as Nick. “Where’s Werner?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
“He’s been cooking,” Isobel said, handing us each a cup of coffee. “With me.”
Gee, I got a little jealous lurch at that, then I remembered him tucking me in last night, and I smiled and sipped my coffee.
We sat at Fee’s glass-topped table overlooking the deck and the Mystic River beyond, and Werner came in with a platter of pancakes for us, and oatmeal thinned with applesauce for Nick.
“You both look like scrap,” I said. “And you’re both gonna say you beat the scrap out of each other, aren’t you?”
Two firm nods.
“What are you going to say you were fighting over?” Isobel asked, her fork halfway to her mouth.
Nick set down his spoon and stood. “Dentith,” he said, and left, slamming the door behind him.
“Thanks for the help cleaning up,” I called after him. Once the three of us erased any sign of our presence, Werner went home to change with a promise from us that we’d meet him at the station later.
Isobel and I drove back to my father’s to get dressed.
Like a fashion week show-and-tell, she opened her Vuitton cases, every piece, and I opened my walk-in closet, once a spare room. And like filings to magnets, the two of us gravitated toward each other’s vintage collections.
As it happened, Isobel fell for my form-fitting two-tone empire dress, bottom a dark taupe, top, black with cap sleeves, maker unknown. And over it, the matching bolero, known these days as a shrug.
I chose her navy, two-piece sailor suit dress with a pencil skirt and short-sleeved top. The square notched collar piped in white had a smaller collar atop a larger one, with a red star embroidered at each corner.
Isobel went into the bathroom, and I into my closet dressing room to try on our chosen outfits. As soon as I slipped an arm into the dress, I realized I’d underestimated the power in my psychic gift, simply because it hadn’t appeared in so long. With the sailor dress wrapped around my shoulders, one arm sleeved, the other free, I sank to my dressing room floor, landing with a thud on my mother’s favorite old Oriental carpet. My closet disappeared, and I hovered over a docked three-masted sailboat. A girl wearing the same dress as me, one who looked like Isobel, headed toward port, or starboard—who knew?
She hesitated when she saw a man posed, not quite tall nor lean, against the rail with his back to her, his hair a dull nutmeg color.
He held his left hand so as to show off a diamond the size of his ego. The emerald cut beauty was set deep in a bright, very pure gold, a calling card and a pickup line all in one. Here was a man who needed props. I had his number, though I’d yet to see his face. I watched the woman who’d worn this dress at some point previous to me.
“I trust you had a good flight, Carissima?” the man said without turning. Had she flown in to meet him? Where from? I wondered.
The boat began to move, and I sensed a rising panic from the girl, worse than from any psychometric vision ever.
“There she is,” said Flimflam Man, though the character analysis was a guess on my part.
“The Golden Gate Bridge,” he said. “Today Sausalito; tomorrow, I’ll take you to Napa. A weekend to remember, one well worth your price. Whether I’m buying, like now, or selling, when necessary, I always get value for someone’s money, my costly one, and you’ll like this part: I always leave my ladies wanting more.”
Ducky for Isobel . . . or her twin.
Why did he not turn to her but continue to stare out to sea, keeping his back to her, even as they conversed?
Meanwhile, she trembled visibly, and I wished I knew why.
“What shall I call you?” he asked her. “You may call me Gian or Carlo, or mi amore. And I will call you Bella Carissima, no?”
No! I thought.
“Sí, Gian,” his hired date said too submissively to be my new intern. But how well did I know Isobel after only a few hours?
His hired date
“I have no idea.”
“He’s been cooking,” Isobel said, handing us each a cup of coffee. “With me.”
Gee, I got a little jealous lurch at that, then I remembered him tucking me in last night, and I smiled and sipped my coffee.
We sat at Fee’s glass-topped table overlooking the deck and the Mystic River beyond, and Werner came in with a platter of pancakes for us, and oatmeal thinned with applesauce for Nick.
“You both look like scrap,” I said. “And you’re both gonna say you beat the scrap out of each other, aren’t you?”
Two firm nods.
“What are you going to say you were fighting over?” Isobel asked, her fork halfway to her mouth.
Nick set down his spoon and stood. “Dentith,” he said, and left, slamming the door behind him.
“Thanks for the help cleaning up,” I called after him. Once the three of us erased any sign of our presence, Werner went home to change with a promise from us that we’d meet him at the station later.
Isobel and I drove back to my father’s to get dressed.
Like a fashion week show-and-tell, she opened her Vuitton cases, every piece, and I opened my walk-in closet, once a spare room. And like filings to magnets, the two of us gravitated toward each other’s vintage collections.
As it happened, Isobel fell for my form-fitting two-tone empire dress, bottom a dark taupe, top, black with cap sleeves, maker unknown. And over it, the matching bolero, known these days as a shrug.
I chose her navy, two-piece sailor suit dress with a pencil skirt and short-sleeved top. The square notched collar piped in white had a smaller collar atop a larger one, with a red star embroidered at each corner.
Isobel went into the bathroom, and I into my closet dressing room to try on our chosen outfits. As soon as I slipped an arm into the dress, I realized I’d underestimated the power in my psychic gift, simply because it hadn’t appeared in so long. With the sailor dress wrapped around my shoulders, one arm sleeved, the other free, I sank to my dressing room floor, landing with a thud on my mother’s favorite old Oriental carpet. My closet disappeared, and I hovered over a docked three-masted sailboat. A girl wearing the same dress as me, one who looked like Isobel, headed toward port, or starboard—who knew?
She hesitated when she saw a man posed, not quite tall nor lean, against the rail with his back to her, his hair a dull nutmeg color.
He held his left hand so as to show off a diamond the size of his ego. The emerald cut beauty was set deep in a bright, very pure gold, a calling card and a pickup line all in one. Here was a man who needed props. I had his number, though I’d yet to see his face. I watched the woman who’d worn this dress at some point previous to me.
“I trust you had a good flight, Carissima?” the man said without turning. Had she flown in to meet him? Where from? I wondered.
The boat began to move, and I sensed a rising panic from the girl, worse than from any psychometric vision ever.
“There she is,” said Flimflam Man, though the character analysis was a guess on my part.
“The Golden Gate Bridge,” he said. “Today Sausalito; tomorrow, I’ll take you to Napa. A weekend to remember, one well worth your price. Whether I’m buying, like now, or selling, when necessary, I always get value for someone’s money, my costly one, and you’ll like this part: I always leave my ladies wanting more.”
Ducky for Isobel . . . or her twin.
Why did he not turn to her but continue to stare out to sea, keeping his back to her, even as they conversed?
Meanwhile, she trembled visibly, and I wished I knew why.
“What shall I call you?” he asked her. “You may call me Gian or Carlo, or mi amore. And I will call you Bella Carissima, no?”
No! I thought.
“Sí, Gian,” his hired date said too submissively to be my new intern. But how well did I know Isobel after only a few hours?
His hired date
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