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Authors: Linda Robertson
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to the music store and it wasn’t far the other way to the warehouse where he paints.”
“Paints? He’s an artist?”
“He paints guitar bodies, sands and buffs them, adds the electronic parts, and solders them.”
“He’s going to have to put that motorcycle away soon.” Nana’s surprise had faded into nonchalance a little tooquickly. My suspicion piqued when she asked, “Does he have a car?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Guess he may have to move back to his apartment when the weather gets worse,” she said.
My heart gave a little pang when she said that. I did my best to keep any reaction off my face. She was digging as carefully as a paleontologist, but she wasn’t going to find a bone to pick this morning.
After dropping Beverley off at school, I drove to the local choose-your-own pumpkin patch and strolled about. Though I had a few already, none were big enough to carve. After finding three large carving pumpkins with good shape and color, I searched for some of different sizes. I liked the oddly formed ones; they had character. The bright morning sun made the orange globes look so pretty, I knew that against the green grass, flanked with the burnt yellow of dried fodder-shocks, it would be beautiful.
Stabbing and gutting pumpkins and gouging designs in their hulls promised to be a constructive way to expend some nervous energy. It would be both time consuming and a good way to avoid Nana. She clearly intended to ask me questions that made me uncomfortable and follow up by expressing all the reasons I should alter my plans.
I wondered how much the whole pumpkin patch would cost. But even with a truckload of them, I’d run out of pumpkins long before Nana gave up on her not-so-sneaky inquiries.
I settled for the three big pumpkins, five mediums, and a bevy of smaller ones. The Avalon’s trunk was pretty full.
When I arrived home, the motorcycle was gone; I’d missed Johnny. I wondered if he might be avoiding me. Maybe he just had to get “supplies” for our evaluation.
I hauled the pumpkins to the garage and went in, having to push past Ares—ever an overly enthusiastic greeter and getting bigger by the day. In the kitchen, Nana sat at the table, wearing an oversized shirt of gaudy cabbage roses and brown pants with her pink slippers. It didn’t surprise me to see the binder with the photocopied Trivium Codex open on the table before her. We’d used a spell from the Codex, an ancient book equivalent to the Holy Grail as far as witches were concerned, to heal Theo. Since Vivian had stolen it from Menessos, he took it back as soon as the ritual was completed, but not before clever Johnny had secretly photocopied it.
Nana had been translating the Codex from its archaic Latin into English, consulting with Dr. Geoffrey Lincoln, the vet who’d helped us take care of Theo and been involved in the ritual that saved her. The doc was more expert in Latin than Nana.
The coffee smelled fabulous and I realized my usual morning dose of caffeine was late. I pulled my favorite mug bearing Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott from the cabinet.
Nana said, “So, I was sitting here, and suddenly I hear ‘Folsom Prison Blues’!” She chuckled.“It was Johnny’s phone singing! Said it was his boss calling. Did you know those cell phones can have anything as a ring? What did he call it?” She tapped the pages before her. “Ringtone.Yes, ringtone. Any ringtone from any song or sound ever. And different ones for different callers, so he knows exactly who’s calling by what song plays.”
I wondered if he had a special ringtone for my number. What song would he pick for me?
“Anyway, they got an order for a bunch of seven-string guitars for Germany. Ain’t that rich? Global business, happening in your home in the middle of an Ohio cornfield with not a skyscraper in sight.”
Nana wasn’t grilling and badgering this morning? Maybe I’d been wrong about her. She wasn’t pressing me about the Eximium.
“Paints? He’s an artist?”
“He paints guitar bodies, sands and buffs them, adds the electronic parts, and solders them.”
“He’s going to have to put that motorcycle away soon.” Nana’s surprise had faded into nonchalance a little tooquickly. My suspicion piqued when she asked, “Does he have a car?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Guess he may have to move back to his apartment when the weather gets worse,” she said.
My heart gave a little pang when she said that. I did my best to keep any reaction off my face. She was digging as carefully as a paleontologist, but she wasn’t going to find a bone to pick this morning.
After dropping Beverley off at school, I drove to the local choose-your-own pumpkin patch and strolled about. Though I had a few already, none were big enough to carve. After finding three large carving pumpkins with good shape and color, I searched for some of different sizes. I liked the oddly formed ones; they had character. The bright morning sun made the orange globes look so pretty, I knew that against the green grass, flanked with the burnt yellow of dried fodder-shocks, it would be beautiful.
Stabbing and gutting pumpkins and gouging designs in their hulls promised to be a constructive way to expend some nervous energy. It would be both time consuming and a good way to avoid Nana. She clearly intended to ask me questions that made me uncomfortable and follow up by expressing all the reasons I should alter my plans.
I wondered how much the whole pumpkin patch would cost. But even with a truckload of them, I’d run out of pumpkins long before Nana gave up on her not-so-sneaky inquiries.
I settled for the three big pumpkins, five mediums, and a bevy of smaller ones. The Avalon’s trunk was pretty full.
When I arrived home, the motorcycle was gone; I’d missed Johnny. I wondered if he might be avoiding me. Maybe he just had to get “supplies” for our evaluation.
I hauled the pumpkins to the garage and went in, having to push past Ares—ever an overly enthusiastic greeter and getting bigger by the day. In the kitchen, Nana sat at the table, wearing an oversized shirt of gaudy cabbage roses and brown pants with her pink slippers. It didn’t surprise me to see the binder with the photocopied Trivium Codex open on the table before her. We’d used a spell from the Codex, an ancient book equivalent to the Holy Grail as far as witches were concerned, to heal Theo. Since Vivian had stolen it from Menessos, he took it back as soon as the ritual was completed, but not before clever Johnny had secretly photocopied it.
Nana had been translating the Codex from its archaic Latin into English, consulting with Dr. Geoffrey Lincoln, the vet who’d helped us take care of Theo and been involved in the ritual that saved her. The doc was more expert in Latin than Nana.
The coffee smelled fabulous and I realized my usual morning dose of caffeine was late. I pulled my favorite mug bearing Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott from the cabinet.
Nana said, “So, I was sitting here, and suddenly I hear ‘Folsom Prison Blues’!” She chuckled.“It was Johnny’s phone singing! Said it was his boss calling. Did you know those cell phones can have anything as a ring? What did he call it?” She tapped the pages before her. “Ringtone.Yes, ringtone. Any ringtone from any song or sound ever. And different ones for different callers, so he knows exactly who’s calling by what song plays.”
I wondered if he had a special ringtone for my number. What song would he pick for me?
“Anyway, they got an order for a bunch of seven-string guitars for Germany. Ain’t that rich? Global business, happening in your home in the middle of an Ohio cornfield with not a skyscraper in sight.”
Nana wasn’t grilling and badgering this morning? Maybe I’d been wrong about her. She wasn’t pressing me about the Eximium.
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