Authors: Camilla Chafer
"Hi," I said, turning to my mom, and adding, "I'm not single."
She picked up my left hand. "I don't see a ring."
"I'm still not single! Also, Serena isn't married!"
"Arnie, you could snap her up!" she said, showing him my unencumbered hand.
"Mom!"
"I'm not single, Mrs. Graves," replied Arnie.
"I don't see a ring on your hand either!"
Arnie laughed and turned back to the pipe in the ceiling. In a few short twists of the wrench, he slowed the deluge to a tiny trickle.
"Wouldn't it be safer to turn the water off?" I asked.
"Mrs. Graves couldn't find the valve," Arnie said.
I narrowed my eyes at my mother. I knew exactly where the valve was, and so did she. I bet she
forgot
the moment Arnie arrived at the door in his tight t-shirt.
"There's no point playing matchmaker," I told Mom, not at all perturbed that Arnie was probably listening as he peered through the gaping hole in the ceiling. "I have a lovely boyfriend."
"Me too," said Arnie.
My mother sighed, and her shoulder dropped, but she didn't look away from Arnie's clinging t-shirt. Purely for research sake, I paused a moment to take in his chiseled abs. "At least, I tried. You need to settle down. I wasn't expecting you, was I?"
"I texted you right back to say I'd drop by. I thought we might go to lunch?"
"That would be lovely, but I think I'm going to have to help Arnie fix up this mess. Poor nice, young, single man."
"All fixed," he said, jumping nimbly off the counter and landing in a puddle that splashed upwards. I was pretty sure Arnie's boyfriend would have enjoyed this moment, when Arnie relayed it to him later. Lily would have been so disappointed she missed it. "You don't have to worry about any more water. I fixed the pipe temporarily, but I can do a full repair tomorrow. You'll need to call your insurance company about the ceiling and the kitchen. Some of your top cabinets are soaked and beginning to buckle. I didn't check inside, but I guess you'll have to throw any food items away," he told us as he gathered his tools. He wiped them off with a tea towel before loading them into his tool kit.
"Is this going to be very costly?" asked my mom.
"Your insurance should cover everything. The temp fix just costs my time, and I'd advise you strongly against running any water in the house until I can come back and fix it properly. I can be here tomorrow morning first thing?"
My mom didn't move. She appeared to be hypnotized by his twitching pecs.
"That would be great," I told him when it became apparent she couldn't speak. "We really appreciate it."
"I'll leave via the back," he said, pointing to his wet clothes. My mother breathed a little sigh as he splashed across the kitchen and exited through the door onto the yard. He waved as he passed by the kitchen window and I waved back. His boyfriend was a lucky man.
"I can't believe you tried to set me up with your gay plumber," I told my mother. "What would Solomon say?"
"Is 'Marry me?' too much to hope for?" she asked.
"I don't think he would feel the need to compete with another guy."
"Maybe he's like Arnie." My mother paused and mouthed, "Gay."
"Solomon isn't gay."
"Are you sure? Have you ever seen him with another woman? Has he ever mentioned another woman?"
"We don't talk about things like that."
My mother gave me a smug,
I told you so
look.
"We aren't in a hurry to get married," I added.
"Shame. What if he never asks you to marry him?"
"Maybe I'll ask him."
My mother brightened visibly. "Could you?" she asked.
"No!"
"And I thought you were a modern woman." She looked around. "Where's your father?"
"Putting his robe on. His clothes were soaked."
"Oh, I didn't notice."
"Can't think why not," I said with a shake of my head. "Shall I take you both to lunch now Arnie has gone?"
"Everything's ruined here; so that sounds great. I can tidy later. Let me tell your father he can't wear his robe."
We walked to a deli that opened before I was born; and soon became a firm favorite with many local families. We grabbed a table by the window.
"Why aren't you working?" asked my dad. "Is work slow? Do you need a loan?"
"Actually, I have a big case."
"A big one?" Mom asked as I handed her a menu. "A money case? Can you pay your bills? Do you need a loan?"
"Yes. Maybe. Yes, and no. In that order."
"Which order did I ask in?" she asked.
I scanned the menu. "I don't need a loan, but I do need some help."
"Really?" my mother asked incredulously. "For?"
"Surveillance help. Lily suggested I ask you."
"We did ace Spy 101," Mom said proudly as Dad coughed. "And your father was a detective."
"I know. I saw your certificates and I do actually know Dad. Can you help watch a house for a few hours?"
"Watch it do what?"
"Not the house, but all the people coming to and going from the house."
"Can't you ask the owners?"
"I'm trying to be discreet!"
"Don't they know you're watching them?" My mother leaned in, the menu temporarily forgotten. "Are they criminals? Is this like
Breaking Bad
?"
"No, well, everyone thinks one of them is a criminal, but she's my client; and I'm trying to help her."
"Are they cooking meth? Apparently, all kinds of people are doing that now."
"No! This is not
Breaking Bad
!"
"Do you remember Jeffrey Carlton from high school? He lived three blocks over. He's doing ten years for cooking meth."
"Dumb kid," muttered my dad.
"Jeffrey Carlton?" The name brought back memories of a loud and arrogant kid from elementary school who only became louder and more arrogant in high school. He largely left me alone, but had a huge crush on Lily. Back then, every boy did. Except Jord, which probably explained why she married him. She always liked a challenge.
"Sold meth to two police officers," Mom continued. "I saw Maureen in the supermarket and she heard it from Esther, who heard it from Jeffrey's aunt. His mother was just so upset. I thought about taking her a pie, but I wasn't sure if she had the meth munchies, and I'd just be feeding an addiction."
"Meth munchies?" I frowned. "I don't know if that exists. Plus, I don't think his mom is a tweaker."
"Maybe it's marijuana munchies?" Mom carried on. "Anyway, very sad. I'm so glad you never dated him. He's probably gay now anyway. Prison can do that to you."
"Tell us about your case," said Dad before Mom could pursue her tangent.
I mouthed my thanks to him as Mom picked up her menu, running her finger along the juices and smoothies.
"My client has a stalker who, we believe, has been inside her home. I need to watch for anyone coming or going so I can work out who has access and might be causing problems."
"You think it's someone close to her?" Dad guessed correctly.
I nodded. "It seems likely. I can't do all the surveillance. I need to interview people and chase down some leads; and I can't do that if I'm parked outside my client's house. Lily is taking a shift, and another friend will too. I thought if you weren't busy, Mom, maybe you'd like to help out? Put your spy training to use?"
How I said that with a straight face I'll never know, but I did, and my mother's expression was my reward. She looked thrilled as she grabbed my hand. "Yes, please," she whispered breathlessly as if I'd offered her an all expenses paid trip around the world. Dad coughed lightly. "Do I need to be armed?"
"No!" we both said loud enough for the next table to turn around and glare at us. "No," I said a little lighter. "No guns. All you need to do is sit in your car and watch the house."
Dad coughed again. I frowned at him.
"I can do that. I could even take photos. I have a digital camera."
"Okay," I agreed. "That could be useful."
"Will you be armed?" Mom asked.
"No."
"What if you get shot or stabbed again? I worry. Are you carrying now?"
"Carrying?" I repeated. She motioned putting her hand under her jacket, and withdrawing her fingers shaped like a pistol as I caught her gist. "Oh no. I barely use my gun unless I really need to."
"Good. I worry about you getting trigger snappy."
"Trigger happy," Dad corrected.
"There's nothing to be happy about pulling a trigger," replied Mom. "But I think better safe and shooting, than sorry and dead. A stakeout sounds nice and safe. I'm glad you asked me."
Dad coughed again. It hit me why in a rush of clarity. My dad felt left out that I hadn't asked him.
"Dad, would you be able to help with some of the surveillance too?" I asked, wondering why it never occurred to me to ask him before. He spent his entire career on the force. He would have been the perfect one to help me the most. Plus, I suspected he was a little bored in his retirement.
"Oh, I don't know," started Dad, his lips twitching at the edges as he desperately tried to mask his eagerness to jump in.
"I'd be really grateful, Dad," I cajoled, playing along.
"I'm so busy these days, but if you insist. If you really need the help, sure! I'll put in a few hours."
"Thank you."
"No problem," he said, waving away my thanks. "Happy to help."
"Graves, Graves, and Graves," said Mom. "Should I print some business cards?"
"No!" Dad and I replied in unison.
"How was your day, sweetheart?" Solomon asked. We were walking hand-in-hand out of the movie theater, the crowd around us talking excitedly about the action movie we just sat through. It was hugely fun with enormous explosions, car chases, and a hot romance; the perfect distraction to take my mind off my day.
"My mom tried to set me up with her gay plumber."
"Clearly, no flaws in her plan," said Solomon without missing a beat.
I laughed. "Guess who's hosting family dinner in a couple of days?"
"Garrett," Solomon replied, his voice full of hope.
"Nope."
"Serena."
"No. Try again."
"You?"
"You got it. I have to host a dinner for twelve adults, including you and me, and six children."
"Can you fit that many people into the house?"
"Sure, but not around the table. What was I thinking when I offered?"
Solomon tossed our popcorn carton in the trash and gave me a raised eyebrow look. "What exactly were you thinking?"
"That my parents’ kitchen was flooded, and Mom and Dad are both helping me out, and I should take the load off them for once."
"By hosting and feeding eighteen people?"
"It seemed a good idea at the time."
"What are you feeding us all?"
I winced. I hadn't thought that through yet. "Takeout pizza?"
"Do you want to live through this?"
"I do, but I don't know what I can make for eighteen people that will be enough, fit in my oven, and not bankrupt me."
"So don't make a dinner. Make something casual."
"Such as?" The cool air made me shiver as the breeze snaked its way down my neck and inside my sweater. I wasn't a terrible cook, but I was no chef; and never cooked for that many people. I could make small dinners, but this would be a challenge, and one I couldn't back out of. My entire family would have heard about my offer by now, thanks to my mom's phone tree. The phone tree was a euphemism. It meant, her calling everyone on it as fast as possible. I could hear their incredulous responses now. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out, glancing at the screen
. Looking forward to dinner
, texted my sister, Serena.
I'm bringing Antonio and Victoria. Victoria doesn't like mushrooms.
"No mushrooms," I told him. "My sister says so."
"A hot and cold buffet. Finger foods. Serve yourself and grab a seat anywhere. Sit all the kids on pillows around your coffee table. Let the adults find their own perches. Make it relaxed and easy."
"Ooh!" I cooed. "I can do that. I can go to the grocery store and pick up their deli platters."
"That's cheating. If you're making dinner, you have to make it."
"Everything?"
"
Everything,
" Solomon confirmed, taking me by the arm and propelling us across the crosswalk to the parking lot. We climbed into his car and I fastened the seatbelt as my mind whirred with all the possibilities. I could do a hot and cold buffet with minimal cheating, I decided. "You know, if you lived at my house, there would be more space. My table expands."
"But I don't live at your house. I live at my bungalow."
"You like sleepovers at my house." Solomon glanced over and smiled as the engine fired.
"I do. You're a very good host."
"You have your own drawers and rail space."
"Which I appreciate."
"You could have a whole closet."
"I don't need that much space just for my pajamas."
"The invisible ones? You could bring all your clothes."
"Then what will I wear at home?"
Solomon switched off the engine and turned to me. "Are you being deliberately obtuse?"
I blinked. Apparently I'd missed something important. "Are you being deliberately serious?"
"About the obtuse bit? Yes."
"No, the living at your house bit?"
"Deadly."
"But I have a house."
"You could have a really big house. Lots more space to invite your family and friends over. A closet for all your clothes, and the best bit?"
"The best bit?" I asked, still slightly fixated on the lure of the closet. It was a lot bigger than mine. I could walk into it and probably roll around on the floor a couple of times too. Not only could it store everything, I would probably have to go shopping just to fill it.
"You get me every night."
Heat rushed through me. Talk about selling the proposition! He could have just as well led with that and finished with the closet for the icing on the cake.
"We're at the point in our relationship where we talk about this stuff," said Solomon when I didn't reply. "Let's talk about it seriously."
"I want to live with you, but I want to think about it too," I told him. "I only bought my house recently; and barely just finished making it a home. What would I do with it?"
"Sell it and bank the money. Rent it and bank the money. Keep it and use it as your office. Whatever you want."
"Do you think a yellow bungalow lends more legitimacy to a PI than the back room of a bar?"
Solomon laughed. "It's sunnier. Your clients will feel more hopeful and less like they're trapped in a film noir."
"Why would we live at your house?" I asked. "We could live at mine."
"Mine's bigger."
"Do you tell all the girls that?"
"Only ones that look like you. We can talk about whose house, but you know mine makes more sense. Also, the security is better, and no one's ever tried to kill you there."
"The security at my house is perfect now; and you know that because you installed it," I pointed out. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong about the last part. In my early days of home ownership, I did have a very unwelcome houseguest that I had to fight off. It was utterly terrifying and took some time and patience before I could push the whole ordeal into the furthest recesses of my mind.
"Fine, you got me. I like you sleeping over, but we've been together long enough that we should think about making it a more permanent thing. We can talk about it again. Just think about it, okay?"
"Okay," I agreed, my head full of the idea of living with Solomon. He was right. We’d been together long enough. As a benchmark, we'd been together longer than Lily and Jord; and they managed to get married and pregnant in less time. Neither of us saw any rush
—
and Lily and Jord had known each other many years, I reminded myself
—
but lately, the future was coming up more often in conversations between us as well as the ones I had with friends and family. I could only wonder if it were the same for Solomon.
After many long thinking sessions about what I wanted out of my life, and whether that included marriage and babies, as well as if Solomon were the man to provide those things, I was pretty sure I wanted what surmounted to everything. However, his question surprised me and created a sense of immediacy to those thoughts. He was right: our relationship had to move forward; otherwise, would it stagnate? Despite my current happiness now, a big question mark hovered over us. Were we were drifting along? Or moving towards a next step? Solomon suggested taking the next step. Now I just needed to decide whether or not to do so.
~
Solomon's big question was still on my mind an hour after I slipped out of his bed to meet Garrett in front of the shooting range the next morning.
"Did you bring your gun?" Garrett asked, climbing out of his car and greeting me with a quick hug. Years older than me, he was an adult before I even got out of elementary school, but he always made time for me. I regretted not spending more time with him, but owing to the pressures of work, and Garrett being married, and a father of three, our time together had become tightly compressed.
"No." It never even occurred to me; which only showed how scatter-brained I'd become since the previous night. My head was filled with lurid ideas of waking with Solomon and arriving home to see him every day.
"We're at the gun range. To shoot stuff," he said slowly, shaking his head. "We can hire a gun. Have you been practicing?"
"Ummm... No."
"What if you need to shoot someone?" Garrett rolled his head back, seeming to say something to the clouds. I figured it was rude, so I didn't ask him what.
"I’ll just hope they're close enough that I can hit them."
"You'll need to hope for more than that if your aim is off. You're a PI, Lexi. You need to keep up with your training."
"I’m a PI, not an assassin."
"Potential career option."
"Garrett! You're a homicide cop."
"At least, you'd keep me in business."
"I don't think we should tell your superiors about this conversation."
"Guess not," he agreed. "Let's go in and get you outfitted."
"Can I try something bigger?" I asked, my mind flitting to last night's action movie.
"How about a grenade launcher?"
My eyes widened. The heroine did grab a grenade launcher and fired it at the drug lords, causing a massive explosion from which she escaped with barely an eyelash singed or a high heel scuffed. "They have one?" I asked breathlessly as I glanced down. I knew I should have worn heels instead of my cute Converse sneakers. How badass would that be?
"No, silly."
"Damn it."
The range was half empty. I figured all the sensible, gun-toting civilians of Montgomery were at work while the criminal faction used their own less-than-legitimate shooting ranges. It barely took any time before we were stationed at a booth, our weapons in hand, and a paper figure sped to the end of the range.
"Let's see what you've got," said Garrett.
I slipped on my protective goggles, added ear protection, and checked my gun.
Ready
. I aimed, pointed, fired. And missed. I gaped in annoyance at the unmarked paper figure that had obviously jumped two yards to the left at the last second. Firing again, I held my breath as the bullet grazed the outer ring. I emptied my clip, most of the bullets hitting the outer ring, and just a few getting closer to the target. I set my gun on the wooden shelf dividing us from the range and pulled my earmuffs off in annoyance.
"Sheesh, you really let the team down, Graves," said Garrett.
"How could I have gotten so bad?"
"You used to be pretty good. What gives?"
"I can't be that much out of practice!"
Garrett hit the button and the paper figure descended on us. He pulled it off, examining the holes. "Apparently, you are. Let's go again."
I gave the paper figure a sullen look. "You go," I told him.
"Want me to show you how it's done?"
"Yes, but a little less gleefully," I said as he grabbed a fresh target and loaded it onto the pulley. He hit the button to send it back to the end of the range.
"When did you last use a weapon anyway?"
Garrett wrinkled his eyes. "Um..."
"Any corpses pull a gun on you lately?"
"No." He picked up the revolver he selected for our booking and aimed. Firing round after round, each of them hit the inner circle of the heart. He put his last round between the target's eyes.
"Show-off."
"Yeah, and I don't even have people trying to shoot me."
"You're a little fixated on the idea someone is out to get me."
Garrett shrugged. "Seems practical."
"Have you been talking to Mom?"
"Yesterday, but not about your life span. Are you really hosting dinner for all of us?"
"Yep. I offered."
He pulled a face. "For real?"
"Yes! Ugh, you're making it sound like I can't cook or something. We're going to have a delicious meal. It will be the first dinner party I've hosted at my house."
"Want me to bring dessert?"
I hesitated, wondering what the catch might be. Despite Garrett's misgivings about my cooking skills, I'd have to scramble through years of memories to try and remember an occurrence when he baked something. His wife, Traci, however made a fabulous pie. Handing over dessert responsibilities would definitely help me. "Yes, please."
"Get every bullet in the heart ring, and I'll make it myself," Garrett taunted.
I like an incentive, especially one that paid off in the form of edible goods. As the target came flying back, Garrett ripped his perfect score off and loaded up a new sheet. Meanwhile, I gave myself the kind of internal pep talk that could have seen me running for president. The target reached the end as I adjusted my goggles and earmuffs before picking up my gun, and steeling myself more securely this time. I closed one eye, squinted, and aimed. Pop! Pop! Pop!
"Not a single one in the ring," said Garrett.