"I'll be at the Coeur Festival Friday and Saturday."
"That's right. I'll stop by your booth and check up on you."
She'd been looking forward to a break from Joe and the stress he created. "No need."
He glanced up from the keys in his hand and cocked his head to the side. "I'll come by anyway, just so you don't start missing me."
"Joe, I'll miss you about as much as a canker sore."
He chuckled, then turned to the back door. "You better watch out, I hear lying creates bad karma."
Joe's red Bronco rolled into the furthest slot in the parking lot at Albertson's. The four-wheel drive was less than two months old, and he didn't want some kid dinging his doors. It was half past eight, and the setting sun hung just above the mountain peaks surrounding the valley.
There wasn't much activity in the grocery store as Joe rushed inside and grabbed a bag of Sam's favorite baby carrots.
"Hey, is that you, Joe Shanahan?"
Joe looked up from the carrots to a woman loading cabbages into a cart. She was short, petite, and had thick brown hair pulled up into a glossy ponytail on top of her head. She wore very little cosmetics, and she had the kind of pretty face that looked like it had been cleaned to a shine. Her big blue eyes staring at him looked vaguely familiar, and he wondered if he'd ever arrested her.
"It's me. Ann Cameron. We grew up in the same neighborhood. I used to live down the street from your parents. You used to date my older sister, Sherry."
Which, he supposed, was why she looked familiar. In the tenth grade he'd done some pretty heavy groping with Sherry in the backseat of his parents' Chevy Biscayne. She'd been the first girl to let him touch her breasts-under the bra. Naked palm to bare breast. A real milestone for any guy. "Sure, I remember. How are you doing, Ann?"
"I'm good." She tossed a few more cabbages into her cart, then reached for a bag of carrots. "How's your mom and dad?"
"Pretty much the same as always," he answered, eyeing the mound of vegetables in her cart. "Do you have a large family to feed, or do you raise rabbits?"
She laughed and shook her head. "Neither. I'm not married and don't have kids. I own a deli on Eighth, and I ran out of produce today and can't get my next delivery of fresh vegetables until tomorrow afternoon. Too late for my lunch crowd."
"A deli? You must be a good cook, then?"
"I'm a wonderful cook."
He'd heard that same claim about two hours ago from a woman in a silver bikini who'd then disappeared into her bedroom and left him to cook dinner. Then she'd added insult to injury by picking at the meal he'd prepared.
"You should come by and let me make you a sandwich, or you can try my pasta. I make a mean shrimp scampi with tender angel-hair. All from scratch, of course. We can catch up on old times."
Joe looked at her clear blue eyes and the dimples denting her cheeks as she smiled up at him. Normal. No signs of craziness, but a guy could never tell at first glance. "Do you believe in karma, auras, and do you listen to Yanni?"
Her smile fell and she gazed at him as if he were nuts. Joe laughed, tossed the bag into the air, and caught it. "Yeah, I'll come by. Where on Eighth?"
Gabrielle considered herself a compulsive cleaner. When the compulsion hit, she cleaned. Unfortunately, the compulsion to clean her closets and cupboards only hit once a year and lasted just a few hours. If she was out of the house when it hit, her closets would have to wait another full year.
She squeezed lemon-scented soap into the sink and filled it with warm water. Maybe after she washed the stroganoff pot, she'd try to work up enough enthusiasm to straighten the cupboards so her colander wouldn't fall out on another guest's foot like it had on Joe's.
Just as she snapped on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, the telephone rang. She picked up on the third ring, and her mother's voice filled her ear.
"How's Beezer?" Claire Breedlove began without a greeting.
Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder at the big ball of fur passed out on the rug by the back door. "Prostrate with joy."
"Good, did she behave herself?"
"Mostly she ate and slept," Gabrielle answered. "Where are you? Here in town?"
"Yolanda and I are with your grandfather. We'll drive to Boise in the morning."
Gabrielle wedged the telephone receiver between her ear and shoulder and asked, "How was Cancun?"
"Oh it was fine, but I have to tell you about what happened. Your aunt and I had to cut the trip short because I've been plagued with a persistent foreboding. I knew a horrible tragedy would befall someone in the neighborhood up here. I felt your grandfather would be involved, so I flew home to warn everyone."
Gabrielle turned her attention to the plates in the sink. Her life was already in cosmic upheaval, and she really wasn't in the mood to travel the Twilight Zone with her mother. "What happened?" she asked, although she knew her mother would tell her anyway.
"Three days ago, while your aunt Yolanda and I were in Mexico, your grandfather ran over Mrs. Youngerman's poodle."
She almost dropped the receiver and had to grab it with a soapy hand. "Oh, no! Not little Murray?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Smashed him flatter than a crepe. Sent his soul to poodle paradise, poor thing. I'm not altogether sure it was an accident and neither is Mrs. Youngerman. You know how your grandfather felt about Murray."
Yes, Gabrielle knew how her grandfather felt about the neighbor's dog. Little Murray had not only been a nonstop barker, but he'd been a habitual leg-humper, too. Gabrielle didn't like to think her grandfather would go so far as to purposely run the dog over, but at the same time, Murray had directed his ardent attention to her grandfather's calf on more than one occasion, and she couldn't rule out the possibility.
"That's not all. This afternoon, Yolanda and I paid a condolence visit, and while I was sitting in Mrs. Youngennan's front room, trying to calm her, I felt the space behind my forehead clear. I'm telling you, Gabrielle, it was the strongest clairvoyant vision I've ever had. The vision was so clear to me. I could see the dark curls of hair brushing his ears. He's a tall man…"
"Tall, dark, and handsome, huh?" Once again she cradled the telephone between her shoulder and ear, then set to work on the dinner plates.
"Oh, yes. I can't tell you how excited I was."
"Yeah, I'll bet," Gabrielle murmured. She ran the plates under water, then set them in the dish drainer.
"But he isn't for me."
"Bummer. Is he Aunt Yolanda's?"
"He's your fate. You're to have a passionate romance with the man in my vision."
"I don't want a romance, Mother," Gabrielle sighed and dropped the salad bowls and tea glasses into the sink. "My life just can't take the excitement right now." She wondered how many mothers predicted passionate lovers for their daughters. Probably not many, she guessed.
"You know you can't wish fate away, Gabrielle," titie voice on the other end scolded.
"You can fight it if you choose, but the outcome will always remain the same. I know you don't believe in fate as strongly as I do, and I would never tell you that you're wrong. I've always encouraged you to seek your own spiritual feast, to choose your own path to enlightenment When you were born…"
Gabrielle rolled her eyes. Claire Breedlove had never imposed, dictated, or dominated her daughter. She'd introduced her to the world and insisted Gabrielle choose her own path. For the most part, living with a mother who believed in free love and freedom had been great, but there had been those years in the late seventies and early eighties when Gabrielle had envied children who took nice normal vacations to Disneyland instead of dowsing for Indian relics in Arizona or communing with nature at a clothing optional beach in northern California.
"… when I was thirty, I was gifted with second sight," Claire continued with her favorite story. "I remember it as if it happened yesterday. As you know, it was during our summer of spiritual awakening, shortly after your father died. I didn't just wake up one morning and choose my psychic ability. I was chosen."