“I know what it is and where it all came from.” She dropped the thread into a cloisonne dish.
Adele studied the Staffordshire figurines on the mantel. “How do you keep all this stuff clean?”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“Get rid of some of it.”
“I can’t do that.” She shook her head. “I have the Wingate illness. I think it’s in our genes. We can’t seem to part with family heirlooms, not even the horrible stuff, and believe me, my great-grandmother Foster had truly hideous taste. The problem is, we used to have a large family tree but we’ve been winnowed down to just a few branches. My mother and myself, a few cousins in South Carolina, and a mountain of family antiques.” She took a sip of champagne. “If you think my house is bad, you should see my mother’s attic. Sheesh. It’s like a museum up there.”
Adele turned from the mantel and moved across the Tulip & Lily rug to the sofa. “Did Lonny steal anything when he left? Besides your dog?”
“No.” Lonny’s fondness for her antiques had been something they had in common. “He knew he didn’t want to make me that angry.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Not since Monday. I had the locks changed yesterday, and I get my new mattress delivered tomorrow.” She looked down into her glass and swirled the light blond champagne. Less than a week ago she’d been naively happy. Now she was moving on without Lonny. New locks. New bed. New life. Too bad her heart wasn’t moving as fast as the rest of her. Not only had she lost her fiance, she’d lost a very close friend. Lonny had lied to her about a lot of things, but she didn’t believe that their friendship had been a pretense.
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” Adele said. “They’re seriously whacked in the head.”
“What did Dwayne do this time?” Clare asked. For two years Adele had dated Dwayne Larkin and thought he just might be Mr. Right. She’d overlooked his undesirable habits, like smelling the armpits of his shirts before he put them on, because he was buff and very handsome. She’d put up with his beer-swilling, air-guitar-playing ways, right up to the moment when he told her she was getting a “fat ass.” No one used the F word to describe her behind; she’d kicked him out of her life. But he wouldn’t go completely. Every few weeks Adele would find one or two of the things she’d left at his house sitting on her front porch. No note. No Dwayne. Just random stuff.
“He left a half-empty bottle of lotion and one no-skid footie on the porch.” She turned to Clare. “Remember the no-skid ladybug footies you gave me when I had my appendix out?”
“Yeah.”
“He only gave me the one back.”
“Bastard.”
“Creepy.”
Adele shrugged. “I’m more annoyed than afraid. I just wish he’d get tired and stop.” She’d called the police about it, but an old boyfriend returning his former girlfriend’s stuff wasn’t against the law. She could try and get a restraining order, but wasn’t sure it was worth the hassle. “I know he probably has more of my stuff.”
“You need a big boyfriend to go scare the crap out of him,” Clare provided. “If I still had a boyfriend, I’d lend him to you.”
Maddie lowered her brows as she gazed across at Clare. “No offense honey, but Lonny wouldn’t have scared the crap out of Dwayne.”
Adele leaned back against the sofa. “That’s true. Dwayne would have tied him into a knot.”
Yeah, that was probably the truth, Clare thought, and took a sip of her champagne. “You should talk to Quinn when he and Lucy get back from their honeymoon.” Quinn McIntyre was a detective with the Boise Police Department and might know what to do.
“He investigates violent crimes,” Adele pointed out, which was how Lucy had met the handsome detective. She‘d been researching online dating, he’d been searching for a female serial killer. Lucy had been his number one suspect, but he’d saved her life in the end. In Clare’s heart and mind, it had all been very romantic. Well, except for the creepy part.
“Do you think there is a right man out there for every woman?” Clare asked. She used to believe in soul mates and love at first sight. She still wanted to believe, but wanting to believe and actually believing were two different things.
Adele nodded. “I like to think so.”
“No. I believe in Mr. Right Now.”
“How’s that working for you?” Clare asked Maddie.
“Fine, Dr. Phil.” Maddie leaned forward and set her empty glass on the coffee table. “I don’t want hearts and flowers. I don’t want romance, and I don’t want to share my remote. I just want sex. You’d think that wouldn’t be too hard to find, but damn if it isn’t.”
“That’s because we have standards.” Adele tipped her glass and drained it. “Like a paying job. No artists who sponge, and no false teeth that pop out when he talks, unless he plays hockey and is extremely hot.”
“He can’t be married or homicidal.” Maddie thought a moment and, typical of her, she added, “And heft would be nice.”
“Heft is always nice.”
Clare stood and refilled the glasses. “Not gay is a must.” She was still waiting for the bing-bing moment. When she would know and could see why she picked cheaters and liars time and again. “The only good thing to come out of the breakup with Lonny is that my writing is going surprisingly well.” She found comfort in her writing. Comfort in being transported for several hours a day into a world she created when the reality of her real life sucked.
The doorbell chimed and the Muzak version of “Paperback Writer” filled the house. She set down a glass and looked at the porcelain clock on the mantel. She wasn’t expecting anyone. “I don’t know who that could be,” she said as she got up. “I forgot to enter the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes this year.”
“It’s probably the missionaries,” Adele called after her. “They’ve been casing my neighborhood on their bikes.”
“If they’re cute,” Maddie added, “invite them in for a drink and a little corruption.”
Adele laughed. “You’re going to hell.”
Clare glanced over her shoulder and paused long enough to say, “And you’re trying to pull the rest of us down with you. Don’t even think about sinning in this house. I don’t need that kind of bad karma.” She moved into the entry, opened the door, and came face-to-face with the poster boy for sin and corruption standing in the shade of her porch and gazing back at her through a pair of dark sunglasses. The last time she’d seen Sebastian he’d looked sleepy and unkept. Tonight his hair was combed and he’d shaved. He wore a dark green Stucky’s Bar T-Shirt tucked into beige cargo pants. She didn’t think she would have been more shocked to discover that Prize Patrol really was standing on her porch with a big check and balloons.
“Hey, Clare.”
She leaned to the left and looked behind him. A black Land Cruiser was parked at the curb.
“You got a minute?” He pulled the sunglasses from his face, slid one earpiece down the loose collar of his shirt and hooked them slightly left of his chin. He stared back at Clare through green eyes surrounded by thick lashes that she’d found so hard to resist as a little girl.
“Sure.” These days she didn’t have that problem, and stepped aside. “My friends are here and we’re just about to form a prayer circle. Come on in and we’ll pray for you.”
He laughed and walked in. “Sounds like my idea of good time.”
She shut the door behind him, and he followed her into the living room. Maddie and Adele looked up, their glasses suspended in midair, their conversation hung in mid-sentence. Clare could practically read the cartoon bubbles above their heads. The same “Whoa, baby” bubble she would have had over her head if she didn’t know Sebastian. But just because Maddie and Adele had paused to appreciate a good-looking man didn’t mean they were suckers for a pretty face and would start checking their breath or flipping their hair anytime soon. They weren’t that easy to impress. Especially Maddie, who viewed all men as potential offenders until proven otherwise.
“Sebastian, these are my friends,” Clare said as she crossed the room. The two women stood, and Clare looked at them as a stranger might. At Adele, with her long blond hair curling halfway down her back and magical turquoise-colored eyes that sometimes appeared more green than blue, depending on her mood. And Maddie, with her lush curves and Cindy Crawford mole at the corner of her full lips. Her friends were beautiful women, and around them she sometimes felt like the little girl with the tight braids and thick glasses. “Maddie Jones writes true crime
