Boneyard (The Thaumaturge Series Book 2) (19 page)

“Dahl?” I asked, more softly.

“He thinks I’m having an affair,” she blurted out.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.” At least I thought it was. But you never really know a person, do you?

“I know, right?” she said, indignation creeping into her voice. “When would I have time?”

“Are you getting a divorce?” I asked.

She looked down and gave a tiny nod.

“Oh, God, Dahl, I’m so sorry.”

Her face pinched. “Thanks, I guess. I just...”

“And your girls? Do they know?”

“They know,” she said. “But we haven’t talked about c-custody yet.” Her voice got higher towards the end of the sentence and she slumped, breathing in short, choppy breaths.

“God, Dahl, I don’t know what to say.”

She shook her head and gave a long, loud exhale. “Let’s just—I just—let’s talk about something else. But thank you.”

“Never a problem, Dahl. You know that. How’s the hair going?”

She smiled faintly. “The high school Coronation dance. It’s a big deal.”

“Is it?” I asked. I’d never gone to any of my own high school dances. “Did you finish your daughters’?”

She nodded. “You just missed Danielle.”

She went back to sweeping, gathering up the hair clippings into a dustpan. I sat in her spinny chair and inspected the decals and stickers partially covering one of the mirrors. A photo of her and her family caught my eye and I leaned in for a closer look. The photo looked recent, with Dahlia, her husband and their daughters standing together in front of a cluster of rose bushes. The girls were all mugging for the camera, and her husband was smiling with a tight, closed mouth, but in the photo Dahlia was looking out of the frame. Her nose was wrinkled and her eyes sparkled, a big laugh on her lips. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen her smile like that in a long time.

“Anything I can do, Dahl?” I asked.

She sighed and straightened a row of shampoos. “No,” she said, then inhaled slowly.

“Actually,” she said, turning to look at me. “Yes. You can help me move. Things just suck right now, Ebron. My girls are so mad at me. Christina’s graduating this year and leaving for college, but Danielle is so upset that we have to move.”

“
You’re
moving out?” I asked, surprised. “I thought that you’d stay and he’d go.”

“He is going,” she replied. “He’s travels for work. He can live anywhere, so he’s moving back to Boise to be closer to his parents.”

“Wow,” I said. “He doesn’t want to stay close for the girls?”

She gave one sharp shake of her head and looked away. I waited, unsure if I should keep talking.

“You can’t stay in your house?” I asked hesitantly.

She shook her head again. “I can’t afford it by myself, not even with his child support payments. Which we haven’t even worked out yet. I’m supposed to meet with a lawyer, but everything is closed down until after the holiday.”

“Of course I’ll help,” I said gently. “Anytime. You staying in the house through the holidays?”

She nodded. “Thanksgiving, yes, but I want to be out by Christmas.” Dahlia’s shoulders straightened a little and she gave me a watery smile. “Speaking of which,” she said. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Oh,” I said. “Nothing, I guess. I mean, I don’t know.”

“Your mom?”

“I think she’s going to Coeur D’Alene,” I said. “I haven’t talked to her, but I’m betting that they are going to go see Lloyd’s daughter. And Leo...” I trailed off, slumping down into the warm cushioned back.

“And Leo?” Dahlia prompted, some of her usual fire back in her eyes.

“He’s not around at the moment,” I said finally and she deflated.

“I don’t get your relationship,” she said.

I shrugged.  “It works. What can I say?”

She eyed me speculatively for a second. “Well, I’d like to have you over,” she said, going back to straightening up her booth. I watched her coil the cord of a hair dryer into a spiral and stick the whole thing into a drawer. “Both of you,” she amended. “You and Leo. If he’s around.”

“I—” I stopped, completely at a loss for as how to answer. I hadn’t heard from Leo yet, but that was hardly surprising. No news was good news and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I floated in a fragile bubble, one that would burst as soon as Leo returned.

Dahlia waited, watching me expectantly.

“I’ll try,” I conceded. “I can’t promise anything, because I do have some kind of weird stuff going on, but I’ll try.”

“Leo too?” She pressed.

“I’ll try to bring him, too,” I said. “If he’s around.”

She brightened. “That would be really great. This year’s going to be hard, but Brittany’s coming over and it would really great if you came too. Both of you.”

“You just want to meet Leo,” I teased gently and she swayed into me, bumping her hip against mine.

“You bet your ass, I do,” she said.

When I left, the smell of vanilla clinging to me, I liked to think that she looked a little brighter.

Chapter 13

Prompted by the knowledge of my empty refrigerator, I turned my truck towards the grocery store. Tiny, moist snowflakes kissed my windshield before melting. The streetlamps glowed through the descending snow, giving the evening a sort of holiday air that, despite myself, I found charming.

I stopped my truck at a red light, and watched as a big red truck pulled into the gas station across the street. Two teenage girls spilled out of it, dressed in poufy, jewel colored gowns, their shoulders bare. One teetered to the pump and began fueling the truck, while the other took selfies in the glow of the gas station lights. Both of them laughed with their mouths wide open, grinning at each other.  I gave a small, amused snort at their innocent happiness.

At the grocery store, I pushed my squeaky cart through the aisles, not avoiding the gazes of my fellow shoppers. A few people gave me nods, caught up, I guess, in the holiday spirit. I passed the rows of pumpkin pies and faltered. They’d been a big hit with my customers and I’d forgotten to save myself a slice. I reached out for one of the pies and paused. The question wasn’t whether or not I’d eat it. The question was whether I’d eat it with my nearest and dearest or alone on my couch. Either seemed a likely scenario. I grabbed one and couldn’t decide if I was being bravely optimistic or sadly resigned.

I dodged around some old people clogging the canned goods section and turned the corner towards the cereal aisle. With Leo gone, I’d been stress-eating and my supply of Pop-Tarts had dwindled precariously low. Two boxes of the s’mores flavor went in my cart, just as a precautionary measure. Milk. I needed milk.

With my cravings satisfied, I went about the business of getting actual food, food that would have Leo’s seal of approval. I even made my way over to the somewhat heretofore unexplored produce section. Which was where I was, holding a fucking zucchini, when I heard my name.

I startled, going tense just on instinct. I had probably about six people in my life who would approach me in public and
oh, God, if it’s Chad, just walk out.
I could not handle his aggressive friendship. I couldn’t fake small talk about football.

But then I turned and—
oh, fuck everything
—I wished for Chad. I
longed
for Chad. I would have bear-hugged Chad.

“Mr. White,” Jonathan Weber, attorney at law, gave me a stiff, flat hand wave. He walked over to me with a shopping basket hooked around his elbow and a tight smile on his face. I cast a furtive look around. My fellow shoppers seemed mostly absorbed with their browsing, though a few had glanced up at Weber’s sharp voice.

“Mr. White,” he said again, stepping up right into my bubble.

“Oh,” I said. “Hey. Uh...”

“Jonathan Weber,” he reminded me. His smile looked like a snarl. “Getting ready for the holiday, huh?” he said, glancing into my cart.

Nope, just eating to fill the void.

“Yeah,” I said.

He caught the reluctance in my voice and his smile slowly faded. He shuffled around, hoisting his basket up higher on his elbow. Let it be noted that
his
basket had not one, not two, but five of those digestive regulating yogurts. Strawberry flavored too, fucking gross. And there, nestled amongst the Tylenol PM, the microwavable Heart Smart waffles and the reusable shopping bag folded into the shape of a radish, was a jar of green olives. Who bought green olives, except to put in a cocktail? Oh, maybe he was a closet alcoholic.

Maybe he sits alone in his motel room, drinking to pass the time, dreaming of ways to ruin my life.

“I’ve been talking to people,” he said. His eyes glittered, never wavering from my face. I wanted to take a step away from him, to put distance between us.

I gently settled the zucchini back amongst its brethren. “Okay,” I said carefully.

 “I’ve heard things about you,” he said. Then he smiled again, wide and unfriendly, showing his teeth.

“It’s a small town,” I said. It was all I could think to say. I ground my teeth together and tried to smile.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “I met a very nice waitress at The Dinner Bell, for example. She told me that just last week, you were having breakfast with Marcus Harper. At least, the man in question fits the description of Marcus Harper, but for all I know you buy breakfast for young, black men all the time. Do you, Mr. White?”

“What?” I said. An elderly woman squeaked her cart up beside us and gave me the stink-eye while she fondled the produce. Weber smiled wider, his eyes lit up, his teeth on display.

“I said, are you in the habit of buying breakfast for young, black men, or was your dining companion in fact Marcus Harper?”

“It was Marcus,” I hissed. The little, old lady selected two sweet potatoes, gave me a stern look, and wheeled her cart away.

The smile dropped from Weber’s face. “So you lied to me,’ he said. “You know more about this coven of witches than you let on.”

“I don’t know anything about them,” I said, my mind racing. “I had a one night stand with Marcus. That’s all.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Interesting. And are you still in contact?”

“No,” I said with finality.

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Home, I assume.”

“And where,” he asked, leaning towards me. His breath wafted over my face, hot and unpleasant. “Is home?”

“Colorado,” I snapped. “You already know that.”

“How would I know that?” he asked, his voice like ice.

I froze. My eyes flicked up to his and something very dark passed across his face. I opened my mouth, desperately searching for an excuse, but could think of nothing that wouldn’t dig me deeper into the shit pile.

“You’re lying to me again,” he said quietly. “You’re in contact with someone. Who? Is it Marcus Harper?”

“No,” I whispered. “I’m not in contact with anyone. I don’t know anything.”

He shook his head. “I hate liars, Mr. White. Try again.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” I said. My heart slammed into the front of my chest. I wiped my palms on the front of my jeans and then wished I hadn’t.

“That’s right,” he agreed, smiling again. “You don’t. But I’ll tell you this: it is in your best interest to cooperate with me.”

“I don’t know anything,” I repeated. My voice sounded too high, too thin.

“We’ll see,” he said. He picked up a cucumber from the produce rack, examined it, and then dropped it in his basket. “They’re good for under eye bags,” he told me conspiratorially. “Anyway, I’ll be seeing you around, Mr. White. I promise you that. I think I’ll be staying for a while in your little burg. I like it here; everyone’s so talkative.”

He gave me a wink. “Have a happy Thanksgiving.”

And then he sauntered away, disappearing around the butcher counter. I sagged into the produce rack, my heart thundering, my chest so tight that I wanted to scream.

Somehow, I finished my shopping, snatching items off the shelves and slamming the dairy cooler with enough force to make the woman next to me jump.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and squeaked my cart away.

I saw Weber again, two people behind me in the checkout line. He grinned hard when we made eye contact, tilting his head towards me in acknowledgement. I scowled and moved my package of chicken breast to block his view of the turkey-shaped marshmallow filled chocolate bar I’d added to my purchases. I had a reputation to uphold.

My phone rang just as I was pulling out of the grocery store parking lot and I almost t-boned a Honda Civic trying to answer the call.

“Hello?” I propped the phone against my shoulder and jerked the wheel to the left. I saw a flash of the driver of the Honda Civic—Tom McLeod, the electrician who’d helped me re-wire my building—and winced when he mouthed something at me. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of mouthing.

“Hello?” I said into the phone, when I’d straightened out the truck.

“Ebron.”

“Leo!” I pressed the phone to my ear, straining to hear. “Are you there?”

“Can you hear me?” His tinny voice asked.

“Barely,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Don’t ask. Look, I need you to—”

“About time you called,” I interrupted. “I’ve been going crazy here. What’s going on?”

“Ebron, shut up,” he snapped. “Listen, we’re on our way back. He’s going to help us, but I don’t want him anywhere near you, okay?”

“All right,” I said. My heart picked up a little. “Who is he, Leo? Where are you?”

“I’ll tell you everything later, okay, just listen—we’re going to take care of things, but I don’t want you around. I’ll call you when everything is done.”

“I’m not going to sit here while you’re-”

“No,” he barked.

I huffed. “Leo—”

“No, Ebron, stay out of it.”

“What are you going to do... with them?” I asked.

“I have to go, okay? I’ll call when I can.”

“Leo—”

“Bye, Ebron.”

“Leo?” The phone flashed back to my home screen and I tossed it away. It bounced on the bench seat and slid down between the passenger’s side seat and the door.

I swore and slapped my hand impotently against the steering wheel. Outside, the snow continued to fall and I drove home in gloomy frustration.