“Girls don’t like whiners, pal. Suck it up.” He gave a wave, drove away.

He glanced in the rearview, saw Adrian in her very tiny black outfit, a hand on the enormous dog. And felt a low tug he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Recognizing lust, he ignored it.

Not ready for that, he told himself. And not with one of his sister’s oldest friends if he ever got ready for that again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A new poem arrived on a sizzling August day with a sky the color of old plaster. This one carried a postmark from Wichita.

She read it, the third of the year, in her car in the grocery store parking lot.

When you are a rage in my mind, a fury in my heart,

Why have I tarried so long and kept us apart?

So delicious I find the wait, your blood to spill.

I alone choose the time to kill.

 

It twisted her; it always did. She sat another minute, waiting for some calm, listening to a weary voice outside the car tell a whiny one they’d get ice cream later.

She followed her own protocol, slid the poem into the envelope, the envelope into her purse. She’d make copies when she got home, send them, as usual, to the police, the federal agent, to Harry.

Nothing would come of it, of course. Nothing ever did.

And now the number had increased again. From one for so many years, to two, and now three.

She knew the FBI would keep the file, just as she knew they largely dismissed any real risk. Vaguely threatening poems, a few lines, and never any overt or actual threat or action.

An obsession, yes, but a cowardly one that inflicted mental and emotional distress, and no attempt at physical harm.

She knew what they thought, the agents, the cops. She was a public figure, had chosen to be. That choice came with a price.

She knew what her mother would say—had said. File it, forget it.

Adrian got a cart, wheeled it into the overly chilled air of the supermarket. She called up the shopping list app on her phone, got started.

And reminded herself to give a hat tip to gratitude because her grandfather hadn’t insisted on coming with her. When he did, the process took twice as long.

Food, after all, was his passion. And people came in a close second.

So he’d talk to everyone, examine every peach with great care, see some vegetable that would inspire another dish, which equaled adding more to the list to fulfill that.

When they hit the weekly farmer’s market, it turned, inevitably, into a marathon of food studying, food discussions, and socializing.

As she gathered produce—with care, but not intensity—she had to smile a little. It took much longer to shop with him, but he was always entertaining.

She checked items off her list in dairy, moved on.

By the time she got to the cereal aisle—her grandfather did love his Wheaties—she was on a roll. And heard the aggrieved male voice.

“Come on, man, we agreed on Cheerios.”

“But these are magically delicious.”

She saw Bradley clutching a cereal box while his sister executed a very fine pirouette across the aisle, and Raylan looked like a man under siege.

“Magic and delicious are both good,” Bradley insisted. “Don’t you want us to have good cereal?”

“Will he stick or will he cave?” Adrian wondered as she rolled up to him. “Hello, adorables.”

“We had a deal.” Obviously hoping for backup, he appealed to Adrian. “The deal was Cheerios.”

“We could mix the magically delicious with the Cheerios. You say we’re supposed to compromise.” Bradley turned to Adrian. “He always says we’re supposed to compromise.”

“You’re a very bright light, aren’t you?” She reached around for Dom’s Wheaties.

“You got whole bunches of stuff. You must eat a lot!”

Raylan smiled thinly. “Bright light, you say?”

“I do, and I do have bunches of stuff because we’re going to have a houseful of people for a few days.”

“We had a houseful of people because I had my birthday. I’m eight now. I had a Batman cake.”

“I’ve always thought the Dark Knight’s magically delicious.”

That got a grin, before Mariah claimed her turn.

“I’m going to be six next month and I’m having a ballerina cake. Or a princess cake. I have to decide.”

“Why not both? A ballerina princess?”

Her eyes, green like her father’s, lit up. “I want that. Daddy, I want a ballerina princess cake.”

“So noted.”

“I like your sandals.”

Adrian smiled. “Thanks. I like yours, too, and I love your pedicure. Such a pretty pink.”

“Daddy painted my toes. You have a French manicure pedi. It looks really good with your skin tone.”

“Thank you very much. She’s going to be six?” Adrian asked Raylan.

“Chronologically. In fashion years? About thirty-five. I heard you’ve got a crew coming in to do a new DVD.”

“And a lot of the crew are friends—who’ll be houseguests and eat whole bunches of stuff. My grandfather’s already in heaven.”

She saw Bradley, quietly, gently, ease the magically delicious cereal box into the cart. Remembering how Mimi had once snuck her cookies, she smiled. “How’s everybody liking the new house?”

“I have pink towels in my bathroom. Bradley has red, and we have a playset in the backyard, but we are not getting a pool, so we can forget that. Do you think I’m old enough to wear lipstick?”

“You mean you’re not?” Adrian said, even crouched down a little for a closer look. “I would have sworn you were, because your lips are so pretty and perfect and pink.”

“Really?”

“Oh my, yes. You’re so lucky to have that wonderful natural color in them.”

“Impressive,” Raylan murmured as she straightened.

“I’ve got to get moving. Nice to see you. Give my best, and Sadie’s, to Jasper.”

“Come by sometime,” Raylan heard himself say. “Jasper pines for her.”

“And you can see my room. I have new curtains and everything.”

“I’d like that. See you later.”

As she rolled away, as Raylan watched her, he said, “I saw the move with the cereal, Bradley. But in the spirit of compromise, we’ll go with it.”

“How did you see?”

“Because …” Raylan turned around, drew a Darth Vader breath. “Bradley, I am your father.”

At home, Adrian put the groceries away, let Sadie out, made the copies of the poem. Since Harry and his family would arrive the next afternoon, she’d just hand him his copy.

She considered going down to her studio to rehearse, then went upstairs instead to check, unnecessarily, on the bedrooms.

She’d run into town for fresh flowers in the morning, but for now everything looked just right. The room Harry and Marshall would share, the ones for their two kids, Hector’s room—solo, as his live-in lady of the past year and a half couldn’t make the trip this time. And Loren’s.

She checked the bathrooms—equally unnecessary, but it gave her something to do, something to help keep her mind off the damn poems.