by Sandra Hill
While Andrea’s mind had been wandering, she just realized that Darla was still talking. She interrupted her by saying, “I thought Celie was spending the summer with that cult in Jamaica, where they run around half-naked and sell sun catchers to tourists. Led by that cuckoo bird swami person who believes that world peace will come with global warming, or some such nonsense.”
“That was last year.”
Celie was a great one for joining cults, not that she called them cults, and mostly they were harmless. Modern day hippies looking for the light, usually via some weed. Heaven’s Love Shack. Serenity. Free Birds. Pot for People.
“Remember, I told you about her boyfriend. He’s an A-rab or a Mexican, or something. Maybe Egyptian. They all look alike.”
That narrows it down a lot. Darla was no dummy, but sometimes she revealed a little inner Archie Bunkerism. And Edith, too.
“His name is Kahlil, you know, like that poet guy.”
“Kahlil Gibran?”
“Yes! Don’t you just love his poems? They’re so deep.”
Talking to Darla was like trying to catch popcorn from an unlidded pot. Here, there, all over the place.
“About Celie’s boyfriend?”
“Oh, right. He came to a dinner party your Daddy hosted last month for one of his big clients. You were at that food convention in Las Vegas. Anyhow, Kahlil just frowned the whole time because we served alcohol. So rude! Honestly! Who doesn’t drink red wine with Beef Wellington? And he had this dish towel thingee on his head. By the way, your raspberry torte was a huge success. Did I tell you that?”
Can anyone say Orville Redenbocker? “Yes, you told me.” About the dessert, not the boyfriend. “Thanks.”
“Anyhow, this Kahlil fellow talked the silly girl into going with him to a dude ranch in Montana run by some Muslim Church. Circle of Light.”
“What? That’s crazy!”
“You’re telling me, honey. I’ve been saying for years that your sister is two bricks short of a wall.”
“I didn’t mean that Celie . . . never mind. What has any of this to do with ISIS?”
“The detective says that—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You hired a detective?”
Just then, Sonja Fournet, owner of the restaurant, walked in through the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Hearing her last words, Sonja grinned and mouthed silently, “Darla?”
Andrea nodded and raised five fingers indicating she would be off the phone shortly. Andrea was an experienced pastry chef, but even her skills were not going to save her job if she kept engaging in these personal phone conversations while on the job, almost all of them from her stepmother. Darla thought nothing of calling up to a dozen times a day, usually about the most innocuous things, like, “What’s the best way to cook lamb?” Or, “How do I clean the gravy stain off your mother’s lace tablecloth?” Or, “Why does asparagus turn my pee green?” Real important stuff.
That wasn’t quite true about Andrea losing her job, though. Sonja had attended the Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris with Andrea eight years ago and was one of her closest friends.
“Listen, Darla, I can’t talk right now. Why don’t I come over tonight and we can discuss this, without interruption?” Fortunately, or unfortunately, her father and Darla lived in a Main Line community only a half hour from the condo Andrea had bought last year.
What was I thinking? Couldn’t I find a job in . . . oh, say . . . Alaska? Or a living space on the other side of Philly? Like maybe New Jersey?
“Okay,” Darla said. “Could you bring some of those yummy Napoleons with you? Oh, and a few of the chocolate croissants for your Daddy’s breakfast?”
“Sure.” She clicked off the phone and looked at Sonja who was grinning at her over a steaming cup of coffee. “Okay, spill. What has the wicked stepmother’s thong in a twist now? I swear, girl, I wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for you.”
“She says Celie has joined a cult on a dude ranch in Montana that has ties to ISIS and claims she’s gone all sharia complete with burqa, mainlining the usual extremist Muslim propaganda. Though, how she would ride a horse in a robe, I have no idea. I didn’t even know Celie could ride a horse. Bottom line, as usual when it involves my sister, Darla probably wants me to fix things.”
“Merde!”
“Exactly.”
“What does she expect you to do?”
Andrea shrugged. “Lone ranger to the rescue, I guess, though I don’t ride a horse, either. Or is it Julia Child to the rescue?”
“Warrior with a whisk,” Sonja concluded.
About the Author
SANDRA HILL is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than ten years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.
Please visit her on the web at www.sandrahill.net.
www.avonromance.com
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By Sandra Hill
Deadly Angels Series
EVEN VAMPIRES GET THE BLUES
VAMPIRE IN PARADISE
CHRISTMAS IN TRANSYLVANIA
KISS OF WRATH
KISS OF TEMPTATION
KISS OF SURRENDER
KISS OF PRIDE
Viking Series I
THE PIRATE BRIDE
THE NORSE KING'S DAUGHTER
THE VIKING TAKES A KNIGHT
VIKING IN LOVE
A TALE OF TWO VIKINGS
MY FAIR VIKING (formerly THE VIKING'S CAPTIVE)
THE BLUE VIKING
THE BEWITCHED VIKING
THE TARNISHED LADY
THE OUTLAW VIKING
THE RELUCTANT VIKING
Cajun Series
THE LOVE POTION (Book One)
Viking Series II
HOT & HEAVY
WET & WILD
THE VERY VIRILE VIKING
TRULY, MADLY VIKING
THE LAST VIKING
Creole-Time Travel Series
SWEETER SAVAGE LOVE
FRANKLY, MY DEAR
Others
LOVE ME TENDER
DESPERADO
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Angel Wore Fangs copyright © 2016 by Sandra Hill
EVEN VAMPIRES GET THE BLUES. Copyright © 2015 by Sandra Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062356536
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062356529
FIRST EDITION
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