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Authors: Mary Stanton
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off, Antonia.”
“Oh, yeah? Like, you’re the Incredible Hulk or something?”
Or something. Bree had to smile. “Okay. You made your point. I hear you. I said I’m not in the mood for this right now, and I meant it.” She wheeled around and drove herself into the kitchen. Sasha got to his feet and followed her, and then, after a long moment, so did her sister.
Bree opened the refrigerator door and began to pull containers and packages out one by one and stack them on the blue-tiled countertop. Genoa salami. Yogurt. The last few slices of a seven-grain bread from the bakery on Bull Street. A jar of sweet pickles. She hated sweet pickles.
“Here.” Antonia pushed her into a kitchen chair and worked a jar of pesto free from her clutching fingers. “First, I’m making us both a cup of chai. Then I’m making us both a sandwich. I picked up some watercress from Parker’s Market yesterday and it’s going to be fabulous with the salami. You just watch.” She kept up the stream of aimless chatter as she plugged in the electric tea kettle, took down plates and cups from the cupboard, and brewed the tea. Bree listened and reminded herself to be patient, and when, finally, their impromptu supper was laid out in front of her, she said, “What’s this really all about?”
Antonia poked at the sandwich she made and set it aside. “I’m scared of you.”
Then:
“It’s like those pod people in the movies.”
And finally:
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Bree stared at her sandwich. She wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t really been hungry for a long time. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep.
Bree took a good look at herself in her bathroom mirror before she went to bed. She was thinner; there wasn’t much doubt about that. Her cheekbones stuck out. The skin around her eyes had a silver-gray cast to it. She glanced down at Sasha, a warm and reassuring presence at her side.
There is a price. Nothing occurs without cost.
And Antonia, who just wouldn’t shut up: How long since you’ve had, like, a regular date? Gone out like normal people? Had a normal life? You want me to lay off? Fine. Then start living like a person.
“This case will take a few weeks,” Bree said to the mirror. “I can think about it then.”
At her feet, Sasha sighed and looked away.
Five
You’ve got to ask yourself one question: “Do I feel
lucky?” Well, do you, punk?
—H. J. Fink, R. M. Fink, and D. Riesner, Dirty Harry
“We’re going to have to open a satellite office sooner or later,” Bree said to her office staff early Monday morning, “and this may be the best time to do it.” She moved restlessly in her chair. She hadn’t slept well again. She felt like she hadn’t slept well for weeks.
“They’ll want a pot of money for the rent, those folks,” Lavinia said. “If you’re talking about Franklin’s old place. Nowhere near as good a bargain as this.”
“Yes,” Bree said. “But it’s a normal office, isn’t it? I mean, my friends and family will be able to come and visit me there? They’ll be able to find it? Walk in? Sit down? Have a cup of coffee? And I’ll have a semblance of a normal life?”
“Ah,” Petru said.
“Oh, dear,” Ron said. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it? This life. Beaufort & Company.”
Her landlady clucked disapprovingly—Bree hoped at the prospective cost of the new office space, and not at her bid for a little freedom—and moved the cream pitcher within Bree’s reach.
The five of them sat around the long oak table that served the little conference room in the office on Angelus Street. Bree rented the first floor of the two-hundred-year-old house, and, as Lavinia had just pointed out, the rent was indeed cheap. The house sat smack in the middle of Georgia’s only all-murderers cemetery. Despite the fact that they were a mere three blocks from the Savannah River in the highly desirable Historic District,
“Oh, yeah? Like, you’re the Incredible Hulk or something?”
Or something. Bree had to smile. “Okay. You made your point. I hear you. I said I’m not in the mood for this right now, and I meant it.” She wheeled around and drove herself into the kitchen. Sasha got to his feet and followed her, and then, after a long moment, so did her sister.
Bree opened the refrigerator door and began to pull containers and packages out one by one and stack them on the blue-tiled countertop. Genoa salami. Yogurt. The last few slices of a seven-grain bread from the bakery on Bull Street. A jar of sweet pickles. She hated sweet pickles.
“Here.” Antonia pushed her into a kitchen chair and worked a jar of pesto free from her clutching fingers. “First, I’m making us both a cup of chai. Then I’m making us both a sandwich. I picked up some watercress from Parker’s Market yesterday and it’s going to be fabulous with the salami. You just watch.” She kept up the stream of aimless chatter as she plugged in the electric tea kettle, took down plates and cups from the cupboard, and brewed the tea. Bree listened and reminded herself to be patient, and when, finally, their impromptu supper was laid out in front of her, she said, “What’s this really all about?”
Antonia poked at the sandwich she made and set it aside. “I’m scared of you.”
Then:
“It’s like those pod people in the movies.”
And finally:
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
Bree stared at her sandwich. She wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t really been hungry for a long time. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep.
Bree took a good look at herself in her bathroom mirror before she went to bed. She was thinner; there wasn’t much doubt about that. Her cheekbones stuck out. The skin around her eyes had a silver-gray cast to it. She glanced down at Sasha, a warm and reassuring presence at her side.
There is a price. Nothing occurs without cost.
And Antonia, who just wouldn’t shut up: How long since you’ve had, like, a regular date? Gone out like normal people? Had a normal life? You want me to lay off? Fine. Then start living like a person.
“This case will take a few weeks,” Bree said to the mirror. “I can think about it then.”
At her feet, Sasha sighed and looked away.
Five
You’ve got to ask yourself one question: “Do I feel
lucky?” Well, do you, punk?
—H. J. Fink, R. M. Fink, and D. Riesner, Dirty Harry
“We’re going to have to open a satellite office sooner or later,” Bree said to her office staff early Monday morning, “and this may be the best time to do it.” She moved restlessly in her chair. She hadn’t slept well again. She felt like she hadn’t slept well for weeks.
“They’ll want a pot of money for the rent, those folks,” Lavinia said. “If you’re talking about Franklin’s old place. Nowhere near as good a bargain as this.”
“Yes,” Bree said. “But it’s a normal office, isn’t it? I mean, my friends and family will be able to come and visit me there? They’ll be able to find it? Walk in? Sit down? Have a cup of coffee? And I’ll have a semblance of a normal life?”
“Ah,” Petru said.
“Oh, dear,” Ron said. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it? This life. Beaufort & Company.”
Her landlady clucked disapprovingly—Bree hoped at the prospective cost of the new office space, and not at her bid for a little freedom—and moved the cream pitcher within Bree’s reach.
The five of them sat around the long oak table that served the little conference room in the office on Angelus Street. Bree rented the first floor of the two-hundred-year-old house, and, as Lavinia had just pointed out, the rent was indeed cheap. The house sat smack in the middle of Georgia’s only all-murderers cemetery. Despite the fact that they were a mere three blocks from the Savannah River in the highly desirable Historic District,
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