Page 6 of Midnight Valentine
I’m touched. I can’t believe she remembered that detail. We must’ve spoken about it months ago during one of our many phone conversations before the house went into escrow.
“That’s so sweet of you. And here I was expecting a half-dead plant.”
She props a hand on her hip, all sass and sarcasm. “I’ll have you know I never do the half-dead plant thing. I’m a classy girl. Usually it’s a half-dead flower arrangement.”
We share a smile until I notice the label on the wine and almost have a heart attack. “Suzanne, that’s a very good bottle of Burgundy.”
She’s pleased I recognized it. Her grin goes from ear to ear. “Thank God you know your wine, because I had to go into Portland for something nice. When I told the guy at the wine store how much you paid for this place, he steered me right into the back where the good stuff was all kept behind a locked door.”
I pick up the bottle, running my thumb over the label of the Château Corton Grancey, blinking hard because water has begun to pool in my eyes.
“This was the wine my husband and I used to have on our anniversary every year,” I murmur, swamped with memories of Cass. “We went to France on our honeymoon and discovered this old man on the side of a country road one afternoon. He’d fallen off his bicycle and hurt his knee, so we gave him a ride back to his house. Which turned out to be this incredible wine estate—he was the patriarch of a family that had been making wine in Burgundy for more than two hundred years. He made us stay for dinner with his family and served us this.”
I have to stop because my throat has closed around the lump in it.
After five years, this still happens. Something will remind me of him, and suddenly, I’ll hear his laugh, I’ll feel his arms around me, I’ll smell that soap he liked to use, the scent still lingering on his skin after a shower, and it’ll be like no time has passed at all. The knife is plunged into my chest all over again. All over again, my heart bleeds.
I’ve died a thousand deaths since the day I lost Cass. People say time heals all wounds, but that’s a lie. Grief is a chronic disease. The pain just keeps on coming.
“What are the chances of that?” says Suzanne in a voice like she’s sure she’s made a terrible mistake.
“No, it’s amazing.” I meet her eyes. “Thank you. Really. It’s a very special gift, and so is your pie. I’ll have them together for dinner tonight.”
It was an attempt to be lighthearted, but Suzanne looks horrified by the thought of me eating pie and drinking wine alone on my second night in town. She clutches my arm.
“Why don’t you come with me tonight? My friends are having their annual cocktail party in honor of the last day of summer. I was on my way over when I stopped by.”
So this is the reason for the heels and short skirt. I’m relieved I won’t have another awkward You’re very attractive, but I’m not into girls speech in my future.
“I couldn’t barge in like that—”
“No, no, it’s very casual, and I know they’d love to meet you. Everyone’s curious about the woman who bought the Buttercup. It’ll be a good way for you to meet a few people!”
When I balk at the mention of meeting new people, Suzanne renews her efforts even more energetically.
“You can just pop in for a few minutes if you’re too tired to stay long, and I can introduce
you around—oh! And the building inspector will be there! Not only is he a good guy to know for all the permits you’re going to need on this place, he’s really cute.”
When I wrinkle my nose, she insists, “Like, really cute.”
“I’ll go if you promise not to try to set me up with the building inspector.” When she looks like she’s about to offer up a few other names, I warn, “Or anyone else!”
She pouts, but damn if she doesn’t pull it off. Usually, grown women pouting like two-year-olds makes me want to punch someone in the throat.
“All right. I promise not to try to set you up with anyone. Tonight.”
When she smiles smugly, I can see that Suzanne and I are going to have issues in the future about her insistence on thrusting single males at me and my insistence on being uninterested in said males. Better to deal with it now rather than later, when I want to strangle her.
I’ve been through this with the friends I left behind in Phoenix. People will give you a year to get over your dead husband, tops, then they start throwing men at you like confetti. Young widows make people nervous.
“Suzanne, you seem like a very nice person, and I hope we’ll be friends. But if you ever try to set me up with anyone, I’ll start a rumor that you only charged me two percent commission on the Buttercup Inn.”
She inspects my face with narrowed eyes. When I don’t flinch, she demands, “Do you have any idea how fast that would get around this town? All my past clients would be mad I charged them more, and any new clients would expect a discount!”
“Yeah, small towns are a pain that way, aren’t they?”
“I don’t believe you. You’re bluffing.”
