Boo (12 page)

Aunt Gert grabbed a tissue and then handed the box to Ainsley, who grabbed three. “Oh, dear heart, that was so precious. I haven’t heard that story in years. It was my favorite, you know.”

Ainsley patted Aunt Gert’s hand. “I knew how much hearing this story would mean to you.”

“More than you know,” Aunt Gert said. She had little energy left, but she thumbed through the book, examining the front and back cover, feeling every part of it with her fingers. Ainsley watched with sheer joy, so grateful that her aunt was able to hear that story again. For a long moment, peaceful silence filled the room. Finally, Aunt Gert set the book down on her lap. “Dear, how are you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m fine.”

“You look troubled.”

“Troubled? How do you know that? I’ve just been sitting here.”

“Now dear, you know I’ve always been able to sense these things about you. Many times your cute little face gets all bunched up into a scowl, but even when that doesn’t happen, when you’re trying to hide it, you give off this sort of unmistakable signal.”

Ainsley crossed her arms. “Well, apparently I’m giving off some sort of signal that causes really freaky things to happen.” She looked at Aunt Gert’s inquisitive face. She didn’t want to explain that last statement, so she cut off the looming question by asking, “Do you believe in signs?”

“What sort of signs, dear?”

“Signs. Like something telling you something.”

“You mean, like a sign from God.”

“Sure. Right. A sign from God.”

“I believe in those kinds of signs, yes.”

“Yeah, well, I think I just got one this morning. And I am
not happy
about it. But I just can’t imagine why else God would—” She glanced at Gert. “I just think He’s trying to tell me something by doing something else, sort of a reverse psychology thing, you know?”

With her hands gently folded in her lap, Gert’s soft eyes met Ainsley’s. “Oh, honey, God isn’t much into playing games. He tends to be rather forthright.”

Ainsley stared at the cold hospital tile. “Why can’t He send an angel with instructions, like He did to Mary when she conceived Jesus?”

Gert chuckled. “Well, honey, I think that’s because that was one of those important times in history when there could be no margin for error and no room for a human interpretation. We humans always tend to miss the point.”

With a hefty sigh, Ainsley nodded. “I suppose that’s true. But the absurdity of this man on my doorstep asking me—” Ainsley stopped herself.

“Asking you what?”

“Nothing.” She stood and kissed Aunt Gert’s cheek. “You look good today. You have some color in your cheeks.”

“Oh, that must be the warm rays of heaven growing nearer.”

“If you’re going to die, could you please be less excited about it?” Ainsley smiled down at her a little. “There are those of us who have to stay here without you, you know.”

Gert laughed as heartily as she could. “Oh, you are a woman after my own heart.”

“See you tomorrow. Call me if you need anything. And I mean
anything
.”

“I will,” Gert assured her. “And Ainsley?”

“Yes?”

“Follow your heart, not some sign you’re unsure of. All right? God gave you a good heart full of wisdom.”

Ainsley just smiled and turned, dismissing her aunt’s advice, though she knew better. But how could she possibly know what was best? Ainsley couldn’t trust her heart any more than she could trust a “sign.”

Outside the hospital, Ainsley sat down on a bench next to a nurse who was puffing away on a cigarette. They exchanged friendly smiles, but then both sank back into their own private thoughts. By the end of the nurse’s cigarette, Ainsley knew what she had to do. And she knew one other thing: The sign she’d received this morning was unmistakable.

She held her breath, half out of nervousness, half because of the smell. She stepped carefully across the tile of the small lobby, avoiding the yellow puddles that seemed to be everywhere, apparently from the small black poodle sitting in the corner with its owner.

Ginger, the red-haired receptionist, looked up and flashed a tolerant smile. She’d never liked Ainsley, mostly because Ainsley was the only thing standing between her and a life full of bliss with Garth Twyne.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Ainsley Parker, here to bless us with her presence. What brings you to this side of town?”

Ainsley rolled her eyes. ‘This’ side of town was twelve blocks away from ‘her’ side of town. “I need to speak with Garth.”

“He’s busy. He
isa
veterinarian, you know.”

“You don’t say,” Ainsley said, placing her fists on her hips. “Well, it happens to be important, and it won’t take much time. Can you get him, please?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure he’s in
surgery
. You just don’t walk in on a
doctor
in surgery. His patients,
not you
, are his number-one priority.”

Ainsley was just about to retort when Garth walked by and saw her through the window. “Ainsley,” he said through his typical goofy grin, “to what do I owe this pleasure?” He went around to the door and let her in.

“Hi, Garth,” Ainsley said, shooting Ginger a look. “Can we talk?”

“Talk? Ooooh. This sounds serious. Am I in trouble?” He chided like a little boy, and Ainsley felt the usual tension form in her chest, born of aggravation.

“Somewhere private.” Ainsley looked him directly in the eyes, trying to get across to him that she was serious about why she was here.

His thin, blond eyebrows rose. “Oh? My day is getting better already. Follow me.”

Ainsley dragged her feet as she followed Garth to his office, a small, smelly room with cheap posters of dogs everywhere, not a single cat to be seen. Garth made no bones about it: He hated cats. He would practice on them but not happily, and most people in town finally just got dogs or drove forty miles to Dr. Harold, the next closest vet. And yet amazingly this town still had too many cats.

“Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a stained chair in the corner. “May I get you something?” Ainsley wanted to scream at his formality.

“I’d rather stand, thank you.” Ainsley watched Garth shut the door and walk to the other side of his desk.

“Suit yourself,” he said dryly. He sat down in his own chair with marked emphasis, then looked up at her, clicking the pen in his hand. “So?”

The small of her back grew suddenly damp, and every word she needed to say seemed stuck in her throat. Could this
really
be what she was supposed to do? It had to be. Because the other option was … was no option at all.

“Yes?” His pen clicked faster.

“I, um,” she stuttered, trying to sound light, “I …”

“Yes, I have the ‘I’ part. It’s about you. It usually is.” He flashed a smile, but Ainsley didn’t miss the insult. She supposed years of similar rejection might make one a little less sensitive.

Ainsley tried to smile as she regained control of her flapping tongue. “What I’m trying to say is … is … um …”

“What is it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Garth leaned back in his chair, dropping his pen to the desk. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, to you.”

“Yes to me.” He shook his head. “I’m not following.”

“Yes to your offer.”

“What offer?”

“To take me out on a date.” The words seemed to echo as if she’d shouted them in the Grand Canyon. She watched Garth carefully. His expression barely changed, except for a small twitch at the side of his mouth, where a smile was trying to escape.

Garth folded his arms across his chest and rocked back and forth in his chair, staying silent and looking Ainsley up and down. Ainsley tapped her foot and threw her arms in the air. “Well, say something, for crying out loud.”

The smile finally won over. “I didn’t ask you out, Ainsley.”

“Of course you did.” Ainsley forced calmness. “Two years ago. Don’t you remember, right outside the restaurant? It was a cold day.” She then forced a smile. “So my answer is yes.”

Garth chuckled, then laughed, then snorted, sneezed, coughed, snorted again, wiped his eyes, and then said, “I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned back in his chair with agitating calmness. “You can’t just come in here, after all this time, and ask me out, you know.”

“Ask
you
out? I didn’t ask
you
out! You asked me out, you moron! And I’m saying yes!”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, my little chocolate-covered fire ant.”

Ainsley’s whole body burned with rage. “Garth Eugene Twyne! For ten years straight you’ve panted over me like a dog at its water bowl. You’ve gone out of your way a thousand times to tell me how much you love and adore me. Don’t sit there in that ratty little chair of yours now, with that smug little expression on your face, and pretend you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about!”

“Well, I do know one thing,” Garth said wryly, “You’re still really cute when you’re mad.”

“Forget it,” Ainsley said, turning around in his office and swinging the door open, only to find Ginger on the ground with her ear to the floor.

“My contact,” she tried. Ainsley stepped over her with disgust and kept walking.

She went through the door that led out to the lobby, this time forgetting about the puddle mines. Her heel slipped on one, but luckily she recovered only to nearly fall face first into another. She continued out the door with the little bit of integrity she had left and went straight to her car.

“Wait!”

Garth came running after her, tripping over his own shoelaces as he hopped the curb and stumbled toward her.

“I said, forget it,” Ainsley mumbled. Her face burned with embarrassment.

“No, wait.” He touched her arm. “I’m sorry.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled doctor’s coat. “You just caught me off guard.” He stepped back one pace, smiled at her with some hint of genuineness, and said, “Ainsley Parker, will you go out with me?”

Ainsley stared hard into his eyes, and for a moment she thought she heard that still, small voice that had led her through the years, a voice that sounded hesitant. But she decided she was mistaken. Because what she thought she heard it say sounded crazier than what she was about to do, so she looked at Garth and through gritted teeth said, “Yes.”

From somewhere nearby, she thought she heard Ginger scream.

“A
LFRED
?”

The older man smiled up at Wolfe, running his hands through his already slicked-back, dyed-black hair, shiny as oil on leather. “Wolfe. Boy, it gets cold in Indiana, doesn’t it?”

“What in the world are you doing here?”

“About to freeze to death,” he chattered.

“I’m sorry, come in.” Wolfe stepped aside so his old friend and editor could enter. Alfred looked around as he took off his coat and handed it to Wolfe. Wolfe hung it up in the coat closet and joined Alfred in the living room.

“Not too much has changed,” Alfred said, glancing at Wolfe. “It’s been several years since I was here.”

“You don’t usually get on a plane and come all the way out to Indiana unless you’re seeing dollar signs,” Wolfe said with a small smile. “Do you have some sort of news?”

“No, no.” Alfred sat down in one of the wing chairs, still looking around the house. “Just missed you.”

“Ha!” Wolfe stood above him with his arms crossed. “Try again.”

“How about some coffee first? I can’t feel my toes.”

Wolfe went to the kitchen and filled a large mug, black the way Alfred liked it. He brought it back, and Alfred took the mug. “You remembered.”

“And surely you remember how keen a sense of discernment I’ve always had about you. Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

Alfred reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small, thin box, handing it to Wolfe with a noticeable grin. “To give you this.”

Wolfe shook his head as he stared at the little box. “Let me guess. Another pen.”

“Not just any pen, my friend. It’s a Montblanc.”

Wolfe opened the box, and there, bundled in velvet, was a navy pen with the little plastic star on the top of the cap. “How much did this one cost you?”

“Wolfe, it’s a gift. You don’t ask people what they spend on gifts. But if you must know, it was seven hundred and forty dollars. It’s the Friedrich Schiller LE, you know, the great German philosopher and writer—”

“I know who Schiller is,” Wolfe said.

“Oh. I had to look him up,” Alfred smirked. “Maybe you’ll have a pen named after you someday.”

Wolfe smiled. “Well, thank you. You’re kind to think of me. I’ll put it with the other four.”

Alfred shrugged. “Every writer needs a Montblanc. It’s a sign of greatness. And
you
, my friend, are
great
.”

“Well, I type all my manuscripts on a computer now, but I’ll save this for a book signing or something.”

“Yes, we have several lined up near Christmas. Don’t forget.”

Wolfe sat across from Alfred and laid the pen on the coffee table. “Alfred, I don’t think you flew all the way from New York to give me a pen, Montblanc, Bic, or otherwise.”

“All right,” Alfred breathed, setting his coffee down and smoothing the wrinkles in his slacks. “I’m worried about you. All right? Fair enough? Don’t you see I’m here because I care? I came all the way here to check on you.” His hands flew up in the air and came back down, slapping each knee. “And I had to fly second-class too.”