Lauren and the middle girl (what the hell was her name?) were tall, willowy blondes,
good-looking in an All-American, Ralph Lauren advert way. The kid was thin and lanky
with glossy black hair and rosy cheeks. She had inherited the family blue eyes, which were
striking with her dark hair. She looked a lot like Lisa. She could have passed for her
daughter – or my sister.
“We adore Lisa,” the middle one (Nancy? Natasha?) reassured me. “She’s so good for
Daddy. He worships her.”
I saw Dauten patting Lisa’s hand with his giant paw as she chattered away. He wore a
gold signet on his pinky finger. The backs of his hands were covered in black hair. I reached
gratefully for the double Chivas Regal the waiter appeared with and knocked half of it back
in one gulp.
“Was the traffic awful?” Lauren asked sympathetically.
“We’ll all have to come to your bookstore,” the Middle One told me. “I love mysteries!
That’s all I read. We’ll tell everybody. We’ll get all our friends to go. You know, I always
wanted to work in a bookstore.”
The kid, Emma, who had been eyeing me steadily, said all at once, “You look like
someone. I know who. You look like the actor in that movie. Red River.”
“John Wayne?”
She giggled. Yeah, she was a cutie.
The Middle One, Natalie – Natalie – said proudly, “Emma likes black-and-white
movies,” as though the small fry had just received her Mensa card in the mail.
“What movies do you like?” I asked Emma.
I never heard her response, because Lauren leaned across the table, whispering like the
Girl from U.N.C.L.E. on duty, “So, what do you think about this plan for a New Year’s Eve
wedding, Adrien?”
“Uh…”
“It doesn’t give us nearly enough time,” Natalie put in, equally covert ops. “We’ve got
to stall them.”
“We’ve still got to get ready for Christmas,” Lauren told me. “Oh, by the way, you’re
having Christmas with us this year, did Lisa tell you?”
“I’m going to be a junior bridesmaid,” Emma piped next to me.
“You’re going to give the bride away,” Natalie told me.
I signaled for another drink.
* * * * *
We said our good-byes in the restaurant parking lot, Lisa and the other girls piling into
Dauten’s Jag as the rain began to patter down. The Jag sped past, a blur of waving hands and
smiling faces. I pulled off my tie, tossed it on the passenger seat.
The misty rain got heavier as I turned onto the 110 freeway. I popped a CD in the new
player: Patty Griffin’s 1000 Kisses. The melancholy opening notes filled the silent car in time
with the swish of the windshield wipers.
Of course, the perfect finishing touch would have been getting pulled over for a DUI,
so I was very careful driving home. Careful and depressed. I think it was hearing all the
details of the forthcoming Christmas extravaganza that sent my emotions into a tailspin.
I like Christmas. Not as much as I liked it when I was a kid, but I do enjoy it. Yeah, I
know it’s become cheapened and tawdry and commercialized, but that doesn’t change the
reason for the season. And, of course, it’s absolutely the best time of year for Cloak and
Dagger Books.
The problem I have with Christmas is the problem most single people have with
Christmas, which is that, if you’re single, it is absolutely the loneliest time of year.
It would have been a lot lonelier if I hadn’t had Lisa and a handful of good friends. And
this year I had Jake. Sort of.
Naturally I wanted to spend Christmas with Jake, but I realized that was unlikely. He
would spend it with his family, who after forty years apparently had no clue that James
Patrick Riordan had a yen for men. Despite the fact that he spent a couple of nights a week
under my roof and in my bed, there was no way that Jake was going to set them straight (as it
were).
Nor was he likely to spend Christmas on my turf. He wasn’t thrilled about the fact that
my mother and Chan, his partner on the force, knew we had a relationship. Add four more
strangers to the mix, and I’d probably never see him again.
Jake had vacation time coming – he always had vacation time coming, because he was
a workaholic – and for a while I had toyed with the idea of trying to persuade him to take a
trip for the holidays. I thought that on neutral ground, someplace where no one knew either
of us, he might relax again, and we might regain the closeness we had shared the previous
spring. But I had never got around to asking him – mostly because I was fairly sure he’d say
no.
There were a few forlorn Christmas lights as I drove down Colorado Boulevard. The
lamppost holly wreaths had a windblown, ghost-town look. I turned off onto the quiet side
street, driving past mostly dark shops and closed businesses.
I lived over the bookstore. The building had originally been a small hotel built back in
the ’30s. I’d bought the place not long after I’d inherited a chunk of change from my paternal
grandmother. I’d graduated from Stanford with a degree in literature and a vague idea that
running a bookstore would be a good day job for a writer. A decade later it turned out that
writing wasn’t a bad hobby for a guy who ran a bookstore.
Old Town was a happening place at night, but not in my neighborhood. Around here it
emptied out about eight o’clock. Generally I liked the privacy. Tonight it felt lonely.
I wondered if Jake might have left a message on the answering machine, but I knew
that was unlikely. I wouldn’t see him tonight, not two nights in a row. The CD started over. I
listened to the sweet sorrowful chords of “Rain,” reached over to turn off the player.
Turning into the alley behind the store, my headlights slid across the brick wall of the
back of the building. I caught a gleam, like eyes shining in the gloom. I had a confused
glimpse of something uncomfortably like heels disappearing out of the spotlight of my
headlights. I jammed on the brakes.
Had I imagined it?
I waited, engine idling, exhaust red in the Forester’s taillights, windshield wipers
squeaking against the glass.
No movement in the shadows.
A cat, I thought.
A really tall cat.
A really tall cat wearing sneakers.
I took my foot off the brake, rolled quietly into my parking space. After a moment’s
hesitation, I turned off the ignition.