Boo Hiss (5 page)

C
HAPTER
6

“D
AD? YOU OKAY?
” Ainsley said, glancing at her brother, who was examining his steak knife and making it glint in the dim light.

Her father was looking around, his disapproving eyes pinched like he’d stepped into the bright sun. “What have they done?”

Ainsley thought it was charming. There was an actual tablecloth on the table, centered with a votive, which replaced what used to be a napkin holder that conveniently held the salt and pepper on either side. The ketchup bottle had also been removed, and in its place stood bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The waitress, wearing all black, brought a fresh loaf of bread to the table. As she left, Butch said, “Is that Tammi?”

“Tammi?”

“From high school. Don’t you remember? Stringy hair, skinny, with glasses.”

Ainsley glanced behind her. Well, in this setting, that look was working to her advantage. The place was beginning to remind her of that fancy restaurant Alfred took her to in Indianapolis when he was trying to transform her into the next Martha Stewart. She looked at her dad again, and he was trying to figure out what to do with the vinegar.

“See,” Ainsley said, “you take one of these small plates, and pour oil first, then vinegar. Then you dip your bread in it.” The bread had melted cheese in the middle and smelled like garlic.

“I’m going to have to talk to Pete about this,” her father grumbled. “I’ve been a patron of this restaurant since it opened, and now all of a
sudden he goes and changes on me? It’s like what happens to your daughter from the age of twelve to thirteen. At twelve, she’s this innocent, beautiful child that adores you. At thirteen, she turns into a sophisticated ninny who is all dolled up. Everyone swears it’s just part of the progression. But suddenly there’s fancy clothes, an awful haircut, and makeup, all of which are supposed to improve her. But you know what? You just want the plain twelve-year-old back. She’s a lot less trouble, and perfectly dependable.”

Ainsley found it slightly humorous that her father was saying this as if his daughter wasn’t on the other side of the table. “Dad, open your menu up. You’ll see all your favorites are there.”

With a skeptical sigh, he flipped it open. Butch said, “Have I told you about the things I had to eat on some of my missions?”

Ainsley nodded. “You’ve mentioned it a time or ten.”

“Snippy, aren’t we?”

“Tired. I spent half a day trying to convince Melb to go to the doctor. She absolutely hates doctors.”

“Is she sick?” her father asked.

“Kind of. She’s nauseated but seems to have quite a good appetite, all at the same time. But I can’t get her to rest. All she wants to do is scrub floors. The closest she’s come to seeing a doctor about it is calling Garth, who came over and gave her a horse pill.”

“I hate swallowing big pills,” Butch said.

“It was an actual horse pill. Garth claims it was all natural.”

“All natural what?” Butch asked.

“All I know is that my usual homemade chicken soup isn’t helping her. I don’t know what to do.”

“She’s a big girl. She can figure it out,” her dad said. Butch was still eyeing Tammi over at the bar.

“I’ll tell you one thing. This snake fiasco is about ready to make me retire.” Her father threw up his hands. “See? I can’t even find my favorite!”

“The twelve-ounce steak?”

“There is no steak on this menu.”

“Here it is.
Steak au Poivre
!”

“What?”

“It’s the New York strip you like, with the peppercorn.”

“Yeah. But there’s no sauce with it.”

“Yeah, they’re calling it a wild mushroom demiglaze. Sounds tasty!” Her father rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with saying steak with saucer?”

Butch said, “Where’s Wolfe again?”

“With Alfred, his former editor.”

“Doing what?”

“Alfred thinks Wolfe might want to try religious fiction.” Butch slapped his hand on the table, startling everybody. “How dare he!”

“Dare he what?” Ainsley asked. “That offends me.”

“Why?”

“The Bible is not fiction!”

“No, no. Religious fiction is a kind of novel, like a genre. Alfred says there’s a whole market for it, and now that Wolfe’s a Christian, he might want to look into it. Wolfe’s skeptical, but Alfred is really on top of things like this.”

“Wolfe’s a smart man,” her father said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Ainsley’s heart warmed. Though her father hardly had an understanding of Wolfe’s life or world, he had taken Wolfe in like a son. For the first time in years, Wolfe had a family. And this Thanksgiving was
sure to be his most memorable, aside from last Thanksgiving when he almost died in a snowstorm.

Her father was suddenly distracted, watching something across the room. When she turned, she saw Martín Blarty and Lois Stepaphanolopolis weaving their way between tables, Lois guiding Martin by the hand. They were both more dressed up than she’d ever seen them. Lois had a shade of red lipstick on that could be seen half the room away.

“Isn’t that cute!” Ainsley gasped. “They’re on a date!”

Her father stuck his nose back in the menu.

“I would’ve never thought those two for a couple,” Butch said. “She’s a foot taller than he is.”

“So what. I think it’s cute. What do you think, Dad?”

“I think I’m tired of all the love in the air. I come home, and all I see are Thief and Blot cuddling on the sofa, their tails entwined, meowing some sort of lovey cat language. Not to mention the dozen or so calls a day I get for Butch from women asking about him. Do you think you might want to call at least one of them back?” He gave Butch a harsh look. Butch didn’t notice because he was watching Tammi again.

He looked at Ainsley. “You’re gone now, happy with the love of your life. The last thing I want to see is Martin and Lois—” He gestured toward them. “Look at those two! They’re acting like high schoolers. Get a room!” he said, but not loud enough for anyone but his table to hear.

Ainsley glanced over in their direction. They were just sitting and talking at the table like anybody else. Tammi approached for their order. Ainsley hadn’t even had a chance to decide, but Butch was giving her plenty of time by trying to impress Tammi with his knowledge of Middle Eastern delicacies. Tammi looked completely grossed out.

Peeking over her menu, she watched her dad observe Martin and Lois. She knew immediately. Her father had a crush.

She ordered for herself and her dad, and while Tammi was still waiting for Butch to say something she could write down on her pad, Ainsley casually said, “Lois asked me to cater the opening night of her new play,
Not Our Town
.”

“I’m having second thoughts.”

“About what?”

“This play. I agreed to play a part, but it’s probably going to be a waste of my time. I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

Ainsley couldn’t believe it! Her father? Agreeing to be in a play? She knew this was serious, and she had to keep her father in the play, if nothing else, for his pride.

“You know, Dad,” she began carefully, “sometimes a little competition doesn’t hurt.”

He glanced sideways at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The play, of course,” she said. “If you’re worried about someone else doing the part better than you, it might motivate you to turn on your best … acting charm … and take a few Tony-worthy risks.” She was hoping this wasn’t going to take a “wink.” Her dad was a very literal man, and it was hard to
infer
with him.

Her father stared forward, seeming to get her point. “I miss your mother,” he said suddenly.

That even got Butch’s attention back to the table. They looked at each other and then at their dad.

Ainsley said, “Mom would want you to be happy.”

He contemplated something silently for several seconds, then grumped, “What’s it take to get a cold glass of nonsparkling refreshment from a mountain spring?”

Ainsley looked down. It was actually on the menu, and served bottled for three bucks.

Wolfe stared at the ceiling of his house, while listening to Alfred’s expensive loafers cross the tile with a pace short in stride and long in annoyance. “So,” Wolfe said, “what you’re saying now is that I shouldn’t do this? You’ve been talking to me for days. ‘Wolfe, consider it. Seriously.’ Did you not say that?”

Alfred finally arrived back at the couch, but instead of sitting, he leaned against the fireplace and cleaned his fingernails.

“What is it with you? You’re acting like a nervous Nelly.”

Alfred paused to look at Wolfe. “You’re insulting me with clichés now? You really are out of practice. We have to get you writing again.”

“I thought that was the whole point of exploring this new genre.”

Something was up, and Wolfe knew it. Alfred was picking at hangnails that didn’t exist. Even without his manicure budget, Alfred Tennison always believed in flawless hands.

Wolfe stood, visibly startling Alfred. “All right. Cough it up. What’s going on?”

“It’s just that, well … there’s no easy way to say this … “ He sounded like he was about to announce the death of a relative.

“Just say it.”

“Wolfe, you know you are a close friend, and because of that, I would never put you in harm’s way.”

“Okay …”

“And that’s why I think this whole thing is a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“You’re not going to fit in.” “Fit into what?”

“Okay, let me put it this way. Do you remember Belinda Besworth?”

“The sci-fi writer? Yeah, I met her a couple of times.”

“And meeting her was sort of like an event, right? I mean, she’d come to these New York literary parties dressed in silver lamé from head to toe. And who could forget her white hair molded into a single, Washington Monument spike?”

“She was different.”

“Different? Anne Rice is ‘different.’ Belinda was from another world. And as much as she tried, she just never fit in.” “I’m not following, Al.”

“I just don’t think you’re going to fit in.” Alfred’s eyes pleaded, and his back hunched as if under a hundred pound shawl. “See?”

Wolfe shook his head. “You don’t think I’d fit in?”

“It’s a whole scene,” Alfred said with expansive big gestures. “Just like in New York, except not in New York. There are certain expectations in certain scenes. You’re well aware of that. That’s half the reason you always hated New York.” Alfred smiled. “And why I always loved it.”

Wolfe crossed his arms. “What kinds of expectations?”

“Just trust me. I have my sources.”

“Who?”

“As much as you’d like to think of yourself as religious, I’m just afraid you might be perceived as a … “ “A what, Alfred?” “A freak.”

Wolfe laughed. “A freak?”

“It’s a harsh and subintelligent word, but I’m afraid it’s the right one.”

“For a week you’ve been talking to me about going to this conference, and now you’re afraid I might be perceived as a freak?”

“I’ll admit, I was overly ambitious about jumping into this thing without doing the proper research. I take full responsibility for that.”

“I was more afraid of being recognized and mobbed.”

“Trust me. Nobody’s going to recognize you, Wolfe. Christians don’t read your stuff. They read the Bible and pamphlets. Lots of pamphlets. And self-help books with seven steps.”

“When is this conference?”

“Tomorrow. In Chicago.”

“Pack your bags. We’re going.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m not afraid of being called a freak, Alfred.” I am.

“Then don’t go.” Wolfe eyed Alfred. “Is that what this is all about? You’re afraid of being around a huge group of religious people?”

“A huge group of creative religious people in seasonal sweaters. You’re quite enough as it is.”

“You’re coming with me.”

Alfred sulked. “Do I have to?”

“It was originally your idea.”

“Yes, but I’m trying to back us both out now.” Alfred stepped forward and looked Wolfe in the eye. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“We’re about to find out. We leave at five thirty tomorrow morning.”

Alfred stooped and pulled a folder out of his briefcase. “You might want to study this. It’s all the research I’ve been doing about what exactly a religious novel is.” Alfred smirked. “It might help you fit in.”