Page 137 of Best Kind of Trouble
The walkie squeaks: “She’s inside the house. I repeat: she’s inside the house. I’m moving the car closer. Oats, over and out.”
I spew half a dozen colorful curses as I slather the oil over Cormac’s hand.
In the distance, I hear a door open and shut, but it’s a huge house, and she’s an elderly woman. Maybe she won’t notice us. She might go about her business, completely oblivious to the intruders.
We’re still at the alcove, the bottle of oil at our feet, the plaque of rules propped against the wall next to us, when a little old woman turns the corner with a small duffel bag. Her hair matches her light-blue sweatsuit.
She pauses, blinking at us. “What are you doing in here, boys?”
“Uh…yeah,” I say. “We’re…”
No innocent explanation comes to mind.
She glances at the bottle of olive oil at our feet.
“Did you kids break in here on some kind of dare? I heard all about this onDateline. You might think risk-taking is worthwhile when you’re a teenager, but when you’re my age you’ll realize this one life is all you’ve got.”
“Uh…no,” I say, since Cormac no longer seems capable of speech. “I’m thirty-three. I think Cormac’s at least thirty.”
“Last June,” he says in a quiet voice.
“Are you okay?” Otis hisses on the walkie-talkie. “The prime-of-her-life woman is inside. I repeat: she’s inside.”
She purses her lips and squints at us. “I have pepper spray in my purse, boys. Do I need to make a mad dash for it?”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “We were just…”
Her gaze lands on the wooden plaque angled against the wall. “You were takingthat? Why in tarnation would you want that piece of garbage? The only person who’d want that is my niece’s fool husband.”
“You’re Great-Aunt Sky,” I say in wonder.
Her expression shifts, becoming more thoughtful than alarmed. “Only my Briar calls me that. My name’s Zephyr.”
Balls to the wall, I guess.
I rap my knuckles against the maple plaque. “We’re taking thisforBriar. But my friend here?—”
Cormac raises his free hand.
“—got his hand stuck.”
“I wanted to know if this was really a Picasso print.”
“It is,” she says, smiling now. “I’ve touched it too.” She glances back and forth between us. “One of you must be in love with my niece. Or is it both of you? God love her, she’s a beautiful girl.”
“She seems very nice, but no, I can’t say I’m in love with her,” Cormac says.
Great-Aunt Sky’s gaze stays on me.
“She’s more than a beautiful face,” I say. “And, yeah, I care about her.”
“And areyoumore than a nice ass?” she asks.
Surprised laughter gushes from Cormac.
“I sure hope so,” I say.
She nods a few times. “Good. I came here to go to Briar’s New Year’s party. I suppose you’ll be there.”
