more honed somehow and she had actually given me a message that turned out to be somewhat true. Now I had a new message to think over and it wasn’t sounding like a good one. Truth to tell, I was worried. She had said a matter of life and death. Despite the blatant sabotage and vandalism, no one had been killed over the cooperative and I found myself praying that it would stay that way.
* * *
I skulked up the seldom-used front stairs, trying to avoid talking to anyone lest a pair of plane tickets to the frozen reaches of the globe appear in their outstretched hand. I didn’t dare look at a magazine for fear a vacation article would pop up before my eyes and I would be compelled to phone a travel agent. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t avoid something even more persistent than one of my mother’s visions. Celadon.
My sister called out to me as I tried to slink silently into my bedroom. Her hearing is so sensitive I’ve often wondered if it was the result of a secret government experiment. She flapped her slim hand at me and pointed into her own room.
Back when we were kids I lived for the moments Celadon permitted me to enter her room. I almost never got an invitation, not even on my birthday. Now here we were years later and crossing her threshold was the last thing I wanted to do. Other than visiting Sweden for a good switching in a snowbank.
All I wanted was to flop down on my own bed and think. I wanted to think about the Midget, about the cooperative, and about who might be willing to hurt Jill’s trees. Or maybe I just wanted to pretend to think about those things while actually taking a nap. But I followed her into her room instead because in the end it was just easier to do what she wanted than to argue with her.
“Which one of these looks the least like you are borrowing it from me?” she asked, reaching out a finger to touch the lacy edge of a peach-colored camisole. My sister has a passion for beautiful nightwear. She collects silky nightgowns and matching robes, peignoirs, and bed jackets. Ever since she was old enough for sleepovers she’s maintained the very highest standards in nighttime outfits.
“I don’t want to know why you are asking me this, do I?”
“You don’t really want me asking Graham instead, do you?” Celadon picked up a spaghetti-strapped gown that looked like it was made out of meringue and a couple of dead swans. She pressed it against my body and clucked her tongue. “Mom should have taken you to an endocrinologist before it was too late.”
“What does Graham have to do with your nightwear collection?” I pushed the fluffy bit of finery away from me and tried to make eye contact but Celadon was focused on the vast array of lingerie spread out before us.
“The camping trip, of course.”
“Graham is unlikely to need your pajamas on his camping trip with a bunch of kids.” I didn’t need to be a self-proclaimed psychic like my mother to know something bad was headed my way.
“Perhaps you’re right. Let’s face it, Dani, in your case, normal avenues of seduction have not been leading to the altar. I think a less conventional approach is called for.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, you don’t dress up. You don’t do the dinner-and-a-movie thing with a lot of success. You get hives on blind dates. You’re the only woman I know who has managed to require the Heimlich maneuver in a restaurant on a first date three different times.”
“My throat is extra small. Things get stuck in there.”
“You should have been born with a smaller mouth so there would be less of a loading dock for your chokable zone.” Celadon tossed the nightgown onto the bed, where it joined the others. The state of her bed made me think about how often her husband was out of town on business. I don’t think I would have wanted to sleep with her either from the looks of things. “No. Camping is by far the best way. And extreme camping conditions at
* * *
I skulked up the seldom-used front stairs, trying to avoid talking to anyone lest a pair of plane tickets to the frozen reaches of the globe appear in their outstretched hand. I didn’t dare look at a magazine for fear a vacation article would pop up before my eyes and I would be compelled to phone a travel agent. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t avoid something even more persistent than one of my mother’s visions. Celadon.
My sister called out to me as I tried to slink silently into my bedroom. Her hearing is so sensitive I’ve often wondered if it was the result of a secret government experiment. She flapped her slim hand at me and pointed into her own room.
Back when we were kids I lived for the moments Celadon permitted me to enter her room. I almost never got an invitation, not even on my birthday. Now here we were years later and crossing her threshold was the last thing I wanted to do. Other than visiting Sweden for a good switching in a snowbank.
All I wanted was to flop down on my own bed and think. I wanted to think about the Midget, about the cooperative, and about who might be willing to hurt Jill’s trees. Or maybe I just wanted to pretend to think about those things while actually taking a nap. But I followed her into her room instead because in the end it was just easier to do what she wanted than to argue with her.
“Which one of these looks the least like you are borrowing it from me?” she asked, reaching out a finger to touch the lacy edge of a peach-colored camisole. My sister has a passion for beautiful nightwear. She collects silky nightgowns and matching robes, peignoirs, and bed jackets. Ever since she was old enough for sleepovers she’s maintained the very highest standards in nighttime outfits.
“I don’t want to know why you are asking me this, do I?”
“You don’t really want me asking Graham instead, do you?” Celadon picked up a spaghetti-strapped gown that looked like it was made out of meringue and a couple of dead swans. She pressed it against my body and clucked her tongue. “Mom should have taken you to an endocrinologist before it was too late.”
“What does Graham have to do with your nightwear collection?” I pushed the fluffy bit of finery away from me and tried to make eye contact but Celadon was focused on the vast array of lingerie spread out before us.
“The camping trip, of course.”
“Graham is unlikely to need your pajamas on his camping trip with a bunch of kids.” I didn’t need to be a self-proclaimed psychic like my mother to know something bad was headed my way.
“Perhaps you’re right. Let’s face it, Dani, in your case, normal avenues of seduction have not been leading to the altar. I think a less conventional approach is called for.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, you don’t dress up. You don’t do the dinner-and-a-movie thing with a lot of success. You get hives on blind dates. You’re the only woman I know who has managed to require the Heimlich maneuver in a restaurant on a first date three different times.”
“My throat is extra small. Things get stuck in there.”
“You should have been born with a smaller mouth so there would be less of a loading dock for your chokable zone.” Celadon tossed the nightgown onto the bed, where it joined the others. The state of her bed made me think about how often her husband was out of town on business. I don’t think I would have wanted to sleep with her either from the looks of things. “No. Camping is by far the best way. And extreme camping conditions at
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