No Time to Cry (Nine While Nine Legacy Book 1) (21 page)

I began busying
myself with pulling various articles of clothing from their hangers when my
future best friend, Serena, approached me.

She was
strikingly beautiful with large green cat eyes, high cheek bones, and a
delicate nose. Her hair was a mass of pomegranate red. The high heels of her
scarlet leather boots brought her up to my height almost exactly.

“Hi there,” she
greeted me vivaciously, while glancing at the armful of clothes I held. “Looks
like you’re finding things pretty well on your own, is there anything I can
help you with?”

“I’m doing
rather good, thanks.” I inclined my head to the pile of clothes cradled in my
arms.

“Great choices.”
She nodded her head. “Most of those are made by an amazing designer friend of
mine in Los Angeles. Gigi Farrington.”

My heart
stopped. Gigi. My Gigi. My best friend…that other girl, Isabelle…
her
best friend. I looked down at the garments folded over my arm. Of course they
were. Because my guts and heart weren’t twisted up enough already today.

“I love them. So
much elaborate detail work.” I offered in response, forcing cheer back into my
voice.

Serena walked me
back to a fitting room, drew the heavy, ornate brocade drape closed, leaving me
to try on Gigi’s creations.

“Just let me
know if you need me to pull anything else for you.”

“Will do!” I
called out.

I tried on the mid-thigh,
pleated red and black tartan skirt; it had a playful frilly underskirt made
from sheer layers of some kind of delicate, airy fabric. I paired it with a
fitted, delicate black lace and sheer cotton blouse that had details of pin
tucking along the arms and bodice. It was fine and breathtaking and somehow my
mind flashed to Gideon, not Liam, but Gideon and a small little jolt of thrill
raced along the length of my spine. Gods, what was wrong with me?

I chose the same
blouse in vintage vanilla as well as the black, both paired perfectly with the
skirt. Next I fit my feet into the kick-ass leather boots that reached to just
below my knees. They were femme, but tough with little buckles up the back.

I checked out my
reflection in the mirror, and for just a split second I thought I spied a
tattoo on my right forearm, on the tender underside.

But of course
there was not one there. I had no tats.

 I smiled;
my outfit was fun and spunky, yet classy. I could really benefit from a little
fun and spunky. After I tried on three more ensembles, two were Gigi’s and one
was designed by Serena, I put the plaid skirt outfit back on, planning to wear
it out of the store and maybe stumble onto some of that much needed amusement.

As I left the
dressing room, I slipped into the butter soft leather jacket that I’d picked
out. It was short-
waisted
and added to the overall
look of the tartan and lace perfectly.

It was very
Gigi. The cut and pleat of the skirt made my legs look even longer and
shapelier. Even with the leather boots and jacket, it maintained an elegant
edge.

Yes, decidedly
Gigi.

I went to the
counter where Serena was sorting through accessories, placing them into the
glass showcase.

“Wow! That looks
like it was made for you.” Serena exclaimed.

It very well may
have been designed for me. “I’ve seen Gigi’s stuff before…when I visited
California. I’m glad you have it here.”

“It goes really
fast, just flies
outta
here. Really hard to keep it
stocked.” She said as she snipped the tags from the clothes I was currently
wearing, and proceeded to
ring
them up with the
others.

I was glad to
know Gigi’s design career was doing well. She’d worked so hard, putting herself
through night classes at the Fashion Institute after putting in a full day of
hours at a corporate job. I smiled. I was really so happy for her.

We made small
talk, girl talk, as she bagged up the jeans and blouse I’d walked into her shop
wearing, along with my other purchases.

“Oh, here ya go.
Do you want to put this in your coat pocket or should I leave it in the bag?
Wow, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She turned the
object over in her fingers, appreciating the intricacy of the design.

“What?” I didn’t
know what she was talking about.

“Your necklace,
it was in your jeans pocket, it fell into the bag. Don’t want you to lose it.”
She handed over a silver toned necklace. I was baffled. What necklace? I hadn’t
been wearing one, or holding one in my pocket either. I looked down as the
weight settled in my palm.

My heart
lurched. It began to beat erratically in my throat where it had become lodged.

It was the dream
pendant. From my dream last night. The ravens; the deep, water filled stone. I
held it and stared, lost in amazement. It couldn’t be here. It had only been a
dream. I didn’t own anything like this.

“Are you okay?
You look a little pale all of a sudden.”

“Uh yeah.” I
shook my head to clear it. “I didn’t realize I had it with me. Thanks.”

“Would hate to
see something like that get lost.” She handed back my change. “Looks like an heirloom.”

“Yeah, I think
it may be.”

I took off the
coat, suddenly too warm for it. As an afterthought I unbuttoned and pushed up
the sleeve of my blouse, checking quickly to see if I now also sported a fleur
de lys tattoo, but my arm remained un-inked. Sadly.

That baffled me
further. How could I miss something I’d never even had?

On a sudden
whim, “Hey, do you know of a good tattoo place around here?”

I wanted that
tattoo from the dream. Had to have it. I’d never gotten a tattoo before because
I truly believed that a person should put a great deal of time and thought into
it, and then still mull it over even a bit longer, since you better really be
positive in the choice since it’s pretty much there forever. I’d never found a
design that survived the process.

But it seemed
extremely important to have this one…ASAP.

“Actually I do.”
She smiled.

Yes, I’m sure
she did. She had two sleeves worth of gorgeous colorful tats and a stunning
chest piece.

“Just up the street.
My ex-boyfriend’s place. He’s done all of mine.”

“They’re
amazing. I love the detail and shading,” I said admiring the artwork.

“I can walk you
down there; get you an appointment if you want. It can be hard to get him, he’s
usually booked up a couple of weeks in advance, but I can get ya in.”

“That would be
so cool.”

“I was just
about to take off for lunch. Hey, Carla?” She called through the beaded
curtains to the back room. “I’m
outta
here. Take
over, ‘
kay
?”

“You got it!” A
voice called back.

“Let’s go!”

She was animated
and had an exuberantly fun vibe, and we hit it off like we’d known each other
all our lives.

We didn’t go
straight to the tattoo shop. After a quick call to her ex, she’d found out that
he was just finishing up with a job and would be able to take me in little
while. So we stopped at a small sidewalk bistro for ales and some delish little
sandwiches first.

As we drank and
ate, she told me all about her life clear up to the moment we’d met.

Her name was
Serena, she hailed from the Boston area, had met Jeremy at a tattoo shop where
he was visiting a friend—who turned out to be the boyfriend of a friend of
hers—a fix-up followed, and when she left college she followed him out to
Seattle. She’d never gone to design school, as she had planned while still in
high school, too expensive and her grand mom had taught her ‘everything anyway
so why blow all that money on a scrap of paper?’

She’d opened her
little store using the money her great-grand dad had left her a decade before
she even moved to Seattle. She was so glad she had sat on it instead of blowing
through it like her friends had been encouraging her to do.

She and Jeremy
had lived together for awhile, but discovered they made better friends than
lovers and housemates. He traveled a lot and kept crazy hours at his shop. Not
very conducive to a blossoming relationship.

They had broken
up a couple of years ago. She was still single, dating, just not finding the
right guy, but not giving up either.

She’d always
been the ‘weird’ kid on the block, interested in non-normal things; had always
preferred graveyards, faeries, myths, witches, and such over soccer and play
dates with the blond Barbie-girls of her childhood. It had carried over into
her adult life.

Luckily, she had
commandeered the lunch conversation so successfully that I had some time to
make up details of my own life, this new life. I couldn’t exactly use too much
from Isabelle’s existence.

I offered that I
was from California, had only been in Seattle a very short time, and had lucked
into an awesome apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood through a friend of
a friend. No boyfriend at the time. Maybe looking once life settled down a bit
and was not quite so hectic. I told her about my favorite movies and books, of
which we had much in common. That I loved dancing. That
rom-coms
were my guilty pleasure. That the Aviation cocktail was my poison of
preference—poor choice of words—and that I was a writer.

“Digital or
print?” she asked.

And that set
into motion an idea.

I
could
still write.

Digital
publishing. Self publishing. eBooks.

I could write as
Iliana Evenwicht!

I still had all
my notes, partially started novels, and ideas, all on my hard drive and various
flash drives.
Ebooks
could even be pretty anonymous.
No one would have to know I’d been Isabelle. I wouldn’t need a big publishing
company or their advances and touring. I’d do it all myself after my culling
was done. That made me smile. I could be something aside from a Coimdeacht!

The entire
afternoon flew by sitting at the little bistro, chatting away like long lost
friends, soaking up some much needed and rare-for-Fall sunshine.

Two beers and a
couple of hours later I was getting my tattoo.

 I was passing by Na Sciath Snug, a pub that sat
just around the corner and up the street a bit from my place, when a huge
ginger cat yowled at me as I had been about to walk on by the open garden gate.
The closer I had come to walking by, the louder his wails had grown.

“What Mr. Cat,
do you want me to go in  there?”  Yes, I talk to cats.

He was parked in
the herb garden next to the front steps. “My, you’re a big one!” He was really
huge, like an ocelot or bobcat, but very much a domestic kitty. He went down on
his front paws, bowing, stretching down, then rose and moved to the walkway. He
was a tough looking Tom with a small notch in his left ear. He meowed loudly at
me again as he sat down on the porch.

“I don’t know
sir, I’m kinda tired and ready to go home and relax, maybe another night.”

Meeoooowrr

“Really? That
good in there huh? Well, if you insist. An ale might be a fine way to wrap up
my day.”

 The place
was obviously modeled after an authentic Irish pub,

Or at least what
I’d seen of them in the movies.

Housed in an
English cottage style dwelling,
it boasted a steeply pitched, varying
roofline, with a scattering of
dormers
, gables,
and two elaborate brick chimneys in a herringbone pattern that were fitted with
chimney pots. It was unevenly built, using a combination of
random rubble stone, brick, stucco, tile, and wavy wooden siding. The roof
was made up of steam bent, cedar
shingles
which
approximated the look of thatch very well.

Adding to the ambiance and charm were
the 
cottage windows
, divided into
small square panes, and some in diamond-shaped panes.