“He’s such a good balance for you,” Laura was saying.“He’s so confident and centered and calm.”
Hugo was calm, I thought as I folded a T-shirt.Hugo was centered.Hugo was confident.That had been one of the things that drew me to him in the first place.He knew what he wanted.He wasn’t hesitant or timid or, for the love of God, a massive waffling waffle of uncertainty, like a certain somebody who was currently folding T-shirts.We’ll just take the check.
Laura gave a theatrical sigh.“It’s not fair, you know.Here I am, an absolute treasure waiting for the right man to snatch me up, and you have the perfect man fall into your lap—strong and sweet and right.That’s what I want, you know.Someone who gets me the way Hugo gets you.”
You won’t have to teach.You won’t have to write.You won’t have to do anything.
You won’t have to write.
For a moment, I stared at the socks in my hand.Hugo’s socks.I’d forgotten what I was doing.If he knows me so well, I wanted to ask—but I couldn’t complete the question.You won’t have to write.Like saying you won’t have to breathe.
“I’m jealous.”Laura’s voice broke through my thoughts.“There, I said it.Are you happy?Did you get what you wanted?”
“You called me,” I managed to say, scooping up the folded laundry.I carried it robotically toward the dresser and opened the drawer.And then I saw the small box of black velvet.It was like I’d stepped into a dream.I knew.Even before I opened it, even before I saw the ring, I knew.And I thought, Oh no.
“All right,” Laura said.“I’ve braced myself.I’m ready.Tell me how disgustingly in love you are.”
“I’ve got to go,” I said and disconnected.
I sat in the living room, that little black box in my hand, until he came home.I didn’t realize the apartment was dark until he turned on a light, and I saw his outline, the well-known shape of his body, smelled the hint of his cologne and the day of travel and spring.He paused, and I felt the question before he could form it.
“Hugo,” I said, “we need to talk.”
Mystery of the Week
This story is set afterMystery Magnet.
1
“My name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I solve mysteries,” I said.“Do you want an ice cream cone?”
Deputy Bobby (he’s a real deputy; he works for the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office) gave me a look from where he stood directing traffic.Deputy Bobby is not what most people would call expressive.He doesn’t really make faces or anything like that.But he’s got these seriously intense eyes that are a color I’ve never seen on anybody else—a rich, earthy bronze.He’s also got regulation dark hair, golden-olive skin, and the muscles of a Superman who just happens to be a little shorter than average.In other words, he’s hideous and ugly and all-around hard to look at, and spending time with him was basically my cross to bear.
As he waved another car through the intersection, he said, “Try that again.”
“I’m waiting for them to make my cone.”I pointed to the food truck across the street.Two Girls and a Scoop had the best ice cream in town.(I’m not willing to hear opinions to the contrary.)
“That’s not the part I was worried about.”
“My name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I stopped a murderer.”
His look, if anything, was even flatter this time.
“Seriously,” I asked, “do you want one?”
He didn’t bother to say no.
I had to fight a grin.It was a beautiful day.Summer on the Oregon Coast meant pleasantly warm afternoons that rarely edged into hot, a brisk breeze off the ocean, and, of course, tourists.In a picturesque town like Hastings Rock, with its walkable downtown of beach bungalows and cottages and the odd Victorian home, all repurposed as art galleries and gift shops and candy stores, the tourists often outnumbered the locals ten to one.Today, though, the traffic was even worse than usual because of the Hastings Rock Community Church’s annual craft fair, which was why Deputy Bobby was currently stopping a minivan from Utah from turning down a street that was clearly marked ONE WAY.
“How about,” I said, “my name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I’m a mystery writer.”
Deputy Bobby grunted.“Better.”
“My name is Dashiell Dawson Dane, and I want you to give me lots of money for a story I haven’t finished writing yet.”
The thing about Deputy Bobby is that, even though he’s got the patience of a saint, he’s still only human.He gave me a longer look this time and said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m practicing my introduction for the pitch session.I get to pitch my novel idea to an editor, Bobby.That’s a big opportunity.”
