Honey in the marrow, p.9
Honey in the Marrow, page 9
“It is a lonely job,” Stella concedes, and returns to the table. “And you can love your team, but it’s difficult to be both their boss and their friend.”
“You guys have so much in common. And if I take this job, I’ll be around even less.”
Stella pulls her half-empty mug of coffee toward her. “You think I don’t notice that you cook for me when you have something to tell me?”
Addie grins. “I learned that from my mama.”
“Your mama is wise,” Stella says. “Okay, I’ll give Elizabeth a call, initiate the next move in this game of friendship. Will that make you happy?”
“Yep,” Addie says.
Maybe Stella gave in too easily, but Addie’s happiness should win every time.
* * *
Stella waits until Tuesday when Elizabeth takes her to therapy.
“You want to go out and get a drink?” she asks without preamble.
Elizabeth glances at her. “Now? Honey, I have to go right back to work after this.”
“No, not now,” Stella says. “Clearly not now. I just mean sometime. Do something not in my house. Wear real clothes. Drink some wine or something.”
“Oh. Yes, that would be nice. How about tomorrow? Unless we catch a new case.”
“Okay. Good.”
Halfway through her therapy session while talking about how much her parents liked Ron, Stella realizes that asking someone for drinks is like asking them on a date. She stops speaking midsentence.
“Stella? You okay?” Dr. Barrett asks.
“Yeah,” she says, then adds, “I’m not sure.”
Dr. Barrett frowns and scribbles something on her notepad.
Chapter 7
Stella finds another check from Marco in the mailbox. It’s in an unstamped envelope with her name on it scrawled. He must have dropped it off in person.
Having extra money makes her feel a little frivolous, and she decides to buy a dress for her drinks with Elizabeth. Not to impress her—Elizabeth’s seen her in dirty pajamas and ratty sweats for months now. But Stella doesn’t have anything nice anymore. She got rid of the majority of her work clothes in the great purge: the dated blazers, the worn-out skirts, the scuffed-up shoes. She has some basic pieces—black and gray sheath dresses, a couple of suits that don’t fit anymore, some patterned dresses—but nothing that feels right for late June. Anything with a lining will be too hot, but anything for warmer weather doesn’t seem dressy enough.
She showers, taking time to shave her legs, under her arms, and even her bikini line, though it ruins the razor that wasn’t very sharp to begin with. She slathers lotion all over her skin—legs and arms and shoulders and torso. She puts product in her hair and blow-dries it. Wraps sections around a barrel brush and then curls what she blew out straight. She used to fix her appearance all the time before going to work. How did she ever have the energy?
It’s still early in the day—Elizabeth won’t pick her up for hours. She suggested meeting at a restaurant, but when Stella confessed that she didn’t know how to get there, Elizabeth said she’d come get her.
She goes to the Nordstrom Rack on South Figueroa. She’ll find something nice there that won’t break the bank. It’s a little overwhelming, clothes shopping alone. Ron was good at picking out things for her, like vintage dresses that were modest enough for work but had personality.
She paws through the racks until something the color of merlot catches her eye. It’s a velvet wrap dress with the front higher than the back. She rubs the soft material between her finger and thumb. It’s a bit much for drinks with a friend, but it’s beautiful. She pulls a size four off the rack.
She tries it on and is suddenly overwhelmed with having to buy it. She needs to get out of the busy, bright store as quickly as possible. She checks out and hurries back to her car.
She stops at CVS on her way home—she comes here less often now. She doesn’t even recognize the man at the register. This time, she’s not here for candy. She heads toward cosmetics. Her makeup was so old that Addie had to go through and throw away what was expired.
The multiple displays are daunting. She tries to think about the makeup videos she’s watched with Addie. There was one blonde woman who used a lot of products from drugstores, so Stella scans the displays until she finds the foundation mentioned on her videos.
One decision made, she moves on and picks out a bronzer, new makeup brushes, and liquid eyeliner in a felt-tipped marker. She buys two mascaras because Addie threw out her old ones while pretending to barf.
She checks out to the tune of nearly seventy-five dollars. When she gets home, she puts foundation on her face, hides the dark circles under her eyes, smooths on eye shadow and blush, and applies lipstick. It feels good to put effort into herself again. She allowed herself to collapse into a comfort-only lifestyle, and when she admitted that to Dr. Barrett, the therapist reassured her it was okay, that sometimes self-soothing in the face of overwhelming grief is the only way forward.
But Stella has wallowed for nine solid months, and it feels like the things that brought her comfort then are starting to hold her back.
She puts on the wrap dress, looks in the mirror, and is surprised at the woman she sees.
Addie comes home to find the new Stella puttering around, passing the time until Elizabeth picks her up.
“Wow,” she says. “Look at you!”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Stella says, a faint smile belying her modesty.
Addie is still in her work clothes: black pants, white button-down shirt. Her tie hangs around her neck unknotted. She looks tired. She always seems exhausted, no matter when Stella sees her, but Addie is determined to work hard to save the money she needs.
“You look amazing,” she says, pulling the tie from around her neck and whipping her shirt off. She throws it toward the washer; it lands on the floor just outside the laundry room.
“Elizabeth and I are supposed to…I don’t know. Get a drink.” It feels like she’s describing a date, though it’s not, and she’s dressed up like it’s a date, though it isn’t. “I thought maybe I could try to match her level.”
“I like it,” Addie says as she walks past Stella to her bedroom. “You passed her right up.” She comes back out in a black tank top and bare feet.
“I don’t know what shoes to wear,” Stella admits.
“Let’s see what I have,” Addie says. She disappears into her room and comes back with a pair of combat boots, but Stella protests. She’s too old for that look.
Addie shows her a pair of gladiator sandals, but it’s like the shoes and dress are fighting for dominance. Next, she brings out a pair of scuffed-up black platform pumps with a skinny heel. “I wore them to a bachelorette party,” Addie says, rubbing at a mark with her finger. “It got a little rowdy. They’ll clean up, though.”
Stella tries one on. It’s uncomfortable—it’s been a while since she wore anything other than a kitten heel—but it looks the best with her dress. She points to the other pump. “Let me have it. I need to practice.”
She’s teetering around the house when her cell phone rings. It’s Elizabeth. “Hello?” she answers breathlessly, wrenching off the shoes so her feet will stop screaming. The cool kitchen floor feels like heaven against her bare soles.
“Stella, hi,” Elizabeth says. “Listen.”
Stella knows what’s coming next. They’ve caught a new case or some new development on an old one, and whatever plans Elizabeth and Stella made are now on hold.
Elizabeth promises to call her later and apologizes again before hanging up. And even though Stella knows the job, knows how these things go, she’s disappointed.
All dressed up and nowhere to go.
It’s her own fault for getting ready two hours early for something that was bound to fall apart. She looks down at her phone long after the call ends. She built herself up over nothing and wasted an entire afternoon.
Addie comes out of her room wearing a black sweater over her tank top, her purse on her shoulder. “I’m going to get drinks with—what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Stella lies. She can’t bear to admit the canceled plans and her disappointment, can’t endure any more sympathetic tuts in her direction. “Go have fun with your friends.”
“Are you sure?”
Stella nods.
“Have fun with Liz,” Addie says. “I won’t be home until late.”
Stella watches her go. She refuses to cry, swallowing the urge. It’s not Elizabeth’s fault. Stella knew better than to get her hopes up about anything. Life always finds a way to snatch happiness out from under her.
* * *
At eleven thirty, Elizabeth calls again. Stella, slumped into the couch still wearing her velvet dress, almost doesn’t answer; it’s late, and she could let Elizabeth think she’s asleep. But she swipes over just before the call goes to voicemail.
“Hello?” She tries to sound stern.
“Can you come pick me up?” Elizabeth sounds bone-weary.
“Where are you?”
“Good Samaritan.”
“Are you okay?” Stella barely listened to Elizabeth’s excuse for canceling, never considered whether the new case might be dangerous. Instead, she wallowed in self-pity, mad at herself, mad at the universe for disappointing her.
“Sam got shot,” Elizabeth says. “He’s okay, but he’s going to be here for a few days.”
“Shit.” Stella is off the couch and heading toward her bedroom. “I’m on my way.”
She takes off her bad-luck dress, dropping it on the floor. Pulls on jeans and a tank top, throws on a cardigan, and grabs her purse.
She’s halfway to the hospital when she realizes that the last time she was there was when Ron died. She shakes it off, puts it aside to think about another time. Compartmentalizing, Dr. Barrett would say. She says it like it isn’t a great thing, but it seems like a good idea right now.
She drives into the nearby parking garage, going around and around with the little paper ticket between her teeth. The garage is packed, and when Stella finds a narrow spot, she carefully backs into it.
Her flip-flops echo loudly in the stairwell as she hurries down. Out in the open night air, the large hospital in front of her, she hesitates, not sure where to go, then heads to Emergency, wishing she could brandish a badge to muscle her way in to wherever Elizabeth is waiting. But she’s always been very persuasive. Maybe she doesn’t need the badge.
She waits in a line four people deep before she gets to the window. “I’m here to see a patient who was admitted tonight with a gunshot wound,” she says. “Samuel Warren. He’s an LAPD officer.”
“Visiting hours are over.” The woman behind glass doesn’t look up.
“I understand that, but the officer who brought him in called me for a ride home. She’s waiting to for test results before she leaves, and she’s not going to leave until she’s sure he’s okay. Are you saying I can’t offer them support?”
The woman looks up with a mixed expression: boredom and impatience. “Okay, ma’am. What was his name again?”
“Warren,” Stella says. “Samuel.”
The woman types, then stares at her computer monitor. Stella can feel the people behind her shifting restlessly.
Finally, the woman says, “We are still waiting on some test results.” She types something else and then looks up. “I need a picture ID.”
Lieutenant Warren has been transferred to a room. Stella hastily shoves her ID back into her wallet and enters the main hospital. It takes several minutes to find the elevator to the wing he’s in.
The wide halls are lined with medical equipment. Stella winds her way through, careful not to bump anything, counting numbers until she finds the room. The door is open. The first bed is empty. The next bed has a curtain pulled closed around it. She steps in uneasily, not certain if she has the right room until she sees a pair of familiar black pumps under the curtain. She steps in quietly and stands under the wall-mounted TV. Elizabeth is sitting in a chair by the bed, looking at her phone. Warren is asleep, his shoulder heavily bandaged.
“Hey,” Stella says softly.
Elizabeth jumps, slamming a hand over her heart. “You scared me.”
“Sorry. I was trying not to.” Stella nods toward Warren. “How is he?”
“He’s out.” Elizabeth answers softly. “They repaired the damage. The bullet hit him in the shoulder, went right through.”
“Did you get the guy, at least?” Stella drops her purse down to her elbow to relieve her shoulder.
Elizabeth hesitates, as if deciding how much she wants to share. “It was… He was a kid, actually. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. Circled back to the scene with his father’s gun. I think he was trying to scare us. I could see his hands shaking. Castillo called for backup, which was—I don’t know—maybe not the right call.”
“They killed the kid,” Stella confirms dully.
Elizabeth nods. “It was totally unnecessary.”
Stella has never seen her look this tired. She still has on makeup, but the sheen is gone. Her clothes are rumpled, her hair flat.
“I can go get you food. I can pick up a change of clothes if you want to stay. I can take you home. Whatever you need.”
“Home,” Elizabeth says decisively. “He’ll be out all night, and Esposito is coming first thing in the morning.”
Elizabeth leans over Warren, whispers something to him. Then she kisses his forehead.
Stella has been fond of colleagues before, even felt protective of them, fighting for them when she had to, but she was never maternal, never warm. And she certainly didn’t date them.
Stella follows Elizabeth through the hallway back to the elevator. She’s quiet on the ride down. She doesn’t relax until she gets into the SUV, then leans back against the headrest with her eyes closed.
“Are you okay?” Stella asks stupidly, but she can’t think of what else to say.
“I thought this day was going to go differently.” Elizabeth rolls her head to look over at Stella. “I was looking forward to drinks, actually.”
“Me too.” Stella says. “Sometimes I miss prosecuting homicide cases, but not the ones like this.”
“Stella, do you think you could take me to your house?”
“Yeah,” Stella says. “If that’s what you want.”
“I just…don’t think I can face it tonight.” Elizabeth doesn’t say what “it” is. An empty condo, perhaps, or something else that haunts her.
“You don’t have to,” Stella assures her.
It’s nearly one in the morning when they get to the house. Addie isn’t home yet. Stella gives Elizabeth the same pajamas as before, and Elizabeth excuses herself to shower first. Her borrowed toothbrush is still in the holder.
Stella is carefully pouring fresh cocoa, using the wooden spoon to guide it into mugs, when she hears the bathroom door open. Moments later, Elizabeth is in her kitchen with wet hair, pajamas on, feet bare.
They take their mugs to the living room. Elizabeth falls asleep with her feet in Stella’s lap before she finishes her cocoa.
Stella is still awake when Addie comes in. “I see the date went well.”
“Not exactly,” Stella says, the back of her neck going hot and tingly when Addie calls it a date. “A case went bad. Lieutenant Warren got shot in the shoulder.”
“Oh, shit.” Addie sets her purse down on the table by the door. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” Stella says. “She wanted to come here.”
“She can have my bed again,” Addie offers. “I can sleep with you.”
“I think we might just stay here.” Stella puts her hand gently on Elizabeth’s foot. It twitches at the contact, but Elizabeth sleeps on.
“Okay.” Addie pats Stella’s shoulder as she passes behind the couch.
Stella thinks about turning on the television for company or putting on some music, but instead, she sits in the candle-lit living room and lets Elizabeth sleep.
Chapter 8
After a shooting that affects an entire division, no one is expected to arrive bright and early the next morning, but Elizabeth shakes her awake around five.
“You fell asleep with your makeup on,” she says.
Stella slept slumped down on the couch with her feet propped on the coffee table. Her left knee pops when she lowers her feet to the floor. She heads to the bathroom to wash her face, intent on driving Elizabeth home.
Elizabeth has changed back into her own clothes. The pajamas are folded neatly on top of the washer. There’s dried blood on the hem of Elizabeth’s sleeves.
“You should borrow something,” she says. “You shouldn’t have to wear that.”
“It’s fine. It’s a short drive.”
They’re three-quarters of the way to her condo when Elizabeth says, “Wait. Let’s think about this. My car is still at the office. We should’ve gone there first.”
“I can take you home and then take you to work when you’re ready.”
“Are you sure?” Elizabeth asks wearily. “I’ve asked so much of you already.”
“No, you haven’t,” Stella assures her. “I’m happy to do it.”
She glances over and sees Elizabeth rubbing her forehead. A tension headache, no doubt. Maybe a holdover from last night. They did sleep awkwardly on the sofa, their necks at strange angles. Stella’s too old for that, so Elizabeth, who’s older, must be too.
Elizabeth’s condo is dark and a little musty. She pauses in the front hallway to push a button on the thermostat and turn on the lights.
“I can make some coffee,” Stella volunteers.
“That would be great,” Elizabeth says. “I’m going to hop in the shower to rinse off. I won’t be long.”
