“What a day,” Lyle mutters, the first to break the silence.
“I say we don’t talk about it for the next hour at least,” my mother says firmly. “Let’s talk about the inspector manufacturing excuses to see Rainbow, instead.”
“What?” I exclaim indignantly, my cheeks flushing red. “She came because Paris woke up. She needs his statement.”
“Oh please, girlfriend,” Lyle says, rolling his eyes. “Paris is in no shape to give a statement, and she knows it. She just wanted an excuse to see you again before the night was through.
“Did you get a chance to talk to her, alone?” My mom grins at me, her temporary fatigue forgotten.
“You guys!” I blush deeply, unable to control my reaction.
“Did you kiss her?” My mother’s eyes are mischievous for the first time in a long time.
“Mom!” I do not discuss my sex life with my mother. Not that I’m ashamed of it, but I’m just not comfortable sharing the tidbits. However, I am bursting with the news, and they are two of the people closest to me. “I asked her to dinner once this case is over,” I confide, slyly grinning myself.
“You go, girl!” Lyle crows as he and mom hi-five each other. “Pay up!” He holds his hand out to my mother who slaps a five dollar bill into it.
“What is that for?” I ask, glaring at both of them impartially.
“We had a little bet,” Lyle explains, slipping the five in his pocket. “I bet you’d ask the inspector out while the case was still ongoing while Songbird bet you’d ask after. I should have bet more.”
“You guys are unbelievable,” I laugh, shaking my head. Friends and family betting on my love life. Well, I’m glad someone gets some enjoyment out of it. “Did you bet on me breaking up with Vashti as well? Perhaps the date?”
“No, honey,” my mother says, placing her arm around my shoulder. “We wouldn’t bet on something like that.”
Lyle went to see Ursula this morning, and she was gracious enough to receive him into her house. He promises he’ll tell us about the interaction, but he has something else to relate first. After his meeting with Ursula, he’s about to get into his truck to leave when this tall, leggy blond clamors out of a red BMW and slithers over to Lyle. She looks Lyle over lazily, wondering if he’s Mom’s latest. Because if he is, she tells him, he’s a definite improvement over hubby number three. The blond laughed throatily, leaning forward so he could look down her low-cut sweater. Despite the chilly temperatures, she wasn’t wearing a jacket. Her cranberry-colored sweater clung to every generous curves, while her white jeans left little to the imagination. Her blond hair draped seductively down her back as she batted her lashes at him. Apparently, she thought of herself as a modern-day vamp. Owing to her young age—late teens—and Lyle’s proclivities, she came off as more pathetic than sexy.
Wednesday. Four days after Paris was almost killed. It seems much longer, and yet, it seems like it just happened. Time is the first thing to go in a period of crisis because it’s simply no longer important. If someone you love is hovering between life and death, what does an hour or a day really mean? With this mentality, I make it through the day at work. I keep my nose to myself and don’t mind so much the snubs that are pointedly aimed at me; most of them sail right over my head. I receive an email from Libby accusing me again of trying to sabotage her wedding, and I barely flinch as I delete it. This feeling of detachment is marvelous, and I wish I could cultivate it permanently. I idly consider meditation or becoming a Buddhist, but it seems like too much effort. I decide that it’s much easier to be in denial than to reach nirvana, and it feels pretty much the same. I remember that I half-promised my mom I would talk to Libby about her ‘if there is a wedding’ statement, but I don’t have the energy. When this case is over and Paris is better, then I’ll talk to her.