issues.”
“What issues?”
“Nothing major. Something to help get me through the day.”
“Oh,” she said sarcastically. “Is that all? I was under the impression that things were going pretty well for us.”
“They are, Josie.”
I put my arms around her and whispered in her ear. “What say we close for the day to celebrate the Book of Mormon deal? Maybe shake a few rafters in our bedroom.”
She pulled away. “Don’t change the subject! I’m more worried about you than Claire.”
“No need to be concerned.”
“Then who’s the captain?”
Time to come clean. Sort of.
“Ever see the movie
Harvey
?” I asked.
“Yeahhh…” she answered. “Jimmy Stewart talks to an imaginary six-foot rabbit who wears a bow tie. People think he’s nuts—Stewart’s character, not the rabbit.”
“Right. But he isn’t. It’s what keeps him sane— conversing with his id or something.”
“Like the relationship little girls have with their dolls?”
“Or Claire’s fixation with banshees. C’mon, Josie. Try to be serious for a change. The Celts have a long-standing tradition of putting trust in shape-shifting spirits. Superstition is in my DNA.”
“Well, thank God you only have your chats in the storeroom. You do, don’t you?”
“Of course. D’ya think I’m crazy?”
She tilted her head, shut one eye, scrunched up her nose while considering the question. Then, “So what advice did this captain give you—if it’s not too personal?”
Think fast, Bevan.
“He said I should marry you before you get cold feet.”
She stared ahead for a moment. A couple of heartbeats later, the gray-green eyes turned soft and the corners of her mouth slanted upward.
“Okay, Michael, you’re off the hook for now. Let’s go see about those rafters.”
And that, for all practical purposes, ended the interrogation on a high note.
Chapter 11
Stormin’ Norman Tate was perched on a ladder dabbing gold leaf on a carved sunburst above Eulalia’s front door when I arrived the next morning. Daisy, the golden retriever, sat by the lower rung, observing the flicking of Tate’s wrists as if it were a magical human ritual. So entranced was she that my sudden presence on the porch was barely acknowledged.
“Back for more punishment?” Tate asked, gazing over his shoulder.
“I have something to show Miss Darp.”
He made a final delicate stroke with the tiny brush, then stepped off the ladder.
“It’d best be a book.”
“It is. A very important religious book.”
He looked dubious. “Hope it ain’t one of them German doorstops.”
I knew what he meant. Every family in the Midwest seemed to have a nineteenth-century Bible they believed an illustrious ancestor had brought over from the old country. In fact, most had been printed in Philadelphia by Globe Publishing or the A.J. Holman Company. Called “Salesman Bibles” because the samples were sold door-to-door, their features included Gothic
Fraktur
typeface, brass clasps on heavy leather boards, and a ten-inch Teutonic cross with a sparkly crown on a deteriorating front. Inside these three-to-five-pound tomes (depending on whether the New Testament was included with the Old), woodblock engravings depicted sword-wielding archangels putting paid-in-full to cringing demons and apostates alike. You can get a pretty good copy on eBay for fifteen dollars.
“Nope,” I replied. “And I haven’t drowned any ducks in the past twenty-four hours.”
That got a chuckle.
“All right. But it best be good as you say, ’cuz she’s crankier than usual today. That’s why I’m outside findin’ other things to do. You go right on in. Last I noticed she be in the back galley eatin’ lunch.”
Norman climbed back on the ladder and I went through the living room, past the staircase, and into a small, utilitarian kitchen—original wood cabinets, linoleum floor, old refrigerator, older stove. Eulalia sat at a battered round oak table almost hidden beneath a
“What issues?”
“Nothing major. Something to help get me through the day.”
“Oh,” she said sarcastically. “Is that all? I was under the impression that things were going pretty well for us.”
“They are, Josie.”
I put my arms around her and whispered in her ear. “What say we close for the day to celebrate the Book of Mormon deal? Maybe shake a few rafters in our bedroom.”
She pulled away. “Don’t change the subject! I’m more worried about you than Claire.”
“No need to be concerned.”
“Then who’s the captain?”
Time to come clean. Sort of.
“Ever see the movie
Harvey
?” I asked.
“Yeahhh…” she answered. “Jimmy Stewart talks to an imaginary six-foot rabbit who wears a bow tie. People think he’s nuts—Stewart’s character, not the rabbit.”
“Right. But he isn’t. It’s what keeps him sane— conversing with his id or something.”
“Like the relationship little girls have with their dolls?”
“Or Claire’s fixation with banshees. C’mon, Josie. Try to be serious for a change. The Celts have a long-standing tradition of putting trust in shape-shifting spirits. Superstition is in my DNA.”
“Well, thank God you only have your chats in the storeroom. You do, don’t you?”
“Of course. D’ya think I’m crazy?”
She tilted her head, shut one eye, scrunched up her nose while considering the question. Then, “So what advice did this captain give you—if it’s not too personal?”
Think fast, Bevan.
“He said I should marry you before you get cold feet.”
She stared ahead for a moment. A couple of heartbeats later, the gray-green eyes turned soft and the corners of her mouth slanted upward.
“Okay, Michael, you’re off the hook for now. Let’s go see about those rafters.”
And that, for all practical purposes, ended the interrogation on a high note.
Chapter 11
Stormin’ Norman Tate was perched on a ladder dabbing gold leaf on a carved sunburst above Eulalia’s front door when I arrived the next morning. Daisy, the golden retriever, sat by the lower rung, observing the flicking of Tate’s wrists as if it were a magical human ritual. So entranced was she that my sudden presence on the porch was barely acknowledged.
“Back for more punishment?” Tate asked, gazing over his shoulder.
“I have something to show Miss Darp.”
He made a final delicate stroke with the tiny brush, then stepped off the ladder.
“It’d best be a book.”
“It is. A very important religious book.”
He looked dubious. “Hope it ain’t one of them German doorstops.”
I knew what he meant. Every family in the Midwest seemed to have a nineteenth-century Bible they believed an illustrious ancestor had brought over from the old country. In fact, most had been printed in Philadelphia by Globe Publishing or the A.J. Holman Company. Called “Salesman Bibles” because the samples were sold door-to-door, their features included Gothic
Fraktur
typeface, brass clasps on heavy leather boards, and a ten-inch Teutonic cross with a sparkly crown on a deteriorating front. Inside these three-to-five-pound tomes (depending on whether the New Testament was included with the Old), woodblock engravings depicted sword-wielding archangels putting paid-in-full to cringing demons and apostates alike. You can get a pretty good copy on eBay for fifteen dollars.
“Nope,” I replied. “And I haven’t drowned any ducks in the past twenty-four hours.”
That got a chuckle.
“All right. But it best be good as you say, ’cuz she’s crankier than usual today. That’s why I’m outside findin’ other things to do. You go right on in. Last I noticed she be in the back galley eatin’ lunch.”
Norman climbed back on the ladder and I went through the living room, past the staircase, and into a small, utilitarian kitchen—original wood cabinets, linoleum floor, old refrigerator, older stove. Eulalia sat at a battered round oak table almost hidden beneath a
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