The Hibiscus was typically packed, even though it was a Tuesday evening. It was dinner time, and I was feeling lighter and freer than I’d felt since moving to Parkwood. There was something about defining your role in a place, and really owning it, that took a serious weight off.
Trace hadn’t taken my rebuff well, and I thought I would be sad about that, but…I wasn’t. Was I? At least, I didn’t think I was sad. Which was interesting, given that I’d been sad and sad and sad about leaving Trace behind for all these months. Actually pining. But it had turned out that it wasn’t Trace I was grieving over—not the real Trace, anyway. I’d been pining over an imagined, better Trace. Who was to say it wasn’t an entire imagined life?
Somewhere in those months of grieving, I let that life go and built a new one, because I could be certain that this one was real. And, in my opinion, maybe even a better one. At least a livable one.
Daisy was at the Hibiscus, saving me a seat. Her table was a swarm of moving parts—kid arms and legs and torsos and hands and feet. Daisy paused to wave me over and without missing a beat, scooped up Willow and plopped her into her high chair, then shoved a banana in her hand before she could get her indignant screaming fit off the ground.
Mike was sitting across the table, playing—and losing—a game of paper triangle football with Jake. A rogue kick sent the triangle flying into my stomach as I sat down.
“Out of bounds!” Mike crowed, sticking his finger in Jake’s face. “Out of bounds! My ball!”
I sat, and Esther, looking particularly fluffy, brought me a glass of sweet tea. “Turkey sandwich tonight, honey? Extra gravy?”
I wasn’t sure if my gut could take another round of those giblets, but I couldn’t resist them. And from the semi-miserable faces around the restaurant, I guessed I wasn’t the only one. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
Esther scurried off, and Daisy leaned in. “She’s working on a new recipe. Shepherd’s pie. The secret is buffalo meat, but don’t tell her I told you that, or she’ll reveal the secret to my pumpkin tiramisu.”
“Definitely going with pumpkin, then, huh?”
She shrugged, pushed her bangs out of her eyes, and flung Brant back into a chair, where he was immediately hit in the temple by the triangle football. He started to wail, but Daisy never even stuttered. Just pushed a cup filled with chocolate milk his way. He instantly stopped crying. This woman was a master.
“It’s popular,” she said. “It’s delicious and I have a bunch of recipes. Tons, really. But I was thinking of going with something a little broader.”
“Like…dessert?”
“Too broad. Like pie. Everyone loves pie, and my granny’s pie crust will knock out a full grown man, I can tell you that much. I’m starting with pumpkin tiramisu pie. A blend of a blend of a blend. It’s what they call fusion these days, I guess. You keeping with the poisoning theme?”
“Nope, it’s time to move on,” I said. “I’m toying with jealous rage.”
“You mean like Wilma Louise Farley?”
“Something like that.”
“Evangeline’s awake, by the way. Lucas, I saw that. Michael, do something about him.”
“She is?”
She nodded. The paper triangle hit her on the side of the head, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I ran into her sister at Vacuumulate. She’s a little worse for wear, but she’s gonna make it.—Jealous rage, huh?” she pondered, picking a cherry out of someone’s Shirley Temple and eating it. “Wives on the edge.” She flicked her eyes toward Mike. “I like it.”
“Whatever. You wouldn’t touch a hair on that man’s head.”
She sighed. “You’re right. He’s a big child, but he’s mine.” She grinned wickedly and tilted her head toward the door pointedly. “Well, look who’s here.”
I turned and looked where she’d been not-at-all-subtly indicating and saw Brooks walk in. He was wearing plain clothes—jeans and a button-down shirt, open to reveal a college T-shirt beneath.
“You should go get him,” Daisy whispered.
“What? No.”
“I’ll hold down the fort here,” she said. “I’ll make sure none of these crazies takes your food.”
“It’s not about that,” I whispered. “I don’t know if I’m ready for—” I felt a hand on my shoulder. I was not at all surprised to find that it was the warm hand of Brooks Hopkins.
“Hey, Daisy,” he said. “You still making those cherry chocolate chunk muffins?”
“Of course,” she said. “Plus a lot of lemon poppyseed. I mean, a lot. Two for the price of one today. Blue line special.”
He chuckled. “Actually, I’m not here to eat.” He touched my shoulder again. “I came to see Hollis.”
I felt my cheeks burn in a not-entirely-bad sort of way. “Me?”
“Outside?” he asked, and I thought I detected some underlying shyness there.
“Okay,” I said. “Sure.” But I wasn’t feeling okay and sure at all. I was feeling nervous and tingly and really, really unsure.
I followed him outside. He led me to a bench next to the front door and we sat.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he said.
“Thank me? For what? I was nothing but a pain for you guys.”
“Not true.” He laughed. “Okay, a little true. But you also made me think outside the box. Look at other suspects. You have great skills. You know that, right?”
“Actually,” I said, “I kind of do know that. But it’s still good to hear it. And a lot of the skills were Daisy’s. She’s a natural.”
“For the record, I thought it was Paulie, too. The whole time.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “It made sense.”
I grinned. “It did, didn’t it?”
“Wilma Louise officially confessed. Gave the whole statement. I’ve gotta admit, I feel a little sorry for her.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Imagine being so wrapped up in a guy like Farley?”
“A lot of restaurants are going to miss her business,” he said. “I know Mister Wok will. She was his most dedicated customer.”
“Maybe we can sneak her in an egg roll every now and then,” I said.
He chuckled. “Nope, they would never allow it. You could get a lot of contraband inside an egg roll.”
“Hmm, you’re right.” I kicked a rock and watched it skitter underneath the car in front of us. “Like an Uzi. People are sneaking those in through Chinese appetizers all the time. I did a story on it.”
He started to argue, but then caught the look on my face and cracked up, and there were those two little dimples again. I melted, and I didn’t even try to stop it from happening. “You’ve got an interesting sense of humor, Hollis Bisbee.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
We sat there for a few more minutes, watching cars pull in and out, including a severely frowning Wickham Birkland, whose car was sporting a brand new dent in the front fender.
I pointed at it as Wickham walked past. “Corner of Tutor and Oak?”
Brooks sighed. “Yep.”
We chuckled, then fell silent again. It was one of those uncomfortable, expectant silences, but neither of us seemed to want to—or be able to—break it.
“I should probably get back in there,” I said when it got to be too intense. “I’ve got a celebration to be the center of.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said.
I stood, then he stood, and we both just kind of hovered awkwardly. He looked like he wanted to say something, and I was pretty sure I knew what that something was. Dang, his eyes were so blue.
We both started talking at the same time, and then laughed breathlessly.
“Congratulations on your arrest, Officer Hopkins,” I said.
“Same to you, Miss Bisbee,” he said, and I edged away, still hoping he would come out with it.
He never did.
When I gave one last look before going inside, he was sitting again, his head in his hands, as if he was deep in thought.
I kind of liked it that way.