“…Carrera is one of the most beautiful of all marbles. So soft and warm. And versatile. Don’t you agree, Dr. Brennan?”
I turned back to reengage. The realtor, Claire or Cher, was beaming at me through tiny gold-rimmed readers perched on her nose. The woman’s rigidly disciplined gray pageboy made me think of Shakespeare. Odd, but there you have it.
“And that freestanding tub? Mon dieu! This condo, it is truly a gem.”
“An expensive one,” I said.
“But the location is très magnifique!” Claire/Cher had an annoying habit of sucking on her teeth between overly enthusiastic outbursts. She did that now.
“Unfortunately, it’s out of our price range.”
From behind Claire/Cher came a narrow, squinty-eyed look. I kept my face blank.
“Oui, but you are a couple of such élégance. I had to show it to you.”
“He’s a cop. I’m a scientist.”
“We could move further down market.” Delivered as though suggesting we eat from a dumpster. “But I must warn you. This property will not be available for long.”
“Merci.” Scooping my jacket and purse from the marvelous stone. “You’ve been very helpful. Detective Ryan and I will discuss it.”
Her stilettos clicked loud and annoyed as she followed us into the corridor, then the elevator. Outside, we went our separate ways, she toward her Beamer, Ryan and I toward rue Crescent and Hurley’s Irish Pub, three blocks south.
It was early and we had our choice of tables. Wanting quiet, we opted for a two-top in the snug. A waitress appeared as we were removing our jackets. Siobhan.
Siobhan asked our pleasure. Ryan ordered a Moosehead and the Guinness beef stew. I went for fish and chips and a Diet Coke. We knew every selection. Didn’t need menus.
“So,” I said.
“So,” Ryan said.
“It’s way over budget,” I said. “Don’t forget, I’ll still have expenses for my place in Charlotte. And we’ll be spending mongo bucks on airline tickets.”
“And lingerie.”
The comment merited no reply.
“It’s a great location,” Ryan said.
“Thanks, Cher.”
“Chantal.”
“What?”
“Her name is Chantal.”
“It should be Shylock.”
“Shylock was a moneylender, not a realtor.”
“She probably has a sideline.”
“So harsh, madame.”
Siobhan arrived with our drinks, allowing me time to structure a counterproposal.
“Maybe we should rent,” I said. “At least until we know how the new arrangement will work out.”
I was still reeling from Ryan’s news. He and Slidell retired and in partnership as PIs, one working each side of the border. That was the reason for all their phone conversations. An underlying agenda in Ryan’s stealth strike visit to Charlotte.
“We said in for a penny, in for a pound.” Ryan smiled, and the starburst crinkles at his eyes deepened.
“Penny? That place would put us into competition with the national debt.”
“Which nation?”
“Either,” I said.
“Our condos here will both fetch tidy sums.”
They would. The thought of selling mine knotted my gut. I said nothing.
Siobhan arrived with our food. For several moments we focused on napkins, utensils, and seasoning. Ryan picked up the thread.
“Besides, what’s money? You’ll be royalty one day. The Sultana of Starch and Steam.”
I rolled my eyes at Ryan’s reference to Mama’s upcoming nuptials. Turned out Clayton Sinitch owned not a solo operation but a chain of laundry and dry-cleaning stores. In addition, he’d invented a chemical process that earned him zillions annually. Harry had done some digging. Everyone who knew the guy said he was solid, a kind and generous widower who missed being married.
Generous, indeed. The rock on Mama’s finger was the size of a bagel.
At Daisy’s insistence, the happy couple was postponing the wedding until Katy rotated back Stateside. In the meantime, she and Goose were planning a bash that would, according to Harry, make Kate and William’s little shindig look cheap.
I’d yet to fully admit it to myself, but it was Mama who’d inspired me to take a chance on Ryan. Her exuberance. Her trust. Her belief that love never comes too late in life. Hell, her Aristotelian wisdom about one soul inhabiting two bodies.
“Maybe we should follow Daisy’s lead.” Ryan spoke through a mouthful of stew.
“What lead?” Taking a cue from Birdie, I refrained from comment on proper dining etiquette.
“You do. I do.”
“You’ll do.”
“Funny.”
“I try.”
“I’m serious.”
“Ryan, we agreed that living together is a good first step. By the way, renovations for your office start at the annex this morning.”
“May I hang my Habs poster over my desk?”
“Is it autographed?”
“Yvan Cournoyer.”
“That must be worth something.”
“It is to me. You can hang a picture of Dale Earnhardt in our bedroom here.”
“I just might,” I said. “Can we step out of House Hunters mode for a bit?”
“Mais, oui, ma chère.” Lately Ryan was agreeing to whatever I wanted. “Your face looks much improved.”
“God bless concealer.”
Ryan scarfed a chip from my plate. “Are you feeling better about Cora and Strike? About the whole Brown Mountain mess?”
“I don’t know. The investigation was so confusing. First Cora looked like a victim. Then she looked like a vicious killer. In the end she turned out to be both.”
“But a victim of a very different sort. Of ignorance and religious fanaticism.”
“Still, it’s all so very sad. Cora should have spent her summers playing tennis and slapping on suntan lotion, her weekends drinking cheap wine with her BFFs. Giggling at a teacher’s bad hair, crying over boys, laughing over boys, whispering in the dark about first kisses. Instead, because of Hoke’s delusional freak show, she spent her days under the watchful eyes of Daddy and Jesus, her nights terrified that her body was a safe house for Satan.”
Ryan reached out and ran a thumb across my cheek. “True believers can be the most dangerous of all,” he said softly.
Our eyes locked, blue on hazel. Inexplicably, I felt the old flicker of unease, there sharp and fast as a pinprick, then gone. I banished the uncertainty and took Ryan’s hand.
“Yes,” I agreed. “They can.”
“Hoke and the Teagues will do time,” he said. “The Brices are healing. Cora is receiving the care she needs. It’s the best of all possible worlds.”
“Thank you, Candide.”
“You should be pleased.”
“I am.” I was. So why the confusion?
I took a sip of Coke. A poke at the muddle of emotions churning inside me.
“In a way, I’m most sorry for Grandma Gulley. The old woman lost her husband, her son, and her grandson. Hoke, her trusted adviser on all things godly, is heading to the slammer. I hope she can see reason and mend her relationship with Susan Grace.”
“The kid’s plucky.”
“Plucky?”
“Susan Grace will be fine.”
We ate without speaking for a while, each of us lost in our own private thoughts. I broke the silence with a question that had been troubling me.
“So who had the most irrational take on reality? Cora with her alter egos? Or Hoke and the Teagues with their belief in demonic forces?”
“Don’t forget Sarah Winchester with her unwinnable battle against guilt.”
“Salvation through construction.” I’d forgotten telling Ryan about the outlandish mansion in San Jose.
“Dissociation. Exorcism. Delusions of architecture. They’re all mechanisms to deal with a world that is too overwhelming.”