“Ohhh... He really threw me with thatBlood Oathend reveal that the inspector’s own partner, Emilia Wren, was the murderer. And now I’ll haveBlood Tiesfinished almost any day.” She frowns. “I think the inspector’s going to dump that sweet Penny Bledsoe for some silly tart. It’s just the way he is. But I can’t even imagine who the Copycat Strangler is in this one! Can you?”
“Not at all!”
“Well, I’m wagering anything it’s the inspector’s half sister. She’s always in the background, and there’s something not quite right about her. Add to that the inspector is rubbish at reading women.”
She washes her hands and dries them on her apron. “Mark my words, a child will pop up in the next book or two. He can’t go around tupping all those women withoutthattwist.”
She clips some rosemary pieces over the chicken, and blushes. “Is he really as handsome as he is in the photos?”
“He’s notbad-looking.”
“Well, you have yourself a wonderful time and tell me all the details when you get back. Oh, and here...” She runs to the parlor and pullsBlood Oathoff a shelf. “Please ask him to sign it for me. Tell him to write it out to Annabel—A-n-n-a-bel—Fernsby.”
“Do you want to meet him?”
“Oh no, I’d never impose. You go enjoy your date, you lucky girl!”
“It’s not a date...”
But she’s distracted by Heathcliff as he clambers down the stairs in a Batman cape, asking her to turn on the television.
A date...
My armpits sweat like crazy as I walk toward the Hotel Café Royal entrance.
I suppose I took extra care with my hygiene and appearance. I didn’t eat anything that would make me gassy, and I slathered on extra deodorant. But I’m still properly wearing all black—black leggings, an attractive black tunic. As an afterthought, I applied red lipstick before leaving my bedroom—just because as a writer meeting up with another writer, I should look my best. Right? There are absolutely no expectations here, and this isnot a datein the traditional sense.
Intentionally, I carry Philip’s urn in my satchel, and I’m wearing not only the jet locket, but a fingerprint necklace with Philip’s signature on the back. I’m not sure where the lines are, but I feel like the extra widow symbols will protect me in the next few hours. Like talismans, all three pieces will remind me how I’m supposed to feel when I’m feeling all the wrong things.
For some reason, I’m thinking of a grad school friend, Heather. She was blonde, pretty, and from a religiously conservative background. We went out for coffee after class once, and as we talked about dating, she held out her finger to show me the wide gold purity ring her parents gave her when she was a teenager. She told me it was her tangible reminder that when she went out on a date with a man, she wasn’t supposed to have premarital sex or even think lustful thoughts.
Does it work?I asked her.
She giggled.Not really. It kind of burns into my finger when I’mout with a hot guy, so I just stick it in my pocket. Still, Itry, right? It’s the gesture.
Are all these widowhood trinkets, fashions, and rituals the same for me? Maybe they simply remind me of how I’msupposedto live even though I wobble and stray?
I walk in and find the place fairly crowded. I tell the hostess I’m meeting someone and give her both names. She nods atHemmings, and I don’t think I’m imagining a slight blush.
I follow her to some cushioned seating in a lounge area near the bar.
August stands when he sees me, and, oh god, he’s still as handsome as I remember. Maybe even more so.
I sit down across from him, hoping he can’t see how much my hands shake as I set my purse down. It’s a ridiculous thought, but I wonder if Philip can see me somewhere, see me on this date (?) with another man. I hope he knows I still love him. I finger the jet necklace, panic rising in my throat.
“What are you thinking about getting?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably just go with a nice, chilled glass of Pinot Grigio since it’s afternoon and so hot...”
“No, I won’t hear of it. You can’t come all the way to England for bloodyPinot Grigio.Let me order for you.”
He calls the server over, asking for two double shots of Irish whiskey.
He leans forward. “This single malt is best to drink neat, and it can get us in a lot of trouble.”
I chuckle, remembering how years ago I once had a double Irish whiskey at a women writers conference at the University of Virginia. I’d tested the old theory that Emily Dickinson’s poems can be sung to theGilligan’s Islandtheme song with a delightful older scholar named Edna.
“How’s your book coming along?” I ask as our drinks arrive, and we both take a sip.
