Monster in My Closet (8 page)

I resolved to get him the best little stereo I could find. And maybe speak privately with Molly about the care and feeding of closet monsters. There had to be something more I could do for him.

I dressed carefully. My Goth bride was my first appointment, but the cake tasting this afternoon was with a more traditional bride. I chose a simple, knee-length black skirt, black tights and black heels with gold buckles. I debated the blouse for some time before finally choosing a light cotton with red and black horizontal stripes which I topped off with a black suit jacket. Somber, but not ass-kissing for the Goth, professional, but slightly quirky for the traditional.

To me, it was on the boring side and needed brightening up. I’d have to make an effort in the future not to mix my brides on the same day. It limited my wardrobe choices.

Having gorged on pie a few hours before, I tried to slip out of the house without stopping for breakfast. Maurice wasn’t having it. I got a very dad-like lecture on good nutrition and starting my day out right.

I tried to argue. “There were fruits, and grains, and milk,” I said. “All of these are part of a nutritious, balanced breakfast. Ask any cereal commercial.”

He stared at me with his enormous, unblinking eyes. “Sit. Sit. Sit.” His tone indicated I was not in charge and would not win this fight.

As I snarfed down a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel, I wondered how the hell I’d lost so much control over my life.

On the way out, I stopped in the garage to see Bruce. He’d kept my ice maker working overtime since I found him, but when I’d checked on him before bed last night, his temperature had been normal, as near as I could guess.

I pulled up the door and peered inside. “Bruce? It’s just me.” I headed into the far dark corner. “How do you feel, buddy?”

At the back of the garage, I stood over his corner, allowing my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. “Bruce?”

The dragon was gone. The corner had been vacated, a rounded spot of clean left on the floor in his place. I looked for him between boxes and under tables. I looked up at the rafters overhead, in case his puny wings had managed to carry him there. Nothing.

I was surprised at how sad I felt at his loss.

“Good luck, buddy,” I said to the shadows. “Come back anytime.” I went to his spot to double check. Maybe he left a note? Could dragons write notes? Doubtful. His claws were probably too long to hold a writing utensil. And the paper could catch on fire.

Nope. No dragon curled up in the corner of my garage and no note. But there was something. I bent closer to look, and my breath caught in my chest. A gold amulet encrusted with diamonds and rubies lay in his place. A shiny gold chain coiled around the pendant. I lifted it from the cold cement and brushed it off. The metal radiated a pleasant warmth in the palm of my hand. I was touched both by the gesture and the beauty of the piece.

Despite how gorgeous it was, it was large and clunky. Any number of curses and blessings filed through my head to be catalogued. I had to assume Bruce wouldn’t leave me a monkey’s paw that caused my unspoken wishes to kill off a friend or raise a loved one from the grave. If I rubbed it, would a genie pop out? Would the genie have phenomenal cosmic powers?

I flipped it over and looked for markings. I couldn’t discern any directions to the Well of Souls—not even one-sided directions that would have me digging in the wrong place.

I watched too many movies.

Most likely, it was a pretty piece of jewelry Bruce thought I would like. I slipped it in my bag and forgot about it. It was going to be a long day. Mysterious amulets with hidden powers would have to wait.

Chapter Eight

Most days I stopped off at a local coffee shop and grabbed a pastry and cappuccino. Since a delicious breakfast had been forced on me, I didn’t need the pastry. Still, I needed the coffee. Coffee at home is one thing—I was grateful for the cup I’d been handed to wash down the sandwich. A venti for the office was non-negotiable, all the same.

The little coffee shop two blocks from my office was crowded, even for a Monday morning. I inhaled the heavy scent of roasted beans but the various perfumes and colognes of the customers jostled my nostrils in a hostile takeover. The woman in line in front of me was especially obnoxious. Her perfume was thick and flowery, assailing me like a child throwing a tantrum. “Look at me! Look at me!” it seemed to shriek.

I’ve always taken offense at people wearing heavy perfume. It’s as if they have no respect for boundaries. If I wanted my personal space to reek of lavender and musk, I’d dump a vat of bath salts into the tub and go for a soak. It’s rude to think everyone wants that stuffed up their noses. Whatever happened to subtlety?

I rubbed at my nose with the back of my hand, as if that might clear out some of the stench.

“It
is
a little much.” The voice came from behind me in line, low and secretive, as if he didn’t want anyone but me to hear him.

I was embarrassed. I had hoped no one else had caught me trying to wipe away the smell. I turned to answer and was caught off guard. In fact, I babbled like an idiot.

“You,” I said, already kicking myself for my lack of suavity. “I saw you on TV the other night.”

He looked puzzled, probably afraid I’d confused him with an actor or talk show host. “You know,” I said, trying to clarify, “on the news. Taking the grocery clerk to the ambulance. Or her body anyway.”
Shut up, Zoey. Please shut up.
“It was a shock. I’d just been in there talking to her the day before. I bought cheese.”
Oh for the love of the one-eyed god of wombats, will you stop now?
“I recognized you from earlier the same day when that man was hit by a bus. You do seem to be around when people die. What horrible luck. But then, you’re a paramedic, right? So it probably happens to you a lot.”

I stopped to take a breath and realized he was smiling at me. He nodded toward the counter and I thought I’d lost his attention. Not sure whether to be devastated or relieved about that, I realized he was urging me forward in line.

Excellent. I was an all-around doofus, not just the babbling kind. I turned to face front and closed the gap between myself and the stink bomb. Because I am a total glutton for punishment, I turned around and faced him again. One more try. I took a deep breath.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “Honestly, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m not normally this way.”

And then I tripped backward and bumped into the woman in front of me. Who was holding the coffee the barista had handed her seconds before.

“Dammit,” the woman said. She didn’t yell. It was a fairly low-key attitude for someone with hot coffee dripping from her sleeve.

“I am so sorry,” I said. I grabbed napkins and blotted at her drips. “Please, let me get you another one.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I hate this sweater. Only a little spilled anyway.” She took the napkins from me and mopped up, then tossed the paper in the trash. “All better. No harm.” She smiled and left.

I felt like a total shit for bashing her perfume.

There was no way I could make eye contact with Captain Dreamy behind me. Miserable, I placed my order for a venti cappuccino with a double shot of Irish cream. I needed the double shot. I only wished it were alcohol instead of flavored syrup.

I huddled in the corner waiting for my order to be called, hoping he wouldn’t see me. If he were smart, he’d order a black coffee and clear out before I had to walk past him.

It turned out he wasn’t smart.

He came over and leaned against the wall beside me. I pretended not to notice him, though I’m sure I wasn’t in the least bit convincing. From the corner of my eye I could see he wasn’t in uniform. His jeans were snug, but not ’70s avert-your-eyes-you-can-totally-see-his-package tight. His green t-shirt hugged him affectionately without looking like he’d dressed from the kids department in an effort to look hot. No, hot came naturally. As much as I wanted a good, thorough look at him headlong, I refused to acknowledge his presence. A girl can only endure so much self-inflicted humiliation in one morning.

Regardless of how much attention I pretended not to be paying him, I was very much aware of it when he moved toward me. He lowered his head and brought his face next to mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “The coffee probably improved her smell.”

There is an excellent chance that I blushed at that point. I started to stammer a response, but having blurted out a stream of incoherence before, I swallowed it.

“If your name is Zoey,” he said, “they’ve called your order three times.”

I considered denying my name, but the damage was already so bad I couldn’t see trying to repair it. Any chance in hell with paramedic guy was totaled. Call the insurance company and get a claim started; once the frame is bent, the shop can’t do a thing.

I murmured a quick “thanks” under my breath, darted in to grab my coffee, and blew out the door before I could do something worse.

Nice one, Zoey. You did everything short of farting in there. Maybe if you see him again, you can tell him you have a yeast infection.

I needed the brisk two-block walk to the office in order to further my self-flagellation to the point of depression. Never in my life had I behaved that way in front of a guy—well, maybe in sixth grade. Since then, I wasn’t the smoothest talker, but I could hold my own on witty banter. Today’s display was worthy of a night in bed with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. I didn’t own flannel pajamas, but I was considering stopping at the mall to get some.

When I walked into the office, Sara glided from her desk to meet me at the door.

“Good, you’re here,” she said. “The Dickson-Strauss wedding is a week from Saturday and I have a ton of errands to run. I’ll be in and out all day. Can you man the phones in case she’s having a meltdown? You’re better at calming the storm.”

She paced the office, picking up samples and books, moving coffee cups, peeling Post-it notes from one location and re-sticking them in another. There was a frenetic energy I admired in secret—Sara’s mornings did not look like a zombie movie. She never grunted before her first cup of coffee. Sara was my idol.

“I have a two o’clock at the bakery, but other than that, I’ve got it. If I have to leave, I’ll forward to my cell.”

I plopped into my chair, trying to shake off the utter dejection I’d built up for myself. I took a sip of my coffee and managed to burn my mouth.

“Why do you insist on buying overpriced sugar disguised as coffee when we have a perfectly good coffeemaker here?”

“Why, indeed.” I shuffled through a pile of papers and pulled what I was going to need for my meeting in an hour. “Probably because my ego is far too large and needs a good downsizing.”

Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Problem at Ye Old Coffee Shoppe?”

“Not a problem.” I stretched my face into a bright, fake smile. “I’m going to die alone and childless. It’s my fate.”

“How much caffeine have you had today? You’re not right.”

I considered the question for a moment. “Hot chocolate has caffeine, right? So, a lot. I’ve been up since a little after three. This day is going to be fabulous.”

“You sure I can leave you here alone?” I knew she didn’t mean it. Sara was wearing her amused face, the one she used when she thought I was being silly and might start juggling bunnies and kittens any second.

Come to think of it, I might have seen that same expression on the paramedic’s face. I groaned.
That’s right. I’m freakin’ adorable.

Rather than outline my humiliation for her, I changed the subject.

“I have an appointment in an hour. What can I do to make your day easier, since mine’s already trashed?”

Our office was small, but efficient. My desk was along the wall on the right, facing the left wall. Hers was back in the left-hand corner facing the door. It was rare that we ever had simultaneous appointments, so this worked well enough without having individual offices. We had comfy seating facing both desks so clients felt pampered into parting with their money. The corner opposite Sara’s desk had a coffee and tea area with a mini fridge containing milk, creamer and various juices. There was usually a pink bakery box sitting on the counter.

We liked cookies, and so did our clients.

The carpet was plush white, the walls a deep burgundy, and the whole thing came together with the air of a parlor rather than a cold, sterile office space. We used the work counter in the back room for crafty projects, assembling favors with birdseed, squares of tulle, ribbons, fabric, imitation flowers, candles, and endless jars of beads and sequins. We were prepared for anything.

Knowing this, I probably shouldn’t have offered my open hour to Sara’s needs. Without answering, she pulled me into the stuffy room and put me to work.

“Apparently,” Sara said, “Gail Dickson’s bridesmaids are not in the least interested in being helpful. I told her not to worry about it. We’d take care of the birdseed favors.”

“Why do people do that? Why would you agree to be in a wedding unless you were going to help? Do people not read Miss Manners anymore?”

Sara shrugged. “My guess is they’re already tired of taking crap off of Mama Dickson—I’m sorry, Madam High Pubah City Councilwoman Dickson. She’s even got me ready to slap her pompous little face, and I don’t rattle easily.”

That I could believe. Sara had taken point on this wedding, so I’d only been at the initial meeting. I was running backup. But I knew Councilwoman Dickson well. Everyone did. She managed to get her picture in the local paper on a regular basis, and anyone with a business in Sausalito knew pissing her off was a very bad idea.

This wedding would make or break us. Councilwoman Dickson’s only daughter’s wedding ranked a two-page spread in the local paper, and the politician had scored a promise of coverage in the
San Francisco Chronicle
as well. Being the head of the city council in a town as small as Sausalito shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Alma Dickson had made herself into some sort of local celebrity. If everything went well, we could expect a long line of giggling debutantes clamoring for us to do their wedding.

But if Mama wasn’t happy, we might as well pack up and move to another county.

An unhappy Alma was known to cause all sorts of trouble for business owners—parking tickets, building code violations, spontaneous sanitation inspections. I wouldn’t put it past the old bitch to send someone over in the dead of night to dump cockroaches into the office.

No. This was one wedding we had to pull off without a flaw. Sara looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Her eyes darted around the room like she wanted to pounce on the work table and get started.

“Go. I’ve got it. Well, some of it, anyway.” I waved my arm in the air. “Run around town. Be efficient.”

She looked relieved, but still edgy. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Being an idiot isn’t usually fatal. It’s you I’m more worried about. Leave this. I’ll help. It’s what I do.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Maurice’s voice reverberated in my skull. Was that all I was on Earth to do? Help people?
Might as well suck it up and accept it, Zoey. Helping is what you do. Just like Mom.

After Sara was gone, I puttered around collecting seeds and ribbons and tulle and tiny fake flowers. It took a few minutes to find Sara’s file on the wedding to double check the colors and number of guests. Sara is the put-together lady and I’m the spastic psycho, but underneath her pressed suit and my candy-striped socks, I’m more organized. The universe is an odd place.

The Dickson-Strauss wedding didn’t look like any more fun than I’d predicted after the initial consultation. Two hundred guests, midnight-blue and silver color scheme, traditional, traditional, traditional. I made a face while I tied ribbons around the birdseed-filled bags of fabric. Both Sara and I would attend, as the bride had paid for on-site oversight of her big day, but I wasn’t looking forward to it much.

My supreme organizational skills meant I could assembly-line wedding favors faster than the Ford Motor Company. It didn’t hurt that most of the materials were premade. Scoop the seed into the bags, tie the precut ribbons around the opening and add a tiny fake flower. Piece of wedding cake. I made it through a good seventy-five of them before I glanced at the clock and realized my Goth girl and her mother would be arriving any minute. Tying a bit of silver into an artful bow, I dropped it in the box and went out to settle at my desk to wait.

They were, of course, late.

While I waited, I pulled Bruce’s amulet out of my bag and examined it. The gold was shiny and polished, as if it were brand new. Filigree edged a raised disk in the center inlaid with a black stone shaped like a dragon in profile stretching its wings. Diamonds and rubies ringed the outline of the beast, a single emerald chip at the dragon’s eye. It was large. It was gaudy. And I loved it.

Maybe if I’d been wearing this antique chunk of crazy, I might have had more confidence and less idiocy at the coffee shop. I toyed with the links on the chain. Why had I fallen apart like that? It made no sense. Then again, much of the last few days had made no sense. I wondered what the hunky EMT must think of me.

And then it hit me. Normally, I wouldn’t be asking myself what someone thought of me. I would know. That’s why I was usually so much smoother when I met a good-looking guy. How could I be so stupid? My walls were up, blocking out everybody around me. Everything I’d been feeling that morning was coming from me. Nobody else was leaking in and giving me clues about how to behave. Apparently, this empath thing had been saving me from myself throughout my life and I never knew it. I needed to tweak the wall thing or I’d never survive without becoming a social pariah.