missed,” I said.
“Well, remind me never to go back to Jackson, if I did that dance in public,” Tara said.
“I don’t think either of us better go back to Jackson.” I’d left some very irate vampires in Jackson, but the Weres were even angrier. Not that there were a lot of them left, actually. But still.
Tara hesitated a minute, obviously trying to frame something she wanted to tell me. “Since Bill owns the building Tara’s Togs is in,” she said carefully, “I do have a number to call, a number he said he’d check in with while he was out of the country. So if you need to let him know anything . . . ?”
“Thanks,” I said, not sure if I felt thankful at all. “He told me he left a number on a pad by the phone in his house.” There was a kind of finality to Bill’s being out of the country, unreachable. I hadn’t even thought of trying to get in touch with him about my predicament; out of all the people I’d considered calling, he hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“It’s just that he seemed pretty, you know, down.” Tara examined the toes of her boots. “Melancholy,” she said, as if she enjoyed using a word that didn’t pass her lips often. Claudine beamed with approval. What a strange gal. Her huge eyes were luminous with joy as she patted me on the shoulder.
I swallowed hard. “Well, he’s never exactly Mr. Smiley,” I said. “I do miss him. But . . .” I shook my head emphatically. “It was just too hard. He just . . . upset me too much. I thank you for letting me know I can call him if I need to, and I really, really appreciate your telling me about Holly.”
Tara, flushed with the deserved pleasure of having done her good deed for the day, got back in her spanky-new Camaro. After folding her long self into the passenger seat, Claudine waved at me as Tara pulled away. I sat in my car for a moment longer, trying to remember where Holly Cleary lived. I thought I remembered her complaining about the closet size in her apartment, and that meant the Kingfisher Arms.
When I got to the U-shaped building on the southern approach to Bon Temps, I checked the mailboxes to discover Holly’s apartment number. She was on the ground floor, in number 4. Holly had a five-year-old son, Cody. Holly and her best friend, Danielle Gray, had both gotten married right out of high school, and both had been divorced within five years. Danielle’s mom was a great help to Danielle, but Holly was not so lucky. Her long-divorced parents had both moved away, and her grandmother had died in the Alzheimer’s wing of the Renard Parish nursing home. Holly had dated Detective Andy Bellefleur for a few months, but nothing had come of it. Rumor had it that old Caroline Bellefleur, Andy’s grandmother, had thought Holly wasn’t “good” enough for Andy. I had no opinion on that. Neither Holly nor Andy was on my shortlist of favorite people, though I definitely felt cooler toward Andy.
When Holly answered her door, I realized all of a sudden how much she’d changed over the past few weeks. For years, her hair had been dyed a dandelion yellow. Now it was matte black and spiked. Her ears had four piercings apiece. And I noticed her hipbones pushing at the thin denim of her aged jeans.
“Hey, Sookie,” she said, pleasantly enough. “Tara asked me if I would talk to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d show up. Sorry about Jason. Come on in.”
The apartment was small, of course, and though it had been repainted recently, it showed evidence of years of heavy use. There was a living room-dining room-kitchen combo, with a breakfast bar separating the galley kitchen from the rest of the area. There were a few toys in a basket in the corner of the room, and there was a can of Pledge and a rag on the scarred coffee table. Holly had been cleaning.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“That’s okay. Coke? Juice?”
“No, thanks. Where’s Cody?”
“He went to stay with his dad,” she said, looking down
“Well, remind me never to go back to Jackson, if I did that dance in public,” Tara said.
“I don’t think either of us better go back to Jackson.” I’d left some very irate vampires in Jackson, but the Weres were even angrier. Not that there were a lot of them left, actually. But still.
Tara hesitated a minute, obviously trying to frame something she wanted to tell me. “Since Bill owns the building Tara’s Togs is in,” she said carefully, “I do have a number to call, a number he said he’d check in with while he was out of the country. So if you need to let him know anything . . . ?”
“Thanks,” I said, not sure if I felt thankful at all. “He told me he left a number on a pad by the phone in his house.” There was a kind of finality to Bill’s being out of the country, unreachable. I hadn’t even thought of trying to get in touch with him about my predicament; out of all the people I’d considered calling, he hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“It’s just that he seemed pretty, you know, down.” Tara examined the toes of her boots. “Melancholy,” she said, as if she enjoyed using a word that didn’t pass her lips often. Claudine beamed with approval. What a strange gal. Her huge eyes were luminous with joy as she patted me on the shoulder.
I swallowed hard. “Well, he’s never exactly Mr. Smiley,” I said. “I do miss him. But . . .” I shook my head emphatically. “It was just too hard. He just . . . upset me too much. I thank you for letting me know I can call him if I need to, and I really, really appreciate your telling me about Holly.”
Tara, flushed with the deserved pleasure of having done her good deed for the day, got back in her spanky-new Camaro. After folding her long self into the passenger seat, Claudine waved at me as Tara pulled away. I sat in my car for a moment longer, trying to remember where Holly Cleary lived. I thought I remembered her complaining about the closet size in her apartment, and that meant the Kingfisher Arms.
When I got to the U-shaped building on the southern approach to Bon Temps, I checked the mailboxes to discover Holly’s apartment number. She was on the ground floor, in number 4. Holly had a five-year-old son, Cody. Holly and her best friend, Danielle Gray, had both gotten married right out of high school, and both had been divorced within five years. Danielle’s mom was a great help to Danielle, but Holly was not so lucky. Her long-divorced parents had both moved away, and her grandmother had died in the Alzheimer’s wing of the Renard Parish nursing home. Holly had dated Detective Andy Bellefleur for a few months, but nothing had come of it. Rumor had it that old Caroline Bellefleur, Andy’s grandmother, had thought Holly wasn’t “good” enough for Andy. I had no opinion on that. Neither Holly nor Andy was on my shortlist of favorite people, though I definitely felt cooler toward Andy.
When Holly answered her door, I realized all of a sudden how much she’d changed over the past few weeks. For years, her hair had been dyed a dandelion yellow. Now it was matte black and spiked. Her ears had four piercings apiece. And I noticed her hipbones pushing at the thin denim of her aged jeans.
“Hey, Sookie,” she said, pleasantly enough. “Tara asked me if I would talk to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d show up. Sorry about Jason. Come on in.”
The apartment was small, of course, and though it had been repainted recently, it showed evidence of years of heavy use. There was a living room-dining room-kitchen combo, with a breakfast bar separating the galley kitchen from the rest of the area. There were a few toys in a basket in the corner of the room, and there was a can of Pledge and a rag on the scarred coffee table. Holly had been cleaning.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“That’s okay. Coke? Juice?”
“No, thanks. Where’s Cody?”
“He went to stay with his dad,” she said, looking down
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