individual. I wondered what their home lives were like. Did they watch cop shows after work? Did they have pets? How did they shake off their dark, oppressive days?
I showed them out, locked the door behind them, and headed for my bedroom, fantasizing about the hot shower I knew was waiting for me. I needed to cleanse myself of Gordon Pryne and all this talk of guns and knives and axes.
In reality, few fantasies live up to expectations, but this one did. I didn’t even have
Psycho
shower paranoia, which you’d think I would. No visions of a knife slicing through my shower curtain, or of Janet Leigh’s lifeless legs hanging over the tub. The shower was hot and thoroughly satisfying. I was completely unconflicted about it.
David picked me up at eight thirty, sharp. The man is a gem. Charming, good-looking. And punctual. What more could a woman want?
He took me to our favorite restaurant, an Italian place we’re convinced is owned by the mob. Since we’re boring, white-bread voting citizens, the two of us, we find it sort of exotic to watch the mobsters congregate at the corner tables. We cook up wild stories about what they’re talking about and who they’re going to whack next, fantasizing in a semi-sick way about ordering hits on various people we don’t like. Tonight, though, the game had no appeal, for obvious reasons.
We contented ourselves with a nice New Zealand sauvignon blanc (midlist, but beautifully dry with hints of tart citrus), an antipasti plate, and two orders of the special.
When the wine came, David placed a small, wrapped box in the center of my plate.
I love small gifts. Small is almost always good news.
He raised his glass. “To the birthday girl, whose life can only get better.”
“Is that your version of optimism?” I asked, grinning.
“I try to look on the bright side.”
I ripped the paper and cracked the lid of the jewelry box. It was a necklace. A black leather cord with a moonstone drop, set in silver.
“It’s by that designer you like,” he said. “Rosa Guevera.”
I took it out of the box. It was gorgeous, a luminous moonstone—transparent and opaque at the same time—hugged in by a clean thin line of silver. I turned it over, and there was Rosa’s stamp in the silver: RG with a tiny symbol next to it. I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “It’s beautiful. Perfect. Thank you.”
“I had a hard time finding it,” he said. “Only one shop in town sells her stuff. Down on Cedar Springs.”
“Did I ever tell you my mom helped her start her business?” I fought back an unexpected rush of tears. “It should be against the rules of the universe or something for a mother to die before you’re finished needing her.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“My mother should be here where she belongs having a birthday supper with me. We should be contemplating cake, bemoaning milkmaid thighs, and discussing the significance of speed-limit birthdays.”
David reached across the table and wiped my cheek. He smiled and didn’t say anything. That’s one of his great gifts. He knows what not to say.
I found a tissue in my purse and blew my nose. “You know the trusts I manage? My mother’s estate? One of her donations before she died was to a women’s co-op in Guatemala—Rosa Guevera and her friends starting their businesses. I think it was like five hundred bucks to each woman. Something tiny like that.” I took a sip of wine and dabbed my eyes. “Amazing what such a small amount of money can do. She changed that woman’s life.”
“You know anything about her?” he asked. “I mean other than the jewelry? Does she have kids or anything?”
“I don’t have any idea. I never thought to find out. Funny. Maybe I’ll see if I can learn more about her. I think the grant application is still in the files somewhere.” I raised my glass. “To Rosa. And her new life.”
He clinked his glass with mine. “And to your mother. Who is responsible for two creations at this
I showed them out, locked the door behind them, and headed for my bedroom, fantasizing about the hot shower I knew was waiting for me. I needed to cleanse myself of Gordon Pryne and all this talk of guns and knives and axes.
In reality, few fantasies live up to expectations, but this one did. I didn’t even have
Psycho
shower paranoia, which you’d think I would. No visions of a knife slicing through my shower curtain, or of Janet Leigh’s lifeless legs hanging over the tub. The shower was hot and thoroughly satisfying. I was completely unconflicted about it.
David picked me up at eight thirty, sharp. The man is a gem. Charming, good-looking. And punctual. What more could a woman want?
He took me to our favorite restaurant, an Italian place we’re convinced is owned by the mob. Since we’re boring, white-bread voting citizens, the two of us, we find it sort of exotic to watch the mobsters congregate at the corner tables. We cook up wild stories about what they’re talking about and who they’re going to whack next, fantasizing in a semi-sick way about ordering hits on various people we don’t like. Tonight, though, the game had no appeal, for obvious reasons.
We contented ourselves with a nice New Zealand sauvignon blanc (midlist, but beautifully dry with hints of tart citrus), an antipasti plate, and two orders of the special.
When the wine came, David placed a small, wrapped box in the center of my plate.
I love small gifts. Small is almost always good news.
He raised his glass. “To the birthday girl, whose life can only get better.”
“Is that your version of optimism?” I asked, grinning.
“I try to look on the bright side.”
I ripped the paper and cracked the lid of the jewelry box. It was a necklace. A black leather cord with a moonstone drop, set in silver.
“It’s by that designer you like,” he said. “Rosa Guevera.”
I took it out of the box. It was gorgeous, a luminous moonstone—transparent and opaque at the same time—hugged in by a clean thin line of silver. I turned it over, and there was Rosa’s stamp in the silver: RG with a tiny symbol next to it. I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “It’s beautiful. Perfect. Thank you.”
“I had a hard time finding it,” he said. “Only one shop in town sells her stuff. Down on Cedar Springs.”
“Did I ever tell you my mom helped her start her business?” I fought back an unexpected rush of tears. “It should be against the rules of the universe or something for a mother to die before you’re finished needing her.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“My mother should be here where she belongs having a birthday supper with me. We should be contemplating cake, bemoaning milkmaid thighs, and discussing the significance of speed-limit birthdays.”
David reached across the table and wiped my cheek. He smiled and didn’t say anything. That’s one of his great gifts. He knows what not to say.
I found a tissue in my purse and blew my nose. “You know the trusts I manage? My mother’s estate? One of her donations before she died was to a women’s co-op in Guatemala—Rosa Guevera and her friends starting their businesses. I think it was like five hundred bucks to each woman. Something tiny like that.” I took a sip of wine and dabbed my eyes. “Amazing what such a small amount of money can do. She changed that woman’s life.”
“You know anything about her?” he asked. “I mean other than the jewelry? Does she have kids or anything?”
“I don’t have any idea. I never thought to find out. Funny. Maybe I’ll see if I can learn more about her. I think the grant application is still in the files somewhere.” I raised my glass. “To Rosa. And her new life.”
He clinked his glass with mine. “And to your mother. Who is responsible for two creations at this
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