Page 8 of His Haunted Desire
“You were great with them,” Mrs. Johnson says when I’m done. “You’re going to be an amazing mom one day.”
“Thank you,” I say. “One day. Sure.”
A bitter, cynical thought worms its way into my head. I’ve had to take care of myself and Grandma, to some extent, for years. The idea of taking care of a little human seems a long, long way off.
Three more Halloween costumes later, and I’m ready for a coffee break. I go upstairs and make some for myself and Grandma.
“How’s it going?” she asks, blowing on the steam.
“It’s fine. Like riding a bike.”
“You always had a knack for it,” Grandma says longingly. “Ever since you were a baby. Before you could even speak. You wanted to be near fabric. I think it was your destiny.”
“I think so too,” I tell her. “I love it more than anything. But don’t get maudlin. I know it’s probably easier said than done when you’re used to being so busy.”
“Bingo.” She sighs. “I forgot to mention, there’s an appointment later that isn’t in the diary. Raiden Blackwell.”
“Blackwell, as intheBlackwells?”
“He needs his suit adjusted for their big what-do-you-call-it. The ball…”
“The Retreat,” I say. “Isn’t that what they call it these days?”
“The Grand Masquerade or something, yes,” Grandma replies. “Anyway, he’ll be coming in.”
“I went to that thing once, before it became a multiple-day thing, a rich person’s jerk circle.”
Grandma laughs. “Jerk Circle. Now that’s funny.”
“I didn’t invent the term, but I’ll take the credit. When I went, it was a fun thing for families, a party, basically. I’ve heard it’s a chance for rich people to do rich-people things on the Blackwell private island now. I never met a Raiden, though.”
“He’s a pleasant man, a little distant, a little cold. He always pays on time.”
“I’ll handle it. Do you need anything before I head back down?”
“How about some cocaine?”
Laughter explodes out of me. “God, Grandma. You can’t bethatbored.”
She nods towards the end table, gesturing to her knitting. “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, sweetness. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
“Yet I will.”
Back downstairs, I help Sissy Thompson with the angel wings on her custom costume. After saying goodbye, the door swings open almost immediately and a man steps in. Something instantly feels… off.
He looks to be fiftyish, with a comb over and wire-rimmed spectacles. He scans around the room as if he owns it, running his fingers along the counter as if checking for dust. Neither of us says hello as he inspects the place.
“Do you normally greet people when they enter your store?” he asks.
“You’re with them,” I say.
He smiles thinly. “You must be the granddaughter.”
“And you’re the man trying to make my grandmother homeless.”
He shrugs. “I don’t see it that way.”
