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Detweiler knocked on my
door minutes after Mert left. I swear he’d aged ten years over the past few hours. Air carriers would have charged him the extra baggage fee for the circles under his eyes. He harrumphed as he hit my kitchen chair with his entire weight. One fist held up his sagging head. “Did you save the message?” the detective asked when I called him about Danny Gartner’s threats.

I watched my hand shake as I poured him a cup of coffee and passed the non-fat milk carton. I carefully placed the sugar bowl and a spoon at his side, taking care not to let our skin touch. “No.”

“I suppose lecturing you about how dangerous this was would be a waste of breath.”

“Probably. I’m not your problem, anyway.” Suddenly I felt unaccountably ticked off—and irritable. I was tired of the men in my life giving me grief. Every inch of my body ached from my bike crash, and my head throbbed from the ill-considered combination of Bextra and beer. The words slipped out before I could think about them: “I’m engaged.”

“In what?”

“The usual.”

“Snooping?”

“No … engaged to be married.”

“With someone from the rally?”

“Of course not!”

“Or Johnny?”

“No. It’s Ben Novak, his family owns
The Muddy Waters Review
. The alternative newspaper.”

“This happened last night?” His voice rasped. Gracie came over, licked his hand and made a yodeling noise. I think she was saying in Danish, “Don’t worry. I still love you.”

“Yep.” I preened with pleasure. “He told me he wants to get married.”

Detweiler looked miserable.

I knew I had upset him. But didn’t he deserve it? I mean, if he didn’t care about me—at all—he wouldn’t care about me being engaged, right?

I liked knowing he was shocked. I liked the idea he was suffering over me. Hadn’t I suffered because of him? Hadn’t I faced humiliation when I met Brenda, his wife? Hadn’t I gone through agony when I faced Sheila, Mert, and Dodie and they knew he’d been married before I did? Hadn’t I been in pain when I told Anya about his status? And all those sleepless nights since? Call me mean. Call me a horrible person, but wasn’t I entitled to a little revenge?

“You managed to crash your bike, attend a Crusaders for Racial Purity rally, suss out their upcoming promotions, and get engaged all in one night?” He scrubbed his face with his hand. “I’m having trouble keeping track here. Now you’re telling me you’re getting married? Married?” His voice rose an octave.

I reached in my pocket and showed him a Bextra. “I’m also taking drugs.”

“oh.” It was a very lower-case sort of sound. His hand stroked Gracie absent-mindedly. He stared down at my floor. Then, “Is Anya okay? Where is she?”

That’s when I fell totally, irrevocably, in love with the man.

Forget three little words. He’d used six and I was a total goner over Chad Detweiler. Whatever happened next in my life, I’d have to cope with the fact I loved him. Maybe we’d never get together. Maybe I was destined to marry someone else, someone I could love but not be “in love” with. But whatever the future held, he’d found a place in my heart forever because even when I’d rejected him, he still worried about my daughter.

“This is as good a time as any to explain my behavior to you.” He sat back, rubbed his face hard enough to leave red streaks. “I never meant to mislead you. I wasn’t trying to trick you. Shortly before your husband died, Brenda and I had separated. She moved out. I couldn’t—I can’t and I won’t—tell you the particulars. That’s between her and me.”

“You never told me your situation.”

“I meant to. I couldn’t find the right words. I know guys pull that ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ crap, and I prided myself on not being like that.”

I nodded.

“The longer I went, the more difficult it became to find the right words. The day before that Opera Theatre Event, she called. She wanted to move back home. To try again.” He shrugged. “I owe her that.” He cleared his throat. He straightened as though he was remembering himself, himself and a vow he’d made. “It would be disloyal and disrespectful to talk about what’s been happening between Brenda and me.”

“oh.” My turn to use the lower case.

“She’s a good person, Kiki. Honest. You’d like her.” He paused. “Well, maybe you would.”

That explained his visits. His distance and his closeness all in one. He hadn’t moved forward. He’d treated me as more than a friend but never made a move—except that one frustrated kiss. The one that kept me hoping and hanging on.

“I told myself I was keeping an eye on you and Anya. That’s true, you know. I still worry about your husband’s killer. I guess I lied to myself. I guess I lied to you by my actions. You know, I’m kind of a ‘by the rules’ type of guy. Which is why you fascinate the heck out of me. You worry about the rules. Worry a lot. But you never let them get in the way of doing what you think is right. I let myself down by not being upfront with you. I kept practicing what to say, but I couldn’t make it come out right. Every time I tried, I felt like I either wasn’t being fair to you, or fair to Brenda. And I admit, I had my own selfish interests at heart.”

I couldn’t take it any more. “I was engaged, and now I’m disengaged.”

“You can do that? Get engaged and disengaged that fast? And this all happened last night? Before or after you went to Roma?”

“Before and after.”

“Wow. You sure had a busy schedule.”

“I got disengaged this morning on my way back home. I phoned him. He told me I was stupid for going to Roma. Tried to boss me around.”

“Obviously, he doesn’t know you every well.”

I shrugged. “He was just being protective, but I got mad at him.”

“I can’t fault him for worrying about you. I do, too. And I should have guessed someone would come along. You’re young and beautiful and talented and wonderful.” Detweiler nodded slowly. “I guess this had to happen. I couldn’t expect … I mean … why would you wait …”

“Are you asking me to wait?” The kitchen clock ticked, ticked, ticked as I held my breath.

“I owe it to my wife to try …” And he stopped.

He had offered me the tiniest sliver, the smallest crescent, the faintest glimmer of hope.

___

It was nearly eleven when Gracie and I walked through the back door of Time in a Bottle. Immediately, the hairs stood up on my arms. Horace stood in the doorway of Dodie’s office. The expression on his face was of a man lost. The slump of his shoulders and the vacancy sign in his eyes told me more than I wanted to know. I bit my lower lip to keep from bursting into tears. “How is she?”

“Ach! My poor darling girl. She is so brave. I sat beside her this morning as they pushed those poisons into her system. And you know, she never cried. Never complained. Not once. She held my hand to comfort me! What a woman!” He gave me a trembling smile. “They say this is cumulative. At first, not so bad. Later, much more taxing. Still, she is in good spirits and that is something good, eh? Better than spitting in your face.”

He drew himself up to his full height of nearly five feet so we were practically eye-to-eye. “We must talk. You come to her office, okay? Get yourself whatever you need first.”

How like Horace to think of me and my needs before blurting out that the store would have to close and my job was kaput.

His face softened as his gaze dropped to the furry figure at my side. “I forgot.” Stepping closer, he cuffed Gracie around the ears. “My darling girl says to give you a big smooch. Miss Gracie, you are a blessing. You make my wife so very happy.”

My dog thumped her tail at him. I think Gracie knew exactly what Horace was saying. I settled into one of the office chairs across from the desk. Horace said, “Let’s begin with the confidential album. It is done, right?”

I nodded.

“Good! The owner asks that you bring it and the briefcase to Café Napoli in Clayton at noon today.”

He must have read the concern on my face. “Don’t worry about covering the store. Our daughter Rebekkah will be here soon. She’s at home with her mother now.”

“Rebekkah? But isn’t she at college?”

“She wanted to see for herself that her
em
was all right.”

I nodded. He’d slipped into calling Dodie “em” which is Hebrew for “mother.” In the Hebrew language “mother” and “father” are descriptive of action, with “em” meaning “one who binds the family together.” “Father” is “av” or “one who gives the family strength.” I settled back in the chair and steeled myself for being let go. A sharp rap on the doorsill startled me. Bama stuck her head in. “May I join you?”

Taking the chair next to mine, my co-worker sat stiffly. Although we were close in the small confines of the office, neither of us brushed against the other. It was as if we were holding onto our physical selves for dear life. Maybe, in a way, we were. I had no idea what this job meant to Bama, if indeed it meant anything at all. But it meant all the world to me. I’d never been central to any enterprise. Never felt I was special. Never learned as much, given as much, been depended upon like I was here. I tried not to get all weepy, but I knew Horace was going to tell us all this had come to an end.

Time in a Bottle would close its doors.

But Horace surprised me.
The last thing he wanted was for Time in a Bottle to go out of business. “My darling would have nothing to live for. Except our daughter, of course, and me. But she needs this. I talked with the doctors. She can come in and sit. Maybe not do so much.”

There was one caveat: Bama and I would need to buy in.

“I hope you will not think I am being too concerned with numbers,” began our boss’s husband. “But I have noticed this: When people have a stake in a business, they work harder. My darling girl says no one could work so hard as you two. Still if you buy in, you would see yourselves differently. As owners, not just employees. I think this is good, right?”

He didn’t mention they needed the money. Bama and I knew he’d been out of work. Their resources were tapped out until his former employers quit appealing the court-ordered settlement.

“We could do it,” I told Bama after he left, and I’d fielded a call from Patricia Bigler offering to take both our daughters to their golf match. “I know we could.”

She bobbed her head in agreement. Her finger ran along the printed-out schedule we’d been studying. “We’d need two part-timers. My sister Katie could use the work. Especially with the holidays coming up.” She shifted her weight. “Would you mind if her kids played in the backroom?”

“You’re asking me? The person who babysits dogs?”

She snickered. “Well, yeah. I have to ask you. Horace said we needed to work this out with each other and come back with a proposal. I figure we need to talk over everything if we’re going to be successful. That includes who does what. Who works when. Who’s in charge of ordering. Who does the books. And the schedule. Who talks to vendors. Who does classes. Who writes the paychecks. While we’re on the subject, you got any money?”

“I’m supposed to get some from Dimont Development. Sort of a payment on what I’m owed.” I turned my hands out. “How much you suppose we’re looking at?”

Her head cocked, she said, “If my math is right, each of us need to put in five grand.”

“You got that?”

“I can raise maybe four. That’s it. But Katie might help me.”

“With the holidays coming up, we’ll have monster hours. You should make part of that investment back. And there’s that class we discussed.”

“I know. If Katie can spare it, she will. I think we can do it. We’re practically running the place now. Besides, how often do you get the chance to be an owner? Not to mention, I’d do it for Dodie. She’s the best boss I’ve ever had.”

The only one I’d had. But I didn’t go there.

Rebekkah popped in at half past eleven. She was a shrinky-dink version of her mom, but a lot less hairy. Also, Rebekkah used make-up to best advantage. While she wasn’t what you’d call typically pretty, she was an attractive young woman who exuded a sort of strength and self-confidence. She didn’t follow anyone else’s fashion drummer, either. She paired an oversized plaid flannel shirt with a slouchy pair of jeans. The rolled up cuffs of her sleeves and pants added a jaunty, sporty look.

“What’s up? Tell me what I need to do.”

“How’s your mom?” Bama and I said in unison.

Rebekkah grinned. “Better’n my dad. Whew, he’s like, totally, so upset. She keeps telling him to chill.”

___

I knew Café Napoli well. George and I often met at the tiny restaurant on a corner in bustling downtown Clayton, a St. Louis suburb. He could walk there from his office at Dimont, and I could drive there from our big house in Ladue in minutes. We loved the menu and the ambience. The people-watching couldn’t be beat. George and I made a habit of lunching to discuss Anya’s progress, our upcoming plans, and whatever was on our minds.

With a big lump in my throat, I found a spot a few blocks down from the restaurant and walked past where the Library Ltd., once one of the best independent bookstores in town, used to be. That had been a special treat—after meeting with George, I’d walk over and browse the stacks, often finding a new favorite author. Today, I passed the new occupant of that space and moved briskly. I pushed away the fond memories. I didn’t want to keep my confidential scrapbook client waiting.

I wasn’t totally surprised to see Mahreeya waving to me as she talked loudly into her cell phone.

I did fight the urge to bolt.

I had wondered if she was my “confidential” client. Yuck. A series of images created a collage in my brain. I eventually recognized a few of the outfits photographed from her closet. I recalled vacations she’d bragged about. There was that big diamond and emerald pin she wore.

Funny, the more Mahreeya tried to push her success on people, the more we resisted. The louder and more obvious she became, the more we ignored her. The harder she tried, the more she failed. There was a lesson in there, somewhere. I remembered George saying, “In America, sex is like money. Those who really have it don’t need to talk about it.”

I guess Mahreeya’s grasp was precarious.

I steeled myself, willed myself not to recoil, and took a seat at her table. She continued talking loudly, ignoring the anguish in the eyes of her fellow patrons. “Yes, darling, tell the ambassador we have room for his friend the CEO. And the cabinet member. Is that right? Oh, we’d be delighted!”

Finally, she clapped the phone shut and turned a triumphant smile on me. “Everything is going so well for this party launching my husband’s campaign. He’s planning to run for senator next year.”

“Guess he’s got a surprise coming.”

She pointed at the briefcase. “My timing is impeccable.”

“You sure you’re going through with this?”

She snorted. “He’ll have a choice. Divorce and a fat settlement plus the embarrassment of his affairs being made very, very public, or an alternative proposal.”

I didn’t ask. I figured she’d tell me. And she did.

“He can choose to make a significant monthly deposit in my personal bank account. That’s his option.”

“So this wasn’t really about maintaining your lifestyle.”

“Of course it is! And he is—and has been—cheating on me. Unlike you, I don’t intend to sit by idly while he messes around.”

“Like he did with Sissy.”

She lifted a corner of her mouth in what could best be called a sneer. “Like he did with Sissy.”

Mahreeya interrupted the waiter taking lunch orders from the table next to us. “Bring me a glass of Norton. She’ll have the same.” Turning to me, she said, “It’s the only Missouri grape that rivals imported wines. It’s the best, you know. Otherwise, I wouldn’t drink it.”

I said nothing. Mahreeya thoroughly enjoyed being top dog—especially when sitting across from a mutt ready to roll over and play dead.

Still, I didn’t much care for exposing my jugular and lying there like roadkill.

“What are you eating?” She pressed on. Since I hadn’t opened the menu, I demurred.

She pushed me. “Hurry up. I have another appointment. You’re buying. Or the store is. Whichever.”

How incredibly gracious!

Before the waiter returned, Mahreeya reached toward me. “The briefcase please.”

I handed it over.

She didn’t even open it to look. All those hours, all that work, and she didn’t even care.

I pinched my thigh to hold back my emotions. That was dumb. Now I had yet another bruise to add to my collection. I swallowed the entire glass of wine in one gulp. The waiter poured another.

“Did you kill Sissy?” I blurted.

She threw back her head and laughed. “I wouldn’t waste the effort. I don’t care where my husband’s playing around, or with whom, as long as I get to be the wife.”

I didn’t respond. I simply stared at her. We knew what she was. An ugly word formed in the space between us. We both could see it. We could read it the way we knew the green sky that preceded a tornado. It was a Midwestern thing. You had to live here to understand.

She broke the stare first. In a whisper devoid of bravado she said, “You know how it is, Kiki. Of all people, you have to know. He’s good with the kids. And if he’s happy getting it somewhere else, what can I do? I still love him. At least now I’ll have security.”

She sniffed. “After all, he and I are both Old St. Louis.”

“Oh, really? Mah-ree-ya?” and I strung out the name syllable by syllable. I exploded. “Old St. Louis, Old St. Louis. I am sick to death of that term. What exactly does it mean? Hmm? Didn’t exactly come over with the pilgrims, did you and your ilk? You’re all just a bunch of second-generation fur trappers and beer brewers. And your manners? Huh. You wouldn’t pass for old money in any other part of the country.”

I was on a tear. “You ask me to come here so you can lord your money over me? And abuse me? You make a rude and condescending remark about the stupid wine! Now you play the better breeding trump card? Hey, I don’t know what passes for manners in your neck of the woods, but as my nana would say, this dog won’t hunt. Nice people, well-bred people don’t trumpet their social life on the cell phone for everyone to hear. They don’t brag. They don’t intimidate people. They are courteous to those who are in service positions. When they ask people to join them for lunch, they treat them as guests and pick up the tab!”

I realized at the end of my tirade that I’d raised my voice and attracted several onlookers.

“So ix-nay with the Old St. Louis baloney. Indians were here before you. They had a cultured and advanced civilization. But you and your kind pushed them out. They, not you and your hillbilly fur-trapping, beer-guzzling ancestors, are Old St. Louis. Not you.”

Two or three other tables were staring at me with undisguised interest.

Then they broke into applause.

I decided not to acknowledge their approbation. I downed the rest of my wine fully aware that I’d probably ruined Dodie’s business—the one I had hoped to buy into just this morning! Gosh, I was setting new records for ruining my life! I’d been engaged and unengaged, a business owner and a non-owner, an employee and probably fired, all in the space of less than twenty-four hours.

Of course the Crusaders for Racial Purity were busy printing up WANTED posters with my photo on them.

I could imagine my horoscope: Your stars and planets will careen into the sun and explode. Welcome to the black hole. That noise you hear is your life sucking.

Without looking up, I focused my eyes on the blank tablecloth in front of me. I braced myself for what would come next. I fully expected Mahreeya to punish me. To bring the full weight of her social standing and her checkbook down hard on my shoulders. I’d spoken out of turn to a customer. To another mom. I was in for it now.

And I’d asked for it.