by Zoe Chant
“Doug Barth.” Alejo glanced around. The two couples at other tables were absorbed in each other. Godiva didn’t think they’d notice much short of a nuclear blast, but Alejo lowered his voice—a reminder that anything that might be related to shifters was a dead secret. “Werewolf,” he said softly.
Godiva blinked. Then came the thought that if basilisks were real, werewolves somehow seemed everyday by comparison. “Are werewolves really demons like in horror films?” she asked.
“Demons are demons.” Rigo shook his head. “Werewolves are just wolf shifters.”
Alejo gave a nod. “Like anybody, werewolves come in all kinds. I’ve met some great packs. The Barths were definitely bad news, though. Doug Barth tried running a pack of his own, with himself as alpha, made up of the meanest guys in the neighborhood. But we knew better than to ever be caught alone by Barth or his pack, and yes, a few of those times I came home black and blue were from encounters with them, but we gave as good as we got. In fact, once Lance started getting some size on him, we came out ahead.” He shook his head reminiscently.
Godiva snorted, suspecting that those fights were part of Alejo’s definition of fun in the good old days. But it was far too late to argue about that. “Talk about small, I can’t imagine Lance with size on him.”
Alejo grinned, and he said at the same time as his father, “He’s huge!” Then they looked at each other and laughed.
Then Alejo looked around. “Bear shifters tend to run big. So. I take it you hit the post office yesterday?”
“Empty,” Godiva said. “But the combo still works, so I know that box is still in my name. Or, Maria Cordova’s name.”
Rigo was silent. She looked his way to find his gaze still tender as it rested on her. The sweetness of having Alejo back, and the new understanding between her and Rigo was so intense it almost hurt. She shook that thought away. Now wasn’t the time.
She glanced at Rigo’s plate, where he was halfway through a bacon and onion omelet, with sausage on the side. But nothing else. “Rigo. Try these waffles. Fluffy as clouds, with real maple syrup, not that horrible fake stuff.”
Rigo smiled but gave his head a shake, and Alejo said, “Dad never eats sweet stuff in the morning—ever. I regard that as highly suspicious, except it leaves more for me.”
“Hear hear,” Godiva said, though it felt weird to not know that about Rigo. But when they’d spent nights together in the old days, she’d served whatever leftovers from the diner she could forage after her shift. And he’d eaten whatever she’d put in front of him—but come to think of it, that had never included dessert.
Well, more to learn about each other. “Listen. Something was bothering me last night, but I was too tired to figure it out.”
It was her turn to glance around, and lower her voice. “There was another person in the post office last night, sorting through her mail. I couldn’t figure out why that bothered me until this morning: no junk mail.”
“Junk mail?” Rigo repeated.
Alejo grinned. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Godiva sighed. “Have either of you ever had a post office box? I mean, besides this one.”
Both father and son gave their heads a shake, such similar gestures that Godiva’s heart turned over again.
She drew in a deep breath. “Well, I have. I’ve had a bunch of them, what with all my moving around. Had one in Playa del Encanto until I got my house. No matter where I went, I always got junk mail.”
Alejo said, “But you haven’t given out this address to anyone except me, so no vendor or shop or whatever has had a chance to sell your address to the junk mail dealers.”
“True. But there are also political flyers and other trash that everybody gets stuck with—it goes into every box. The post office knows that. They’re paid to stuff them in, but they put out those trash cans, knowing that most of it goes straight into recycling. My box was totally empty, as if it had been checked that day. Or yesterday at most.”
Alejo shook his head. “Lance checks it when he comes down to visit his parents, but that’s half a dozen times a year or so.”
“When was the most recent?”
“I can check with him, but I don’t think it was in the past couple days. Or even the past week. Come to think of it, you’re right. That is odd,” Alejo said, in his own version of his father’s mild voice.
Godiva suspected that the mystery of the empty box no longer mattered to Rigo, and maybe Alejo felt the same, now that they had found each other. Maybe she should let it go. But all those years of silence pressed on her, and she had to have an answer.
“Look, guys,” she said. “This is a lovely place here, and I wouldn’t mind staying. I even have my laptop so I could work, and write it all off as a business expense. But I have to know what’s going on. Call it the mystery writer habit. I want to check that box until my test letter, at least, turns up. And if it doesn’t, have a talk with those postal people. Maybe even file an official complaint.”
Rigo stretched out his hand over hers, but then pulled it back again before touching her. She was surprised at the small spurt of disappointment she felt, before he said, “If it matters to you, it matters to me. I’ll stay with you.” He grinned. “Besides, where would I go? I’m your ride.”
“Well, I could get myself back home,” she retorted, but then she admitted, “though this was the best road trip ever.”
His smile widened, reflecting in his eyes, those long-lashed eyes she had once believed were so honest and true . . . and was coming around to believing again.
“Let’s do it right,” Alejo said. “I vote we keep the place under constant surveillance, rather than hop in and out. Say, three days, then we can regroup and decide if it’s worth staying longer. If there’s anything from the outside going on, we should catch it then. And if there isn’t, we’ll back you up on your complaint.”
“Done,” Godiva said, and this time she reached for both their hands. “Thanks.”
Alejo gave her fingers a quick squeeze, then loosened his hand as he leaned forward, leaving her holding Rigo’s hand. She tried not to concentrate on how it made her feel, her hand engulfed in his once again, but she was barely aware of Alejo saying, “I’ll take the night shift. I was up all night traveling, and I want to sleep now. Why don’t we take advantage of that?”
Godiva turned to Rigo. “Then let’s get started. It’s almost eight. The post office isn’t open yet, but they might be sorting and passing letters into the boxes.”
“All right,” he said.
They got up to go, but were stopped when they passed the B&B’s pretty reception area, which was done up in black and white and mirrors, looking like a set on a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film.
The proprietor came out, a woman who looked close to Godiva’s own age. She smiled as she said, “Are you the people who belong to that fancy thirties car out front?”
“Yes,” Rigo said. “Have I broken a parking law? I can move it. In fact, we were about to leave.”
“No, no,” the woman said, waving her hands. “Just the opposite! It’s gorgeous, and it looks like it belongs here. If you can see your way clear to leaving it right there, I’ll comp you an extra night. I’ve had a dozen phone calls since morning, and my daughter texted me a few minutes ago that pictures of your car and our place are going viral all over the Twitterverse. In fact, I just got done with a booking. I don’t know if it’s related, but one thing for sure, your car is the best publicity I’ve had, including that expensive ad on Facebook. Better!”
Godiva had been looking at Rigo and Alejo as the woman chattered on. They both grinned as soon as the woman said the word gorgeous, but as she spoke, Alejo’s grin brightened to 200 watts, whereas Rigo shot him a smile of pride.
Then he turned to Godiva. “What would you like to do?”
“The place we’re going is only a couple blocks away. Let’s walk it,” she said. “Let me get my laptop. I have an idea.”
When
she came back downstairs, she found Rigo and Alejo out front, surrounded by a small crowd of people, mostly men, as Alejo knowledgeably pointed out various aspects of the car, and how he’d either searched for vintage parts or modified while keeping true to the style.
She stopped, glancing up. Now that she wasn’t sitting in air conditioning, she missed her sun hat. Early as it was, the day was glare-bright, hot, and humid. She’d have to replace the hat that had flown off into the storm over the Grand Canyon.
Rigo turned, and joined her. “I think we can leave him to it,” he said.
Godiva smiled at the knot of people enthusiastically talking tech, and waved to Alejo as she fell in step beside Rigo.
Rigo said, “Godiva, I did a little checking online last night. There’s a hat store around the corner. If you want to be very strict about watching the post office, we could trade that job off, so you could replace the one lost in the canyon?”
Godiva stared up at him, for a moment unable to speak. She was totally unused to anyone thinking of her comfort in quite that way. In fact, she had come to pride herself on her ability to take care of Number One.
But when she let herself look back at their time together, he’d always done little things like that, back in the day. Are you tired after that long shift? That big table had you running back and forth all night. Let me rub your feet for you. Another time, he dropped by the restaurant and bent to whisper that he happened to be passing by the rear, where she had her room, and he’d seen a storm coming so he’d pulled her laundry off the clothes line and stashed it inside the porch in its basket.
Little things. Nothing that ever cost money, which neither of them had beyond covering the basics. The only cost was time, effort, and the mental diligence to look out for another person. Little things, easily forgotten.
Her eyes stung, and she blinked hard, saying, “Wow that glare is bright. Yes—thanks. We can definitely trade off, or I can sit with my laptop for hours, if you’d like to do something more interesting.”
“Best thing I can think of is spending time with you,” he said in that easy voice that she was beginning to realize no longer masked easy emotions.
She drew an unsteady breath. Her own emotions were cracking like an ice-covered lake in spring. But now was not the time, standing here in the bright morning on a street that had changed over the years since she’d first lived here.
All right, practical things first. “I noticed there’s a Starbucks right across from the post office. They don’t pay any attention to people sitting and working for hours, as long as you buy something before you take up a table.”
“I saw that, too,” Rigo said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure the windows look straight into the big window across the front of the post office lobby.”
“Then let’s hustle, and nab one of those window tables.”
He held out his hand, smiling in invitation. She laughed and took his hand. He matched pace beside her.
Early as it was, she was glad of the a/c when they walked into the Starbucks, and even gladder when she spotted one table left in the prime real estate by the windows.
Once she had a table locked down, Rigo sat with their drinks and she walked across the street to check on the box. When she entered the post office, conscious of Rigo there across the street watching, she scanned the other patrons. Three men of various ages, two college kids, a woman with a stroller. Nobody was the least bit interested in an old lady as she moved to the box and twiddled the combo. In the time she took to open the box, feel around within its empty metal, and close the box door again, most of the people had already left, except for one of the men chucking junk mail into the trash.
So. Her test message hadn’t arrived yet. Okay. Now to watch to see if anyone came to get it.
By the time she got back to Starbucks, she had her speech ready. “Rigo, let’s talk out the next step. I have a feeling I’m the only one who really cares about why the mail Alejo and I have been sending has vanished. I am stubborn, in case you haven’t noticed—stop grinning.” His smile vanished like smoke, but there was a suspicious glint in his dark eyes. “You’re still grinning. It’s just inside. I can . . . smell it.”
He choked on a laugh.
“Now, I’m serious. I’m stubborn, and that means nobody is going to talk me out of parking my aged butt here until I find out. But I’m also human. I do not expect you and Alejo to drop your lives because of my obsession. I know you have a ranch full of people depending on you. Feel free to go home, with my gratitude. I’m fine here. I have plenty of dough, so I can stay indefinitely, and then get myself home. I might even take the train. They say it’s a great trip, and I could set up shop with my laptop and write half a book in the time it takes to cross the country. Hmm. I wonder how long it does take, anyway.”
Rigo had been shaking with silent laughter. “Two days. I looked that up, too, as an alternate, in case you needed it.”
“Really, you do not have to run interference for me like that.”
“I like doing it. Nothing makes me happier.”
“Well, thanks. But seriously. . .”
“Hey.” He stretched out his hand toward hers in what she recognized as a silent offer, almost an appeal, and she knew he’d instantly pull it back in an instant if he saw any sign of withdrawal in her. But she didn’t want to withdraw. She liked holding his hand.
She relished sliding her fingers across his callused palm and lacing her fingers through his as he finished in a low, slightly husky voice, “I enjoy spending time with you. These past couple days have been more fun than I’ve had in years.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Me, too.”
They sat there in companionable silence. The thought occurred to her that they could probably talk about anything, and he would be just as easy. That’s who he was, and not the monster she’d built in her mind. Weird, when you considered he had a literal monster inside him, but she had discovered that monster was kind of . . . noble. As well as being seriously cool to look at.
Then he glanced at her laptop sitting at her right hand. “So are you writing the next book?”
“I’ve always got at least one going,” she said. “I’m mulling the next one. Still in the planning stages.” At his interested look, she thought, why not use what had started as an excuse? “It starts with a tea party at a grand house with a bunch of obnoxious super-rich snobs. When one of them gets bumped off, the reader doesn’t really care. The story drive is to see which twit did it, and watch them get what they deserve. Classic Agatha Christie kick-off. But that’s the easy part. Tougher is to figure out who, why, and all the false leads as I hide the real clues. Who knows? I might even get some twists for the mystery out of this trip.”
He smiled at that. “I have a feeling this is the sort of stupid question that authors get asked all the time, but where do you get all those characters? You just make them up?”
Her lips parted, and the truth hit her like a kick from an invisible mule. That is, she knew she took characteristics from real people, and mixed and matched them when building characters. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes unconsciously. Like the way her P.I. had developed over the course of her series.
But . . . the villains in those first few books had all been variations on Rigo.
And he didn’t seem to realize it.
She looked up at him, braced to see irony there, or hurt, or the narrowed look of a verbal trap. Except that she knew by now that he wasn’t the kind of person who played those games.
In fact, he wasn’t the kind of entirely human monster that she’d written so angrily into those books.
Should she admit the truth?
Not now. She had a feeling it would only hurt him. Maybe someday they could laugh over it . . .
Someday? Like, she was going to continue this . . . whatever it was between them?
“Godiva?”
She blinked, recovering the present. And the fact that she was sitting there with her cup suspended in mid-air.
“Did I ask the wrong question?” He was looking concerned.
“Not at all! I just had, um, a thought about the new mystery. I’ll have to write it down before I forget. To answer your question, every writer is different. For me, characters are taken from everywhere. A funny gesture from this person, a quirky habit from that person, the way someone overheard in a grocery store line was talking. It all goes into the mix, and the character pops into my mind, straight from Subconscious Central Casting.”
“That’s amazing,” he said.
You’re amazing, she wanted to say, but not here. Not in public.
And so, when he asked if it wouldn’t spoil the writing experience to talk about her mystery—he’d love to hear about how it was built from the inside—she used up some time spinning out the rough idea of a possible new plot, as they traded off watching the post office window.
People entered and left, but the only one who went near that section was a woman with a cane. Godiva stiffened, and Rigo broke off what he was saying to murmur, “I can get over there pretty fast if you think I should.” Then the woman bent over to a box three levels below Godiva’s.
“False alarm,” she said.
The time whizzed by. From her book, they went to the Phantom and its unexpected new career as a publicity magnet. Godiva said, “I haven’t asked Alejo yet what he loves doing, but my guess is, he’s into cars?”
“He’s into rebuilding old things,” Rigo said. “Especially beautiful things. I wouldn’t even have the Phantom if it hadn’t been for him. I was past wanting one probably by the time he lost his first tooth. But on our trip to San Francisco I happened to mention how you and I used to look at those magazine ads and wish. He remembered when he found that chassis rotting in a field. He thought he and I could rebuild it together.”
“So it was his idea,” Godiva marveled.
“Yes. It was a turning point for him, discovering how much he loves finding wreckage with what he calls good bones. Cars, cabinets, anything. He rebuilt the entire bannister in our place. It was . . . functional before, but now it’s as fine as something in one of those grand townhouses you see in the pictures. Did the same out front. Rebuilt the sagging porch into a balcony extending all along that side of the house. We have meals out there in autumn, when the leaves are turning, and the temperature is about perfect. He likes beautiful things. Especially things people made.”
