possessiveness was the last vice a dying person should suffer. Stephen had taught her that you could never understand another per-son, much less own one, and the idea of soul mates was best limited to romance novels. She took a gulp of wine and let the mild sting of alcohol distract her, then intro-duced herself to the dark-skinned woman. The woman was named Zainab and had been born in Saudi Arabia. She was Arabian-American, but only indirectly from oil money; her father had been an engi-neer at Aramco. Zainab came to the U.S. to attend Stan-ford, back before everyone from the Middle East had to jump through flaming hoops to immigrate here, and now wanted to be a photographer "when she grew up."
"In America, you get to be grown up when you're fourteen," Anna said. "At least if you believe the fash-ion magazines. Of course, when you reach forty, you're expected to look twenty-five."
"Hey," Cris said, polishing off her third glass of wine. "I'm thirty going on twenty-nine. Guess that means I'm headed in the right direction."
Anna chopped at her pie a little more, then pushed the dessert plate away. Cris leaned toward Mason, her eyelashes doing some serious flutering.
"So, what do the guys in the foothills do for fun?" Cris asked.
"We go down to the Dumpsters behind the local café and throw rocks at the rats. The rats in Sawyer Creek eat better than the welfare families."
"I bet the rats live well around here," Cris said.
Not a smooth move, Anna thought. Talk of rodents does not a bedmate beckon.
"We call it 'living high on the hog' back home," Mason said, shuddering in mock revulsion. "I was talk-ing to one of the handymen today. He told me about set-ting out steel traps, and burying the food scraps to keep the rats down. Garbage disposal is a big chore here."
"It's amazing the things we take for granted in a civ-ilized society," Anna said.
"Who's civilized?" Cris said, giggling. "Sounds like we're heading for one of those 'walked four miles through the snow to get to school' stories."
"It was 'four kilometers over sand dunes without a camel' where I grew up," said Zainab.
"I saw one of the maids with a basket of laundry. Not her," Anna said, frowning toward Lilith, who was uncorking a wine bottle at the main table. "Imagine what it must be like to hand-wash all these table linens and curtains, not to mention the sheets."
"Seems the sheets get a good workout around here, if you believe the rumors," Cris said.
"You mean the ghost stories?" Mason said.
Anna's breath caught in her throat. If she managed to contact any ghosts here, she didn't want a bunch of would-be necromancers holding midnight seances and playing with Ouija boards. She believed those sorts of disrespectful games sent ghosts running for the safety of the grave. And if she had a mission here, a last bit of business before her soul could rest, she preferred to handle it undistracted.
"I was talking about sex, but the ghost stories are in-teresting, too," Cris said. Her sibilants were starting to get a little mushy.
Strike two, Anna said to herself. A man who's an arrogant, tee-totaling prude probably doesn't want to swap tongues with someone whose mouth smells like a barroom.
She knew she was being catty. The last entangle-ment had cured her of desire. And she definitely had no romantic interest in the sculptor. Even if he did have strong hands, thick, wavy hair, those dreaming-awake eyes. Maybe what she had taken for sullenness was ac-tually insecurity. A shyness and hesitancy that was re-freshing compared to Stephen's self-righteousness, and—
Stop it right there, girl. Find something NOT to like about him.
There.
He chews with his mouth open and he has pie crumbs sticking to his chin.
Mason said, "According to William Roth—"
"Oh, I met him." Zainab's brown eyes lit up as she interrupted. "I actually got to talk to him. I've always admired his work, but he's not at all like you'd think a famous person would be. He's so down-to-earth. And
"In America, you get to be grown up when you're fourteen," Anna said. "At least if you believe the fash-ion magazines. Of course, when you reach forty, you're expected to look twenty-five."
"Hey," Cris said, polishing off her third glass of wine. "I'm thirty going on twenty-nine. Guess that means I'm headed in the right direction."
Anna chopped at her pie a little more, then pushed the dessert plate away. Cris leaned toward Mason, her eyelashes doing some serious flutering.
"So, what do the guys in the foothills do for fun?" Cris asked.
"We go down to the Dumpsters behind the local café and throw rocks at the rats. The rats in Sawyer Creek eat better than the welfare families."
"I bet the rats live well around here," Cris said.
Not a smooth move, Anna thought. Talk of rodents does not a bedmate beckon.
"We call it 'living high on the hog' back home," Mason said, shuddering in mock revulsion. "I was talk-ing to one of the handymen today. He told me about set-ting out steel traps, and burying the food scraps to keep the rats down. Garbage disposal is a big chore here."
"It's amazing the things we take for granted in a civ-ilized society," Anna said.
"Who's civilized?" Cris said, giggling. "Sounds like we're heading for one of those 'walked four miles through the snow to get to school' stories."
"It was 'four kilometers over sand dunes without a camel' where I grew up," said Zainab.
"I saw one of the maids with a basket of laundry. Not her," Anna said, frowning toward Lilith, who was uncorking a wine bottle at the main table. "Imagine what it must be like to hand-wash all these table linens and curtains, not to mention the sheets."
"Seems the sheets get a good workout around here, if you believe the rumors," Cris said.
"You mean the ghost stories?" Mason said.
Anna's breath caught in her throat. If she managed to contact any ghosts here, she didn't want a bunch of would-be necromancers holding midnight seances and playing with Ouija boards. She believed those sorts of disrespectful games sent ghosts running for the safety of the grave. And if she had a mission here, a last bit of business before her soul could rest, she preferred to handle it undistracted.
"I was talking about sex, but the ghost stories are in-teresting, too," Cris said. Her sibilants were starting to get a little mushy.
Strike two, Anna said to herself. A man who's an arrogant, tee-totaling prude probably doesn't want to swap tongues with someone whose mouth smells like a barroom.
She knew she was being catty. The last entangle-ment had cured her of desire. And she definitely had no romantic interest in the sculptor. Even if he did have strong hands, thick, wavy hair, those dreaming-awake eyes. Maybe what she had taken for sullenness was ac-tually insecurity. A shyness and hesitancy that was re-freshing compared to Stephen's self-righteousness, and—
Stop it right there, girl. Find something NOT to like about him.
There.
He chews with his mouth open and he has pie crumbs sticking to his chin.
Mason said, "According to William Roth—"
"Oh, I met him." Zainab's brown eyes lit up as she interrupted. "I actually got to talk to him. I've always admired his work, but he's not at all like you'd think a famous person would be. He's so down-to-earth. And
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