Page 101 of Wicked Angel
She frowned and seemed to stubbornly accept the explanation. I kissed her on the head.
“Would you like some privacy?” she offered. “I can bring in lunch.”
“I’m not hungry. Privacy would be good.”
“You go on, then. He’s in with his babies today.”
That could mean anything from some new craft Rory had picked up to more cats. At last count he had five of them, all former strays. I headed deeper into the sprawling art deco house, through the study in back that opened up to a lush rainforest-like courtyard. A bird, probably a new pet, was chirping somewhere.
I found Rory wearing a men’s kaftan, similar to his wife’s but in a natural cotton color, tending to what had to be two-dozen identical plants lined on a table.
“You look like a hippie,” I greeted him.
He glanced at me over his glasses, looking even less surprised than his wife did that I’d dropped in out of nowhere.
“I am a hippie. The sixties were good years. They don’t make bands like they did back then.”
“Spoken like an old man,” I teased him.
“Did you know I’m turning seventy-nine at the end of the year?”
Yeah. I knew. The thought of it was giving me a mental ulcer. The idea of Rory getting old, too old to talk to me about my problems anymore, had been eating a hole in me for years. The day this man died was gonna wreck me in a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever come back from.
I’d never told him that, of course. Last thing he needed was worrying about me falling apart over losing him. He’d call me codependent or something and tell me to go back to therapy.
I watched him lovingly wiping invisible dust from the long emerald-green leaves of the plants, while he watched me.
“Your latest obsession?” I inquired. The plants weren’t here last time I came by.
“I prefer hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby if it keeps you up at night. And you know you were up all night, misting them or something.”
He neither confirmed nor denied as he continued dusting leaves.
I walked around the table. “So what is this, a grow op?”
“I’m sure you know what a marijuana plant looks like,” he said mildly, “and this isn’t it.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you to cultivate some new psychotropic wondershrub.”
He didn’t laugh. “Now there’s an idea.” He eyed me over the rims of his glasses again. It seemed to me he’d shrunk over the years, though I’d been twelve when I met him. He seemed much larger then. “Spathiphyllum.”
“What was that, a sneeze?”
“Peace lilies.” He indicted the plant he was caressing. “Did you know they filter harmful toxins from the air? And if you give them the right care, they can bloom all year long. They’re beautiful, hardy plants.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said genially. As if there was any chance I might know that.
“I’ll give you one to take home.”
“Thank you.”
“Did Lamar drive you here?”
“He did.”
“I’ll give him one, too. Are you driving much lately?”
