Iced Tea

This is a work of fiction.  All of the characters, organizations, businesses and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  No reference to any real person is intended or implied.

Iced Tea.  Copyright 2011 by Sheila Horgan.  All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, or distributed without the written permission of the author, with the exception of short quotes for purposes of review.

ONE

My sister Teagan and I were sitting at the table, waxing philosophical, when my brothers showed up with the trunk.
 
Turns out that my mother’s best friend, Bernie, who was once my grandmother’s best friend, had a few surprises in store, the latest turned out to be a locked trunk.
 
For me.

First Bernie died unexpectedly, we’re pretty sure it wasn’t a murder, but haven’t gotten confirmation on that yet.
 
Then we find out that the woman, who happened to be older than dirt, had some interesting hobbies, including writing erotica and helping out at Church.

We were just getting used to the whole erotica thing, when Mom and Daddy announced at a family dinner that Bernie left each of us, all eight kids and my parents, a little money.
 
Bernie was from Ireland and didn’t have any family here in Florida, so we’d pretty much taken over that honor.
 
It seems Bernie thought of us as family too, the only real family she had.
 
Wish I’d thought more about that before she died.
 
Bernie has always just been there, I didn’t make a big deal out of her, I didn’t try to have a close relationship with her; I had no idea that she thought of me as the kid most like her.
 
One of those things you can’t go back and change.
 
Unfortunately.

When we were told that Bernie left us some money, each one of us ‘kids’ decided to pool our share and send Mom and Daddy over to Ireland, partially as a tribute to our Bernie, and partially as a reward.
 

Mom and Daddy are the kind of parents that are completely dedicated to the health and welfare of their children, even though we’re now pretty much grown.
   
According to my mother, you’re never too old to be parented.

I openly admit sometimes parental dedication can look like dysfunction brought to a whole new level, but our family doesn’t see ourselves as dysfunctional, really, and we appreciate the involvement of our parents and siblings.
 
Mostly.

Bernie stored the trunk in a loft area of her garage.
 
Her garage is where she was found dead.
 
Although death doesn’t usually ook me out, Bernie’s death has bothered me, on some level, since it happened.
 
I wasn’t sure how I would feel about Bernie’s trunk sitting in my apartment, but when the time came, and my brothers finally delivered it I wasn’t ooked out at all.
 

When the guys carried in the trunk, I was shocked.
 
Rory explained that the rough wooden exterior that we’d seen in the garage the day we’d emptied the last of Bernie’s things out of her little house, was a storage container that housed the real trunk.
 
The trunk is a masterpiece.
 
Dark wood inlaid with beautiful flowers made of other beautiful woods and something a little bit shiny.

Completely out of character, Teagan and I left the trunk untouched while we set out lunch.
 
Nothing fancy.
 
The guys dug in, ate well, and took off before we opened the trunk.
 
They teased us a bit about the whole fairytale aspect of found treasure, and Mom’s warnings about being careful what you wish for, something about Prince Charming and toads, and, of course, Pandora’s box, but they didn’t stick around to see what was in it.

Saying that I have a fondness for lingerie is like saying that Jay Leno has a fondness for cars.
 
I’ve never met a peignoir I didn’t like.
 
I think Teagan and I have already pretty much decided that Bernie was collecting lingerie for me.
 
Since I’m tall, and wasn’t when she started collecting all of this, I’m hopeful that she either bought short, or planned ahead.

At first, the thought of a woman collecting lingerie for a young girl seemed kind of creepy, but Bernie comes from another generation, when hope chests and dowries were in vogue, and being one of 8 siblings, I can see where she might think a little help in that direction would be a good thing.
 
Women used to plan these things, putting aside a bit whenever they could, be it their trousseau or a lovely piece of china and other household items.
 

I’m confident that Bernie, who, to my knowledge, had never been married, was building a hope chest for me.
 
Or maybe she figured that since I wasn’t the most beautiful of my mother’s daughters, we would need a bigger dowry to marry me off.
 

When I suggested that possibility to Teagan, she smacked me.
 

I know I’m not ugly.
 
I have my stunning moments; they just aren’t as frequent as my sister’s.
 
I’m okay with that.
 
I have better lingerie than she does.
 
Besides, I think it says more good things about you if you can be honest about your flaws.
 
Just because I’m not as pretty as Teagan, doesn’t mean I don’t have as much value as Teagan.
 
It took me a while to figure that one out, but I get it now, and I’m good with it.

I took the key off the desk, where my brother left it on his way out, and unlocked the trunk.
 
I took a deep breath, and opened the lid.

A lovely citrus scent wafted out before I could see inside.
 
I smiled.
 
It would be just like Bernie to know I’m not a roses and vanilla kind of girl, I’m a citrus and sage kind of girl.
 
Actually, lemon all by itself would work for me, but it’s hard to find, other than in an old fashioned bottle of Mr. Clean, which could explain my slightly compulsive approach to cleaning.
 

So now we have the chicken and the egg problem.
 
Do I love the smell of citrus because I was introduced to it by Bernie, or did Bernie know me well enough to know that citrus pleases me?
 
Or did citrus please her, and that’s just one of the things that made her think she and I were alike?
 
Her wee little house did smell citrusy all the time.
 
I’d have to think about that.
 

Those are the kinds of things that get my attention.
 
I know.
 
It’s a little strange, but the whole thing about looking at life a little sideways has served me well.
 
At least it did until very recently, but that’s a whole other issue to pursue at another time.

The lid creaked as I opened it all the way.
 
It had leather straps that held the lid straight up.
 
Beautiful.
 
The inside had the feeling of a very traditional old-time trunk, although when we’d seen only the outside, it seemed rather modern, and, thinking about it, informal but precise.
 
Kind of like me I guess.
 
I wonder if Bernie planned that, or it was just a happy accident.
 

The trunk looked like a horizontal version of a vertical trunk.
 
You know those trunks they have in the old movies that you have to stand on end to access drawers and a hanging rod.
 
Basically a rolling closet.
 
Probably when every mode of transportation took longer, and life was a little more formal, a trunk was your rolling closet.
 
Older houses often don’t have closets at all.
 
Anyway, this trunk didn’t need to be turned up on end, but it was full of little compartments along the edges, and still had plenty of storage in the middle.
 
Everything in the trunk was either sequestered in a drawer, or wrapped in tissue paper with a beautiful ribbon around it.
 
I couldn’t tell what anything was.

Teagan reached in to open a drawer, and I instantly blocked her move.
 
Teagan and I share everything, but for some reason, I didn’t want to share this.
 

When you come from a large family, with limited funds, virtually nothing is your own.
 
You share food, and clothing, and space.
 
That has just been a fact of my life, all my life.
 
I never give it any thought, it doesn’t bother me, except that once Teagan borrows my clothes they’re gone to me forever.
 
If she doesn’t leave bumps in them, where I have no bumps, they look so much better on her that I don’t want them back.
 
But that’s only slightly annoying, this sudden urge to keep the trunk, and everything in it, to myself - this is confusing.

Teagan took my rudeness well.
 
Probably not the first time she’d experienced it.
 
She smiled and asked, “So, how are you going to do this?”

“I’m going to close the lid.
 
I’m going to the store to buy some flowers, and I am going to bring them out to Bernie.
 
She put a lot of thought and effort into this gift, and I’m not going to tear through it.”

“Sounds very mature.”

“Shut-up!”

“That was meant as a compliment, Cara.”

“Oh, well, thanks.”

“I’m assuming that you want to be alone when you actually go through this stuff?”

“I don’t know yet.
 
I haven’t decided.
 
When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I used to be the first to know, now I’m the second.
 
AJ’s the first.”

“Not always.”

“Yeah, sometimes I happen to be in the room.”

We laughed.

“Cara, I have a question.
 
You said that Joe-the-cop called and said he wanted to spend some time with you, have you heard from him?”

Joe-the-cop is the ex-partner of Louis, who I was told died in a car accident, and as a favor to my family priest, and in an effort to earn a little money, I’d taken on the task of emptying out his condo for his jerk brother who is next of kin, but couldn’t be bothered coming to town, even to bury his own brother.

Things got really convoluted and complicated, but basically, I’m pretty sure that Louis was investigating a series of murders, although depending on my mood, my opinion might be that his involvement might not be that benign.
 
Joe-the-cop is weird by any standard, and again, depending on my mood, he’s a cop who’s trying to find out what happened to his ex-partner, and he’s bad with boundaries, or he’s just a dangerous ass with permission to carry and use a gun.
 
Of late, I’ve tried to keep my distance.
 

Joe-the-cop is one of those chameleon guys. Everyone I’ve talked to sees him in a completely different way.
 
It’s starting to make me nervous.

Besides, the fact that Teagan and I accidentally beat him up in Louis’s condo, and then he almost ran my butt over, means that Joe and I have a little bit of history, and all of it seems to be pretty violent.
 
I’m not a violent person, so either Joe-the-cop is a violence magnet; or he brings out the worst in me; or he is a bad guy wearing a good guy uniform.
 
None of the possibilities are good ones, so, until I figure out what is reality and what is paranoia, I don’t want him around me.

I told Teagan, “Haven’t heard a word, but now that you have put it out there in the cosmos, I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon.
 
You always do that Teagan.
 
You need to filter what you put out there.”