Boo (21 page)

Wolfe smiled pleasantly but began to look very uncomfortable. Ainsley’s own blood pressure rose, and she felt her ears burn.

“Garth, thanks again for the flowers. It was nice to see you.”

“Oh. I guess that means you two want to be alone.”

Ainsley thought she might have the strength to sling the jerk over her shoulder and carry him out herself. “Garth …”

He shrugged and grinned. “So this is a … date?”

“We’re going to lunch,” Ainsley said.

“A lunch date?”

“Garth, I just wish you would—”

“You see, Garth,” Wolfe interrupted, “it’s actually like this: We’ve been seeing each other for a long, long time, and we knew sooner or later we’d get caught, didn’t we, snookems?” He wrapped his arm around Ainsley’s shoulder. “And it’s really better this way, because now we can be out in the open and tell everyone of our glorious love for each other. We’ve actually been married for three years now, and I’m just here to celebrate our anniversary, so yes, I guess you could call this a lunch date, but it’s so … so … so much more than that.” He winked at Ainsley, who found herself blushing and smiling. Wolfe turned back to Garth and smiled pleasantly.

Garth’s eyebrows were straight across his face. “You’re joking.”

Wolfe shrugged. “Well, I do make my living in fiction, but you never know, do you?”

Garth scratched his head and glanced at Ainsley, who realized she was beaming.

“I better get going,” Garth said heavily.

“So soon?” Ainsley said lightly, trying to suppress a laugh.

“Enjoy the flowers.” He walked out the front door and slammed it behind him.

Ainsley burst out laughing, and Wolfe looked very amused himself. “That was fabulous!” Ainsley wailed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Wolfe was laughing too.

“Who was that guy?” he asked.

Ainsley gathered herself enough to answer. “He’s the town vet. You don’t take your dogs to him?”

“Oh …” Wolfe said. He shook his head. “No, I use a guy named Dr. Pratt over in Manchester. I adopted the dogs from him.”

“Well, that’s probably wise. As you can see,” she said with a sigh.

Wolfe glanced at the flowers. “He seems to like you a lot.”

“He’s been in love with me since junior high and can’t seem to take
a hint.” She looked Wolfe in the eyes. “I’m sorry he was here. He just dropped in. I was horrified. It must’ve looked really bad.”

“No,” he said gently. “
He
looked really bad. It was obvious what he was up to.” He shifted his feet. “I hope I didn’t step over the line with what I said. I just couldn’t stand that guy treating you like that.”

Ainsley shook her head and laughed. “It was great. It might start a rumor or two, but I’m up for a little adventure right now.” She took in a deep breath, reassuring herself of that statement. “Let me get my coat and we can go.”

She went to the coat closet and picked out her winter wool, but her mind was on Wolfe and the way he had taken up for her. His sense of humor only added to his allure.

He helped her with her coat and said, “Ready to go?”

She smiled and said, “Yes. But just give me one more second.” She trotted up the stairs, went hastily to her room, and without a moment’s hesitation, dabbed perfume on her wrists
and the
nape of her neck.

I
NGRID
’
S, AN AUTHENTIC
German restaurant thirty miles south of Skary, was well known in these parts, though Ainsley had never visited it before. She had no reason to travel thirty miles by herself to go eat German food, although she’d wanted to many times.

“This is great,” Ainsley said as their waitress, a plump, older woman, seated them in a booth near the corner. “I’ve heard so much about this place.”

Wolfe looked up at the waitress. “Frida, this is my friend, Ainsley Parker.”

Frida gushed with joy. “Oh! My! What a lovely face! Such lovely hair!” She winked at Wolfe. “Quite a good pick, my dear boy.” She pinched him on the cheek and Wolfe laughed, but didn’t seem to be as embarrassed as Ainsley, who felt her “lovely face” burn with heat.

“Is Kaiser here today?” Wolfe asked.

“Dear heavens, yes, my son! When is he
not
here?” She fanned herself with her order pad and placed a chubby hand on one round hip. Ainsley loved her accent. She suspected Frida had lived in America awhile, but she still held on to that deep, guttural German accent. “He cooks and cooks as if this were his only life. Does he remember he has a wife? Two children? No! As long as the jägerbraten is perfect,” she said, kissing her fingertips, “then all is well, eh?”

Wolfe smiled at Ainsley. “That’s the house specialty. Prime rib topped with peppers, mushrooms, and tomatoes.”

“Ah, ” Ainsley mused.

“So I bring you both a drink of water?”

Wolfe looked at Ainsley, who nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Frida thumped her heavy fingers against a menu on the table. “You
take your time, order what you like.” She looked at Ainsley. “Trust him. He knows what is good here.” She laughed and went to get the drinks.

“You come here a lot, I gather,” Ainsley said.

“Yeah. One of my favorites. It’s because of restaurants like these that I’ve never learned to cook!”

They laughed. “German food can be hard to cook. It takes a lot of time and patience.”

His eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Really? You’ve cooked German food before?”

Ainsley shrugged unassumingly. “I’ve been known to cook a Wiener-schnitzel or two in my time.”

He smiled warmly at her, and Ainsley found herself needing that water to have something to do with her hands. Frida arrived as if on cue. “Here you go. Now, have we decided what we will eat today?”

“We haven’t even looked at the menu yet, Frida,” Wolfe admitted.

Frida’s eyes glowed with some mysterious joy. “Oh! That’s a good sign!”

Ainsley opened her menu to hide her flushed cheeks and stared at the extensive list as Frida walked away.

“Wow. This is wonderful,” she said. “What’s good here?”

“Everything. And I mean it. I haven’t tasted a thing yet that I didn’t like.”

Ainsley glanced up at him. “Well, you’re not making this any easier.”

They were quiet for a moment as each looked over the selections. Ainsley tried to concentrate on the menu, but she could hardly stop thinking about Wolfe. She peeked over the top of the menu to study his features. He had smooth, light olive skin, deep-set brown eyes, and bone structure that begged to be admired. Ainsley sensed he was a little self-conscious of his great smile. He tended to close his mouth more than laugh openly, as if he didn’t want to draw attention to the deep dimples carved into his cheeks.

She gasped a little as he looked up, and she realized she’d been staring at him as though he were dessert. She cleared her throat and sipped her water.

“Have you decided?” he asked.

She’d decided he was amazingly good looking, but hadn’t gotten too much further. “Would you order for me?”

He laughed a little. “Really?”

“Sure,” she shrugged.

“You just don’t seem to be the type of woman who likes men to order for her.”

“I don’t?”
He’s good
.

He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re an amazing cook, and I can’t imagine anyone knowing more about food than you do.”

“I trust you. At least at Ingrid’s. In your own kitchen, now that’s another story.”

He laughed, and his dimples showed. She liked that she made him laugh. He nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll order.”

Frida returned with a little twinkle in her eye and a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Well, dears, what have you decided?”

Wolfe closed his menu. “We’ll start off with your gulaschsuppe.”

Frida scribbled. “Fine choice.”

“And two orders of bratwurst, with roasted potatoes and red cabbage.”

“Very good.” Frida left and Wolfe turned his attention to Ainsley.

“So,” he said, “I guess this is where we find out a little more about each other.”

Through the soup, Ainsley’s whole perception of Wolfe Boone continued to change. He’d been merely a token presence in the town for so long, and an object of contempt for her. Sadly, she’d never much thought about him as even human, and as he told the tales of his life, she regretted these facts more and more.

She learned his mother was British (and that Wolfe was her maiden name) and his father half Scandinavian. This accounted for his slight accent, large frame, and chiseled features. Both had died ten years before in a plane crash, a devastating time for Wolfe. His mother especially had
been such a source of encouragement during a painful childhood in which he sought to be included yet felt different from everyone else. He explained how his vivid imagination and deep sensitivities made for ridicule from some of his classmates. His mother had encouraged him to write his feelings, and with that came a new world of imagination that lifted him out of despair.

“So what made you decide to write horror?” Ainsley asked. She hated the way the question sounded, and there was no hiding her motives, but she had to know. At what point did all this fertile imagination turn dark?

He explained that he liked the element of surprise, and that at first he’d written mysteries, but then his boyishness got the best of him. As he grew into an adult, he explained, “The monsters came out of the closet and from under the bed and leapt into the corridors of my mind. Unspeakable fears lurk there for all of us.” When he sought publication, the horror was what sold, and he banked on the fears of humanity, perhaps not consciously realizing the dangerous potential of making a monster of himself.

Ainsley listened with fascination, barely realizing the bratwurst had arrived. She thought back on her perceptions of him all these years, marveling at how much had changed—at least in her mind—in just a few short days.

“Try it before it gets cold,” he said, pointing his fork in the direction of her dish.

“Oh.” Ainsley looked down. She hardly had an appetite, but the food looked good. She took a bite. It was delicious. She smiled warmly. “Very good.”

“That means a lot coming from you. Tell me, how did you get so interested in cooking?”

Ainsley cut her bratwurst into small, bite-size pieces. “Well, when my mom died, I learned to do a lot of the cooking and cleaning. And my dad wouldn’t let me watch soap operas, so I started reading cookbooks, and then I got to know Martha Stewart.”

“It’s a good thing.”

Ainsley gasped. “She says that!”

“I know. That’s why I said it.”

“Oh.” She chuckled. “How do you know she says that?”

“Doesn’t everyone know what Martha’s catch phrase is?”

“You’d be surprised at what people
don’t know
,” Ainsley said somberly.

“Like what?”

“Well, for example, her maiden name is Kostyra, she grew up in Jersey City, and she started all this with a catering business, and that’s what started the Stewart Empire, as some call it.”

Wolfe laughed. “Well at least she still has a few of her fans left.”

Ainsley didn’t know what that meant. She probably sounded crazy for liking Martha so much. She shook her head. “I probably sound foolish.”

Wolfe cleared his throat. “Hey, you’re talking to a guy that makes his living off of trying to convince people there are ghosts in their closets.”

She paused, then said, “I’m glad you brought me here. This is great food. And … great company.”

“Well,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “the day’s not over yet.”

Directly across the street from Ingrid’s, a lone car sat in an abandoned lot. And inside was a weeping woman.

“Why? Why must my heart break so?” she wailed. She clutched in her hands two books. One was a copy of
Black Cats
. She’d already read it five times. In the other was a copy of
Southern Desires
, the newest book by famed romance novelist Penelope Carrington.

Two figures came out of Ingrid’s, and though she couldn’t see them clearly, she knew who they were. Her chest heaved, but then she managed to gather herself a little. She wiped at the mascara beneath her eyes with a tissue and studied the picture of the voluptuous woman on the front cover of
Southern Desires
.