I ask.
“No, and she’s not answering her phone. Laurie, what if it was horrible and Ruby went home and —” Hannah stops, but her petrified expression says it all.
“Hannah, she wouldn’t do anything that drastic. Hand me my backpack.”
Brandon stops pacing long enough to watch me pull on my gloves. “Where are you going?”
“To Ruby’s house.”
“What about your appointments?
” he asks, mouth open.
“I just have one at ten, and surely I’ll be back before my twelve o’clock. You take the Gordons.”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and march out of the studio, Brandon and Hannah gaping behind me.
Ruby lives four blocks away in half of a cute little duplex. The other half is owned by a fifty-five-year-old spinster named Odella Purvis, who is a workaholic perfectionist and every year plants a line of petunias straighter than a ruler and just about as boring. Ruby once told me she’s scared to death she’ll never get married and end up like Odella, but I told Ruby she couldn’t possibly. Men run from names like Odella. They don’t from names like Ruby.
I park in front of the house and jog up the front steps, past the adorable little porch, and knock on the door.
No answer.
I pound the door and ring the doorbell four times.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, Hannah’s fear creeps in and I start getting worried, especially when there still isn’t an answer.
There is nothing else left to do. I resort to screaming.
“Ruby! RUBY! RUUUUBY!”
I hear a slam and see Odella, dressed professionally from the waist up but wearing designer sweatpants and plain brown functional slippers, march down her front steps, cross her arms over her chest, and glare piercingly at me with eyes that could be soft and brown but at the moment are radiating a steel-like quality.
“What in blue heavens are you doing?” she barks.
“I’m Laurie. I’m trying to find Ruby . . . uh, ma’am.”
It seems a little odd to be calling a woman in a blazer, slippers, and curlers ma’am, but Odella fairly radiates ma’amness.
“She’s in my kitchen, so for the love of all things quiet, stop yelling like a buzzsaw and get in my house.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And hurry. You made me leave the door open. That’s probably a good twenty dollars of warm air I just let out.”
She marches back up the stairs. I consider — only for a moment — walking across her grass to get to her front door, see the look on her face, and quickly reconsider. I run down the porch steps, over the sidewalk, up Odella’s porch steps, and into her house. The moment my foot hits the beige tiled entry, she slams the door closed.
“For heaven’s sake. Couldn’t you just call?” Odella gripes, leading the way to her kitchen, rubbing her hands on her arms in an effort to warm up.
