Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic, Maria Swan [reading list TXT] 📗

down the driveway, the antlers now hanging around his massive neck like a discarded Christmas wreath. I had to catch him before he hit the street or was run over by Brenda’s Honda Pilot. I lost one of my flip-flops but kept on running.

I could hear Kassandra calling as I rounded the corner and stopped. Brenda’s vehicle was parked length-wise in front of our shared driveway, which was a good way of blocking Dior I guess. No sight of Brenda but another SUV, black and spiffy, was parked right behind the Honda. I didn’t see anyone, but heard voices, Brenda talking to Dior.

“What happened to you boy? Okay, okay, I love you too. How did you get out? Wait, what’s around your neck?”

I knew I only had two options. One, circle the Honda, and explain to Brenda about my harmless Christmas card project — and ask for forgiveness. Or, two, turn around and run back to my place as fast as I could and pretend I knew nothing about anything.

I checked behind me to see what Kassandra was doing. No one there but my lonely flip flop waiting to be rescued. My so-called friend was probably already in my bathroom getting dressed and rehearsing the innocent expression to use while telling Brenda how I tricked her into putting antlers on Dior. While I weighed my options, Brenda appeared, holding Dior’s collar since I hadn’t put a leash on him, followed close by... nooooo... Tristan Dumont.

Tristan Dumont! What was he doing here? They both stopped dead, sporting the strangest facial expressions I had ever seen. Dior seized the moment of confusion to get away from Brenda, launching himself onto me with all his enthusiasm and weight. The gazillion pound Great Dane knocked me down, with my nearly bare butt going down for a hard landing on the concrete driveway. That pain in my rear end was nothing compared to the humiliation of having Tristan see me splayed out in my half-naked glory.

I opened and closed my mouth a few times as the object of my hopeless desires walked over and extended his hand to help me up. Mercy me. I kept my eyes on his boots, his shiny crocodile riding boots, the same ones he wore the first time I bumped into him up at the 40th street trail. City slicker I had nicknamed him then.

“Fiat, are you okay?”

My lips, independently from my brain, kept doing their open and close exercise while my hand shook out of control.

Brenda didn’t waste any time. She grabbed hold of the Dane and said, “Let me guess, you were working on your Christmas cards... again.”

I nodded, thanks Aunt Brenda, not. She turned and explained to Tristan about my ‘Come to Arizona, the weather is so fine’ ploy that I tried it on my family every Christmas. I’m not sure he paid much attention. His eyes were on my navel and once again, I tried to shield the view with my hand. It only made it more obvious, and I could see a devilish smile spreading from his amber eyes to his lips. Mr. Dumont was having a hell of a good time at my expense. What was he doing here?

“I — I —” I looked at Brenda, too embarrassed to glance in his direction.

“Monica, why don’t you go get dressed? I think you skinned your rump. And take Dior with you. I’ll be done in a minute.”

Even if her words sounded a bit cold, her tone of voice was sweet. She felt my embarrassment and probably decided I’d been punished enough already. I took over Dior’s collar and headed back toward the deserted pool, nodding to Tristan while walking away. He called after me, “Hey, Fiat, please make sure to add me to the Christmas card list. I can’t wait.”

I kept on walking.

“Was that Tristan Dumont?” Kassandra, fully dressed, waited inside my place. “Look Monica, don’t get mad but I mean, he’s a client. A very important client. I didn’t feel comfortable being seen in my bathing suit. It’s not dignified, unless you’re at the beach, of course.”

I didn’t answer. Brenda was right, my tailbone hurt and was probably bruised. To her credit, Kassandra brought in the props from the pool, including the bag of Jerky treats, now shredded as Dior sat on the floor gobbling them up as fast as he could. I scrambled to recoup as many as possible. All I needed was for the dog to get sick. What a disaster. Twenty minutes later the three of us walked into Brenda’s kitchen through the back door. No traces of Tristan. I discreetly peeked out the window; no black SUV either. The house smelled good — home-cooked food good. How was it possible? Brenda just got home. I looked at her and noticed her new haircut. Well, good for her. Maybe she was finally coming out of her slump.

“Well, girls, I’m warming up the oven and heating a pot roast I cooked yesterday since I knew I’d be gone most of the morning. Monica, feel like setting the table? For four.”

Four? Noooo. He was coming back?

I just looked at her.

“Bob may stop by,” she said, smiling.

Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing, playing mind games with my heart. Kassandra didn’t seem to know what to do with herself, so she refilled Dior’s water dish.

“Nice place you have here, Ms. Baker.”

Brenda waved her off. “Oh, please, call me Brenda, I feel old enough without the ‘Ms.’ How about a glass of wine?”

“That would be terrific.” Kassandra paused, “Real wine, not jelly, right?”

“Monica? You’re still doing that stupid jelly thing?” Brenda rolled her eyes.

The table looked quite nice, that was one thing I knew how to do right.

“What was Tristan Dumont doing here?” I managed to say the whole sentence without stopping to gasp for air, not a small feat where Tristan was involved.

“Oh, we ran into each other at the 40th street signal, and we were talking while waiting for the light to