Page 94 of How To Plot a Payback

I frown. “And that’s . . . bad.”

“When she kidnaps you by telling you you’re going to lunch, and then suddenly you’re at an open house touring an estate in her neighborhood every time a house comes on the market, yes.”

“But you just said you love your flat. The gargoyle and the spaghetti on paper plates and all that.”

“Yes, yes,” she whispers hurriedly. “But sometimes there are helicopter pads and hanging grapevines. And Sonya can be very convincing in making you think to yourself, Why, what about that vague future moment when I’m in a scrape and really could do with a helicopter pad? and What else could I possibly do to entertain houseguests if I didn’t have that personal vineyard from which to offer a bowl of homegrown grapes?”

“She’s your friend. Just say no.”

“Have you ever heard someone successfully say no to her?”

I grin. She has a point there.

Her hand has slipped slightly. Her fingers rest now upon my cheek, her palm cupping the bristles of my five o’clock shadow. She hasn’t noticed. I don’t move.

For several seconds, I just watch her and the way she holds her breath as she spies over the bench. Her other hand curls over the top of the weather-beaten wood, and for a moment I can imagine what she did after school as a child, running through neighboring backyards, playing games behind bushes. There’s a light in her eyes, a childlike glee that outsparks anything she’s conjured for the telly. The world may get to enjoy the flat-screen version of Lavender Rhodes, but the real-life version is ten times more vivid.

She has somehow made magic out of the monotonous.

She has turned an ordinary adult day in a dog park into something extraordinary.

And . . . I love it.

I just . . . love it.

“She’s coming, she’s coming!” she hisses, and drops her hand from my lips. She uncrosses her legs to plant them on the ground and begins rooting aimlessly in her purse. “Look natural!”

“You do realize that technically I am her boss, right?”

And then she elbows me, literally elbows me, right in the gut. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

I grin while hunching over for an entirely new reason. “And you do realize you just elbowed your boss too, right? I could get you suspended,” I add, then grin wider at her second attempted blow.

“And here she is. Surprise surprise.”

I have to admit, Sonya does look a bit like a mob boss as she stands in all white, flanked by two teenagers. Her black hair is in a high slippery ponytail, glossy and long, wrapped in a braid. It looks like a whip. Her long, slim white trench coat is spotless, as are her white pants and white nails. Her sunglasses are enormous. Her foot taps on the dead grass.

“Oh! Hey, Sonya,” Lavender says in a startled tone, one hand in her bag. Lavender’s acting skills are clearly coming into play here, as every feature on her face rearranges itself into complete and utter innocent, easygoing surprise. She pulls out the penguin squeak toy (we had to hide it from Bernie, as the squeak was turning him into a maniac) as if it is precisely what she has been looking for. “Did you come to visit your pup?”

“He’s not my pup,” Sonya replies automatically, then taps her phone. “And you’re avoiding me.”

Lavender gives a breathy laugh as though the notion is absurd. “I’m at a dog park. I’m refreshingly unplugged.” She holds her hand out toward the skies. “It’s a beautiful day. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Yes, it is,” Sonya says, frowning. “Just like I said in my text message you left unread, which said,” she adds, punctuating each word, “‘It. Is. A. Beautiful. Day. I have a great idea. Let’s go to Grizzby’s and grab dinner on their patio.’”

“Oh yes,” Lavender says faintly, putting up her finger. “That is a nice idea. But . . .”

“But what? You have a date?”

“No,” she says. She stands.

“Is the lasagna too rich for you? Would you rather eat stale potato chips at home?”

“No, we both know the lasagna is magnificent.”

“Is the patio too whimsical? Are the rose petals floating in those little cups of water to dip your fingers into between courses too soggy? Is that warm washcloth woven in the Peruvian mountains and placed over your face before the first course too moist?”

“No, you know I always say, ‘This is the best moment of my life.’”