Seraphina - 25 Years Old #2
I climbed into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and rested my forehead against the steering wheel.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It is.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“You don’t.”
“He could be terrible.”
“He could.”
“He could hate dogs.”
“You don’t have a dog.”
“Exactly.”
Frank blinked.
“I fail to see how that helps your argument.”
“It doesn’t.”
Silence settled over the car. I looked through the windshield.
The street was empty now. No detective. No footsteps.
No whiskey voice. Just me. My ridiculous brain.
And a suitcase that had nearly dislocated my shoulder.
I started the engine. As the car rolled away, I caught myself glancing into the rear-view mirror.
Once. Twice. Three times. Just in case. Gerald sighed so dramatically I thought his little ceramic lungs might crack.
“Oh, we’re doomed.”
I rolled my eyes.
“We’re not doomed.”
Gerald snorted.
“You’ve looked in the rearview mirror seven times.”
“I was checking traffic.”
“There hasn’t been another car in ten minutes.”
“…Wildlife?”
Frank peered through the windshield.
“The only thing crossing this road is your dignity.”
“I still have dignity.”
“No,” Gerald said.
“You have delusion.”
“Rude.”
“I prefer honest.”
I drove past the stop sign. Gerald counted.
"...There."
"There what?"
"You smiled again."
"No, I didn't."
"Frank?"
Frank didn't even look up.
"She smiled."
"Traitor."
I sighed. You know… I glanced at the review mirror. This is why I don't tell them anything. They're impossible.
"We're observant," Gerald corrected.
"You're judgmental."
"Also, true."
I rested one hand on the steering wheel and let the other drum absent mindedly against the window. Oh, I know what you're thinking. Where's she going? What's in the suitcase? Didn’t I say books? Why is it pink? I like pink, get over it. But all valid questions. Unfortunately...
I'm not answering any of them. Every good story needs a little mystery. If I told you everything in the first chapter, we'd both be out of a job. Well... I'd be out of a job. You'd just have a very short book.
The headlights carved through the empty road.
The town slowly disappeared in the rear-view mirror, replaced by stretches of quiet countryside and towering trees that looked suspiciously like they were gossiping.
They probably weren't. Trees are terrible at keeping secrets. Gerald leaned against the dashboard.
"I still think you should've bought the black suitcase."
"The black suitcase had no personality."
"It had functioning wheels."
"So boring."
"It was practical."
"It was ugly."
"It was practical."
Frank pinched the bridge of his tiny ceramic nose.
"You two have been arguing about luggage for four days."
"It started it," Gerald muttered.
"The suitcase?"
"No."
"Her."
"I have excellent taste."
"You have glitter."
"I like glitter."
"We know."
The drive back home was quiet
Well.
As quiet as a car occupied by two argumentative ceramic garden gnomes could be.
The radio murmured softly, though I couldn’t tell you what song was playing.
Every few minutes my mind wandered. Not to tomorrow’s deadline.
Not even to the editor who was undoubtedly drafting another Just checking in :) email.
No. It wandered to whiskey. Or rather…The man who sounded like whiskey.
Detective Elias Reed.
I tried the name out in my head. It fit him. Strong. Simple. Dangerously memorable. Gerald groaned.
“You’ve started repeating his name.”
“I have not.”
“You just did.”
“That was… research.”
Frank blinked.
“You’ve begun using ‘research’ as an excuse for everything.”
“It saves time.”
The familiar outline of my cottage appeared around the bend.
Warm yellow light spilled from the kitchen window onto the garden path.
Home. Finally, I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine.
For a moment, I just sat there. Then something caught my eye.
A warm light glowed from the cottage next door. I blinked.
"Huh."
Gerald looked up.
"What?"
"The Henderson place. It has lights."
"So?"
"It hasn't had lights in months."
Frank peered through the windshield.
"Looks like someone finally bought it."
I tilted my head, studying the windows. A shadow moved behind the curtains.
"Well...Welcome to the neighbourhood, mysterious stranger."
Gerald snorted.
"Please don't bake them cookies."
"I wasn't going to."
"You absolutely were."
"I was considering muffins."
"That's somehow worse."
"I like welcoming people."
"You like collecting people...There's a difference"
"Is there?"
I smiled innocently.
"Probably."
With one last glance at the softly lit cottage, I climbed out of the car, stretching until my back protested.
"Ow."
Gerald nodded toward the trunk where I struggled to also unload the suitcase when I delivered it to a new home.
"I blame the sparkles."
"I blame poor engineering."
Together, we (I picked my gnomes up) headed for the front door.
“I’m getting too old for heels.”
“You’re twenty-five," Gerald said.
“My spine disagrees.”
The porch steps creaked beneath my feet.
A cool breeze carried the scent of rain and rose.
Home always smelled like books. Old paper, coffee, vanilla candles and just a hint of dust that no amount of cleaning ever seemed to conquer.
Some people called it clutter. I called it atmosphere.
Gerald called it a fire hazard. Frank called it “organized chaos.” Frank was my favourite for at least six seconds when he said that.
The front door swung open with a familiar squeak.
A tiny voice echoed from somewhere in the living room.
“Took you long enough.”
I smiled.
“There she is.”
Rosemary stood proudly on the bookshelf, hands on her tiny ceramic hips.
Pink hat. White dress. One chipped daisy painted across her apron.
I don’t talk much to Rosemary. She likes to do her own thing.
Usually, she is in the garden inspecting the roses but for today I brought her inside. She looked me up and down.
“…You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve met a man.”
Gerald groaned.
“Here we go.”