Thursday, December 15
Angelica’s hiking boots moved between a skip and a shuffle toward the mailbox at the end of her gravel driveway.
She paused to admire the beautiful surrounding pines and firs, their stately tops piercing the sky, and their tips dusted with snowflakes, and decided she lived in paradise. But maybe not for long.
The locals didn’t question why she appeared in this neck of the woods.
A children’s picture book illustrator seeking solitude and a creative spark in Arbortown, a hamlet shaking hands with the mountainous Canadian border, sounded plausible.
While some parts were true, much remained shrouded in mystery. Angelica sniggered at the irony.
A droplet of sleet not only dotted her cheek, but the drop in barometric pressure reignited the dormant pain in her hip, aging her beyond her years.
Angelica pulled up her jacket hood, and a glimpse into the mailbox deflated her spirits.
Jammed with mail, it seemed unrealistic that those envelopes were birthday cards.
The foes overtook the friends, and they’ve been reaching out to her regularly with past-due notices.
As a contract artist, she could only do so much financially, and it wasn’t much.
You’re either recognized in your craft, or you aren’t.
Falling into the obscure category, she didn’t make enough to cover her expenses.
She entered her old but cozy four-room home, a glorified cabin with bare window boxes, frequented by squirrels, squirreling away whatever for another day.
A homey atmosphere greeted her. The aroma of a pine-scented candle mingled with the scent of the flickering embers licking the dry, peeling bark of the seasoned logs in her fieldstone fireplace.
As the sleet gave way to hail, it pounded frantically against the windows, begging to come in. She snuggled under a fluffy throw on the sofa opposite the warming blaze and eyed the mail. The white envelopes were all the same; The check will be in the mail sooner or later.
Angelica knew the blue envelope was from her mother. If the shaky handwriting didn’t give it away, the return sticker did: Mr. she missed him, too.
The front of the colorful card read: Happy 30th Birthday to My Beautiful Daughter, blah, blah, blah.
Angelica imagined someone would be hard-pressed to find or want a card imprinted with the words Happy Birthday to My Plain Daughter!
Her mom enclosed a twenty-dollar bill. All of this was money the woman couldn’t spare.
She had a new appreciation for her mother’s financial straits as a widow.
Angelica had never lived alone before. She hadn’t even rented an apartment. Prior to moving here, she had lived in only two places, which could be summed up as “before” and “after” the accident. Everything in her life could be summed up that way.
Before, she had the luxury, if you could call it that, of living at home with her parents in a hot-pink second-floor bedroom and being gainfully employed as a catalog shoe model. As chilly as the bedroom was, she lived rent-free.
As for where she resided “after,” she didn’t want to think about the penthouse, the man, or the financial drawbacks.
Now she owned a home, no matter how small, it didn’t come cheap. No, that’s not accurate. Her cabin was cheap because it needed major renovations.
Hidden behind the photo-op improvements, her cutesy little home’s roof sprang a leak in the hall bathroom ceiling.
Above the walk-in shower. A very fortunate place to have a leak, if you must have a leak.
She guessed that was a blessing in disguise.
A small one. But the cost to repair that “blessing” wasn’t small.
Now what? There is always a “what.” What do you do? What don’t you do? Who do you call? Who don’t you call? In one case, the do and don’t were the same person. How is that even possible?
Her life was a mess. She’d deal with her empty wallet after she dumped her boyfriend, Matt. Why was she so intimidated by men? Because the two men in her life were a foot taller and twice her size, that’s why. She huffed hard enough to raise the room temperature ten degrees.
Angelica needed some air. When the weather clears and the fire burns out, she’d go for a drive. Somewhere out there, there had to be an answer to her unspoken prayers. She’d better find it soon.
* * *
Ed Talbert, middle-aged and chunky, stumbled through the doorway of the Greenery Eatery Diner. His sharply dressed, younger, taller, and leaner partner, Garrett Fitzpatricks, trailed behind, as did the flapping ends of his loose tie.
The hostess seated the pair at a table in the middle of the dining room, which was topped with a small bread basket and a relish tray.
Garrett eyed the window seating area. A few select booths overlooking the mountains were empty. “Maybe we should have made a reservation,” he grumbled.
“You say something?” Ed asked, tossing an olive into his upturned, eager mouth. “When was the last time we did this? Fast food’s been murder on my stomach.”
Wrong choice of words, Garrett thought. “Possibly before the Humphrey case.”
“They should all be that easy,” the other man said. “Sure feels good to mingle with a normal, harmless crowd for a change.”
Garrett surveyed the eaters. A gray-haired, eighty-something couple was sharing a sandwich. Here they sat, happily growing old together. Nah, they must have gas. No one’s happy when they’re forced to share a bed for six decades.
Far from splitting a plate of food, he spotted some lawyers he recognized from the courtroom. Judging by their waistlines, they had consumed too many business lunches.
Lastly, a lone woman occupied a corner booth by the window. Did she manage to get a window seat because she’s a female? Women get all the breaks, demand more, and men are their doormats, Garrett silently seethed.
He turned to his friend. “What crowd? And who says these folks are normal or harmless?”
“Well, they don’t look like the degenerates we usually deal with.”
“But appearances can be deceiving.” Garrett’s blue eyes wandered back to the young lady, who, despite her small size, was surely hell on wheels and a first-class bitch.
Before Garrett could size up the lone woman of questionable character in a police-interrogation kind of way, his partner muttered, “—what I’ll have. Lizzie’s hounding me to cut out the carbs. You know how a wife can be.”
Garrett snapped, “That’s not my problem.”
“Sorry, pal. I forgot you’re still in mourning. It must be my low blood sugar, or maybe it’s the heavy chip on your shoulder.” Ed popped a cherry tomato into his mouth.
Shaking his head in disgust, Garrett’s sun-kissed hair refused to budge. What did Talbert mean, anyhow? Was he still in mourning? Carolyn, damn Carolyn.
Haunted by memories, his attention drifted once again to the woman at the window as she enjoyed her dessert.
She wasn’t a beauty—a plain Jane with masses of sexy, just-got-out-of-bed brown hair with blonde highlights.
In her early twenties, she radiated a sophisticated vibe.
Clearly a city girl, grabbing a quick bite before heading to a mountain retreat that hosted singles mixers.
Check in for a few days of non-committal, therapeutic sex.
Half the men were likely married and cheating on their wives back home.
Or was it the other way around? The whole idea made him sick.
Why would a lady of such class resort to a place like that?
No doubt that’s all a woman can expect when she’s plain, or she might be a nymphomaniac. Both of which turned him off.
“What are you looking at?” Ed asked, following his friend’s gaze. “Pretty girl, and single, too.”
“She’s nothing to look at.”
“Then why are you looking?”
“And who says she’s unmarried? Are you a mind reader now?”
Ed pointed to his wedding band, cinching his chubby finger. “No ring. What a lousy homicide detective you are.”
“She could’ve taken it off,” he said, his eyes dropping to his empty ring finger.
Suddenly, an authority on women, Ed, sermonized, “Let me tell you something. A lady like that doesn’t leave her ring at home. It’s gotta be a rock, and she’d proudly show it off. No ring, no man. That simple.”
Garrett rolled his eyes.
“By the way, Garrett, your sex appeal is starting to fray around the edges. You know what they say. Use it or lose it.” Ed reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, and pushed it across the table.
“Lizzy thinks you should call her girlfriend, Bonnie. I hear she’s cute and around your age. Forty, I think.”
Garrett shoved the coffee-stained paper under his placemat. It’s new permanent home. “Drop dead, Talbert.”
On a roll and his fingers searching for one, Ed suggested, “Even better, why don’t you go over and introduce yourself to that girl? You’re not getting any younger.”
“Give it up, already, Grandpa.” Garrett cracked his knuckles, wishing he could send them into his friend’s jaw.
The lady of their glances slipped away from her table.
Garrett watched the petite woman walk by in tight jeans.
Her intoxicating, provocative perfume trailed behind her, teasing his frustrated hormones.
Forget the heady scent; his senses went on high alert when he noticed the remnants of a yellow bruise fading on her cheek.
The mark would have stayed hidden from prying eyes if her hair hadn’t shifted.
His companion garbled through escaping crumbs, “She sure has a great ass.”
Garrett didn’t respond to his gluttonous pal. He had something else on his mind. This might be a harmless crowd, but that lady was not unharmed.
* * *
It was after 8 o’clock, and on schedule, the sun had long set, and silence had settled in for the night. Overhead beacons christened the cars with kisses of sunshine, bestowing a touch of ambiance on Ponte Luxury Motors.