Bedtime for bonsai, p.5
Bedtime for Bonsai, page 5
“Oh Carson, what kind of record?” she asked, exasperated. He could be so overprotective. One time he told her she should keep away from a guy because he’d racked up so many parking tickets, his car got booted.
As it turned out, she should have stayed away from him, but not because he was an illegal parker.
“Robbery, I think. Probably armed. Drugs were involved too.” Carson’s chest seemed to expand with the words. “Guy served time.”
Penelope’s stomach dropped. “Armed robbery? Like with a gun?”
She tried to picture the lanky blond with his soft flannel shirt and his crinkling eyes wielding a gun.
“I don’t know the details. But he served a deuce in the pen up in Maryland.”
“A deuce?”
“Two years. Guy could be dangerous, Penelope. I’m not kidding. I want you to be careful. I’m going to up the patrols around here after dark, but keep away from him. Don’t give him the time of day if he asks. It’s likely he was feeling you out the other night, see if anyone was in here after hours.”
“But he said he just wanted to borrow the phone.”
“An excuse. Disregard what he says. Bottom line, he’s a criminal. Good chance he’ll try to bring more of the criminal element in here too. We’re keeping an eye on him.”
“More of the criminal element? You talk like he’s setting up a drug ring or something.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m going to find out. You said a vehicle departed before the incident that night at a high rate of speed. Just the kind of thing ex-cons do. They’re jumpy. For good reason.”
Penelope’s heart fluttered. An ex-con. Dylan Mersey was an ex-con. She’d been flirting with an ex-con.
“Surely you’re being overdramatic, Carson. Maybe he got in trouble for something small. A youthful indiscretion. Maybe he was just some kid who made a mistake.”
“Yeah, sure.” Carson had a long face, horselike, with small, hard eyes. Sometimes, to Penelope, he looked prehistoric. “Medium-security prisons hold a lot of kids who ‘made mistakes.’”
He actually made quote marks in the air with his fingers. It was the first time Penelope had heard Carson say anything remotely sarcastic, or even use a tone outside of his usual just-the-facts-ma’am drone.
“But I’ve met him since then,” Penelope persisted, refusing to believe she could have thought a dangerous criminal was cute. “He seems like a nice guy. He apologized. He brought me back my puppy!”
Carson actually laughed, like a tiny burst of machine gunfire. “Ever hear of Ted Bundy? Dozens of women said the same thing about him.”
“Ted Bundy!” she repeated, appalled.
“Yeah,” Carson confirmed. “Nice guy. Good-looking. Serial killer. There’s always a catch.”
Chapter 4
“He’s an ex-con,” Penelope said, looking direly at Georgia.
Georgia, holding Penelope’s puppy, gave her a mischievous look. “Honey, we’ve all got baggage.”
“Baggage!” Penelope repeated. “That’s not baggage, that’s a moving van.”
A saleswoman from a company called Artisans Inc. took catalogs out of her tote bag and laid them on the counter by Penelope’s register.
Penelope saw the woman’s eyes shift at the words ex-con, but she kept to herself.
Business at Pen Perfect had slowed in recent months, so Penelope had begun to think about broadening her inventory with some more affordable artistic items. When the saleswoman from Artisans had cold-called her, Penelope had considered it a sign and told her to come on in.
Georgia leaned close to one of the tall glass cabinets and squinted. On the back of her shirt was the needlepointed face of a Great Dane. “Have I got to get new glasses or is that pen really four thousand dollars?”
Foah THOUsin dollahs. Georgia’s Southern drawl occasionally became more pronounced, usually when she was flirting, but sometimes when she was appalled.
Penelope sighed. “It’s a Tibaldi, a limited edition. Sterling silver. And it’s got an eighteen-karat-gold nib.”
Georgia looked over her shoulder at Penelope with raised eyebrows. “And a ‘nib’ is…?”
Penelope chuckled. “Not as interesting as you’re making it. People collect these pens, so the limited editions can be very pricey.”
“I’ll say. Who in this town spends that kind of money on pens?”
“Hey, there are a few,” Penelope said. “Though I’ll admit most of my sales come from the Internet. That’s why Shirley here is going to show me what Artisans carries. I want to get more foot traffic in here.” She beamed at the older woman, who wore a flowered print dress with a round collar and a salon-sculpted mass of gray curls.
Penelope had to admit Shirley didn’t look like a salesperson for a conglomeration of artists, but then salespeople weren’t necessarily representative of their products. She’d bought her car, for example, from a man wearing a polyester suit. And her car was very classy.
“Good plan,” Georgia said. “And if you want to attract a rich man, I guess you’re carrying the right stuff. If rich men shopped for themselves, that is. Which they don’t.”
She picked up a leather journal and held it just out of reach of the puppy’s curious teeth. “I have to say, a guy who spends a fortune on a pen would probably spend a fortune on a woman.”
Penelope shrugged. She was tired of thinking about men and their habits and where they might be hiding in the small town in which she lived. “So this guy, my new neighbor, has a record. And I called the police on him. Do you think I should be worried?”
Georgia scratched behind the puppy’s ears, fluffing them up. “He’ll get over it. Just be sweet to him. I don’t think there’s a man alive who wouldn’t forgive you anything if you were bein’ sweet to him. Besides, it was a natural mistake. He was poundin’ on the door—how were you supposed to know he only wanted to use the phone?”
Penelope pulled her long, dark hair behind her into a handheld ponytail and looked away from her friend’s flattery. “He was nice when he returned the puppy to me. I just wish I had a man around. You know, to discourage anyone who might think I was…vulnerable.”
She thought about Glenn and glanced at the catalogs Shirley was laying out as neatly as if she were arranging magazines on a coffee table.
“Oh, I agree.” Shirley nodded. She sat on the stool behind the register and took out an order pad and Bic ballpoint. “You can’t be too careful. For all you knew he was coming to rob you.”
“That’s true.” Penelope shared a look with Shirley.
“You need to get your husband to come by more often. Make his presence known. If that man’s been in prison, he’s obviously a very dangerous character. You don’t owe him an apology for what you did. Any man worth his salt knows a woman has to protect herself.”
Penelope pulled a catalog toward her and began leafing through it. Maybe she should encourage Glenn to come by a couple of times a week. Maybe they could do lunch. She liked the way it felt to think she had someone to call on.
“That’s right. Thank you, Shirley,” she said.
“If Dylan Mersey were a gentleman, he’d understand.”
“It’s been my experience that if you have to rely on a man bein’ a gentleman, you’re settin’ your-self up for disappointment.” Georgia turned from the display with a flip of her curly blond hair and moved toward the front window to gaze across the street.
Penelope slumped, one hip against the counter.
“Then have your husband talk to him,” Shirley said. “Warn him that he’s got his eye on him. That’s what I’d do. I make my husband talk to all those people. Mechanics, plumbers, homeless people, you name it. Some men only listen to other men, and an ex-con has got to be one of them.”
“I don’t have a husband.” Penelope trained her attention on the catalog in her hands. “Not at the moment.”
She felt, rather than saw, Georgia turn and look at her.
“No husband? A pretty girl like you?” Shirley sounded overly surprised. “Then have your boyfriend talk to him.”
Penelope pressed her lips together. She could say she’d have Glenn talk to him but she didn’t want to get into it with Georgia. Not yet.
“Your father?” Shirley’s voice trailed off.
“There’s no reason to talk to him.” Penelope closed the catalog and pushed it away from her.
“Not really. We had a misunderstanding, then he returned my dog and we had a pleasant conversation. I’m just being paranoid.” Penelope raised her chin. “Besides, I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now. If he ever needs talking to I can do it myself.”
“That’s the spirit,” Georgia said.
“Of course you can.” Shirley patted her hand.
“You’ve been alone this long, I’m sure you know how to handle yourself. But you know, that might be a little part of your problem. Men like to feel needed, like they can take care of you. If you’re too self-sufficient you’ll never get a husband.”
Penelope hated that she had to defend her man-catching abilities, but she couldn’t let Shirley’s comment stand.
“I had a husband. There are men out there who like capable women. It just…it wasn’t the right time for that relationship. Things are much better now.”
Shirley gave her a look that said too self-sufficient.
Georgia turned surprised eyes on her.
“But I don’t want to talk about it,” Penelope said to both of them.
“You don’t want to talk about what?” Georgia moved back toward her. “Penelope Porter, have you met someone without tellin’ the rest of us? That’s not like you to be secretive. Who is it? Where did you find him?”
“I just said I didn’t want to talk about it,” Penelope said. She looked at Shirley, who was safer, and shook her head with a smile.
Georgia threw the hand not holding the puppy up in the air. “Why not? It sounds like good news!”
“It’s not. I mean, well, it’s not new.”
Georgia’s eyes narrowed.
“I mean it’s not news.” Penelope blushed and picked up another catalog.
“Not new?” Georgia neared the counter. “Penelope, tell me you’re not doin’ something stupid.”
“Stupid?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, missy. You’re not cavin’ in to Glenn’s advances, are you?” She glanced at Shirley and added, “Her rat dog of an ex-husband.”
Shirley blinked. “Oh my.”
Penelope dropped the catalog to her lap. “What’s wrong with Glenn?”
Georgia’s eyes looked as if they might pop out of her head. “What’s wrong with Glenn?” She turned again to Shirley. “This guy cheated on her. Lied to her. Treated her like dirt. Said he never wanted children then ran off and had one with the next woman who came along. Glenn is as low—”
“He is not that bad!” Penelope objected. “He made mistakes. I made mistakes. We all make mistakes.”
“Honey.” Georgia leaned over and grabbed Penelope’s hand in a strong grip. It felt much less patronizing and more urgent than Shirley’s condescending pats. “You do not need to go backwards. Glenn Owens is a good-lookin’ guy, sure. And I’m sure he knows how to be nice every now and then. But if you are seein’ him again, at least promise me it’s just for the sex.”
Shirley gasped.
Penelope burst out laughing. “Georgia, you do know how to put things in perspective.”
Georgia did not relinquish her hand. “Promise me.”
“All right. I’ll promise not to do anything rash.”
Georgia sighed and let go. “I guess that’ll have to do.”
Penelope looked down at the catalog and flipped a few pages. “Hm, these are interesting. Witches’ balls.”
Georgia made a noise in the back of her throat. “I thought only warlocks had those.”
Penelope smiled. She knew that would get her off the topic. “These are handblown—”
Georgia guffawed.
Shirley’s cheeks reddened.
“Glass balls,” Penelope overrode Georgia loudly, “designed to hang in a window to capture witches that try to enter your home.”
Georgia raised her brows at Shirley. “Order me a dozen of those.”
God knew Penelope loved Georgia, and knew her friend cared about her, but really, Georgia had no room to talk about what was or wasn’t stupid in relationships. Just last year she’d been caught in flagrante in a car with the mayor—the married mayor.
Shirley’s stout, short-nailed fingers pulled one catalog after another out of the stack she’d brought with her, one covered with ceramic rabbits, another with commemorative plates, and a third filled with tiny, palm-sized baby dolls. In none of them could Penelope find anything she liked.
Maybe the problem was her, she thought. Maybe she was incapable of change. Look at what she was doing in her personal life. Instead of forging ahead into something new, she was trying to go backward, to her old husband, her old life.
But you couldn’t force yourself to adopt something you didn’t believe in, could you?
Sighing, Penelope shook her head. “Thank you, Shirley, but I don’t think any of this goes with the nature of my shop.” She swept a hand around her, toward the Tibaldi pen case, the Aurora Piquadro collection of leather pen holders, the teak pen chests starting at three hundred and seventy dollars. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
Shirley snapped back the pages of her order pad and stacked up her catalogs. “Well, if that’s your decision, it’s your decision.”
Penelope frowned. “Thank you for understanding.” She extended her hand toward the door to walk Shirley out.
Georgia, who had moved back to the front window, thrust an arm out in front of them. “Wait!”
Penelope nearly plowed into Shirley as the older woman stopped and gave that little gasp again.
“There he is.” Georgia leaned toward the window.
Penelope’s gaze shot out the window. Across the street the door of the empty shop swung shut behind Dylan Mersey. He wore jeans and a tee-shirt, untucked.
“Yep, cute as I remember,” Georgia said. “Nice shoulders. And look at how he moves. I love that kind of jock walk.”
“He does not look like a jock.” Penelope had known her share. She’d dated three out of the four football captains in high school and all of them had worn deck shoes and rugby shirts, tucked in. She frowned at the guy loping toward the sandwich shop on the corner. “His hair’s too long. And look at that tee-shirt.”
“Honey, the place isn’t open yet.” Georgia glanced back at her. “He’s probably doin’ work on it before he opens it up. Paintin’ and all that. Give the poor guy a break.”
The three were silent a second before Georgia murmured, “Too bad he’s not wearin’ a tool belt. I love a man in a tool belt.”
“I’m sure he’s got one he can put on for you.” Penelope ushered Shirley around Georgia and opened the door.
Shirley gave Georgia a steely-eyed gaze as she passed. “He’s too young for you.” Turning back to Penelope she added, “Call me if you change your mind, dear. You know, sometimes one can be a little too picky in life.”
Penelope sucked in her breath as the woman disappeared down the sidewalk. “Did you hear that? I know what she meant by that. The nerve of her!”
“Shoot, she’s probably right,” Georgia said, looking at the spot where the ex-con had been a moment before.
“Hey, I’ve had a husband already and I’m perfectly capable of getting another one. I am not too picky.”
Georgia laughed and gave Penelope’s arm a squeeze. The puppy squirmed toward her. “I meant she’s right, he’s probably too young for me.” She tilted her head and studied Penelope with a pensive smile. “But not for you, honey. Heck, he’s probably just about perfect for you.”
Dylan jogged up the alley to the back door of his shop, his final steps labored now that he was out of the public eye. Glenn had cut off just above Princess Anne Street to go to his house, and though Dylan could have stopped—and on one level desperately wanted to—he was determined to collapse only once he’d gotten home.
It might be shallow, this pride, but it was the only thing that kept him from giving up when it got tough. Glenn, the bastard, had wanted to chat while they ran, mostly about some impending date with his ex-wife, but Dylan had been capable of little but a sympathetic grunt every paragraph or two.
The run had only been four miles, had not lasted an hour, but, as he had at the end of the other runs the two of them had done this week, Dylan felt enormously proud of himself.
Toxins begone, he thought. He’d been eating healthy, barely drank, never smoked anymore, and was nearly ready to open his business just in time for the fall pre-holiday season. He was on a roll.
He’d also been working a lot, beefing up his stock. The fact that he could barely move after his runs because of sore muscles might have had something to do with this. Sitting at the potting wheel was a lot more comfortable than moving around setting up shelves, sorting through stock, and installing light fixtures. He was also glad he’d gotten all the painting done before he began The Program in earnest.
Once he’d regained his breath outside the back door, he untied his key from his shoelace and unlocked the shop. He already loved the welcoming smell of his back room, where the clay and the wheel and the two small electric kilns were. It was starting to feel like home.
He tossed the key onto the table along the back wall—a heavy Masonite-surfaced piece where he wedged the clay—and headed for the mini-fridge he’d picked up at a yard sale. As he pulled out a refilled bottle of water, his eye was caught by a movement under the table.
He took two steps back, thinking rat, but immediately saw that it was the guinea pig again. A.k.a., the puppy belonging to Pen Perfect’s Penelope.
“Damn,” he said softly, “I gotta figure out how you get in here.”
He squatted, clapped his hands lightly and the puppy writhed over to him, fluffy tail going double time and low growls of pleasure coming from his throat. Dylan picked him up, fingers sinking into feather-soft hair to a bony, birdlike body.
