Virginia Lowell - A Cookie Before Dying

“I’m impressed,” Olivia said. “How did you snag the original from Binnie without a warrant and a lengthy court fight?” She selected a large slice of pizza, one with lots of roasted artichoke hearts, and wedged the narrow end into her mouth before it could collapse.

“Easy,” Del said. “I simply pointed out the consequences if they continued to take photos of you without your knowledge and permission. I informed them that The Gingerbread House is private property, along with your home and land, and that you had a legal right to bar both her and her niece from setting foot on or in either of them. Of course, they can still photograph you from the sidewalk, but if you forbid them from entering your store or even standing at the windows, it will seriously cramp their style.”

“Wow,” Olivia said. “Thank you.”

“All part of the service.”

As they both reached for a second piece of pizza, Olivia asked, “So does all this mean we are friends again?”

Del paused in mid-reach and raised his eyebrows. “Had we stopped being friends?”

Spreading some dressing on her salad of baby greens, Olivia thanked genetics for her blush-resistant skin. “It’s just that . . . a few months ago, it seemed maybe we were becoming more than friends. Or was I imagining things?” She wrapped her mouth around an extra-large forkful of salad in a clear case of nervous eating.

Del gave her free hand a quick, hard squeeze. “You weren’t imagining things, but . . .”

Olivia wanted to encourage him to keep talking, but her mouth was crammed with greens. She tried to say “But what?” with her mouth full. It came out as “Ga-uh?”

Del threw his head back and laughed. A couple at a nearby table glanced at him and gave each other a knowing smile. “Okay,” Del said once he’d quieted down. “If you promise not to choke yourself with green stuff, I’ll talk. It’s about your ex-husband. No, hear me out. I know you assured me the marriage is over, dead, never to be revived. And I know you were being sincere.” Del picked a bit of crust off his plate and ate it.

Olivia sipped her wine and waited for him to elaborate, though it cost her a jittery stomach.

With a sigh, Del leaned toward Olivia. “Ryan is an impressive guy,” he said. “I’ll grant you he has a controlling nature, though when he suddenly showed up in your store, he did seem to be making an effort to lighten up. I think he wants you back.”

“Not a chance,” Olivia said. Her ex-husband had driven from Baltimore and appeared at The Gingerbread House without warning in mid-summer. He had babbled nonstop about his plans for a low-cost surgery clinic for the working poor, all the while pacing the sales floor and talking over customers who had questions about store items. To Olivia, it was an example of the best and the worst of Ryan. His enthusiasm could be infectious and alluring, but he often forgot that his listeners were separate from him and might have their own plans for their lives. Worst of all, Ryan had been in full swing when Del dropped in to ask if Olivia might be interested in dinner and a movie that evening. He couldn’t find a place to break into Ryan’s monologue, so he finally left. Olivia only found out Del’s intentions much later, after the warmth between them abruptly cooled.

“Some breaks can’t be mended,” Olivia said. “Ryan has a good side, and that’s what you saw, although you have to admit he was self-absorbed, too. The real problem is he tends to lose interest in his ideas once they demand too much time and administrative work. He loves to do surgery, and surgery is where he shines. He seemed to be making an effort to be less controlling because he wants me to move back to Baltimore and take care of all the stuff he hates to do. If I’m going to oversee a business, I’d much rather it be mine.”

“I can understand that,” Del said as a waiter arrived to refill their coffee cups. They both shook their heads when he asked if they wanted dessert. When the waiter was out of earshot, Del said, “I do think there was more to it. I think he misses you, and who wouldn’t? Maybe you need to think about his offer for a while.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Teasing, Olivia narrowed her eyes at him. “Or wait, I get it. You’ve been listening to Charlene Critch, and you’ve decided I’ve brought too much sugar into your life.”

“Or maybe not enough,” Del said with a lopsided grin.

Olivia glanced at her watch and said reluctantly, “I’ve got to run. My mom’s rumba lesson begins in fifteen minutes.” But she stayed put and tilted her head at Del. “You’ve pulled back,” she said. “That’s your right, of course, only . . .” She sipped her coffee, took a deep breath, and asked, “Is Ryan the whole reason, or is there more?”

Del stared down into his coffee cup, out the window, anywhere but in her direction.

“You are free not to answer, of course,” Olivia said. “Only, could you give me a verbal hint whether you plan to answer in the next three minutes or not? It’s just that Mom’s rumba lesson waits for no one, not even her one precious daughter.”

Del’s smile was fleeting. “You have a right to know, though I’d appreciate your keeping this between us. In a sense, it’s about Ryan, but more about you. I mean you in relation to Ryan,” he added when he saw the stricken expression on Olivia’s face. “My marriage . . . Livie, I know it isn’t fair to make this comparison, but I can’t help it. My marriage ended because my wife left me for her ex-husband.”

“Oh, Del, you—”

“Don’t really want to talk about it right now,” Del said. In a softer tone, he added, “If I’m not mistaken, it’s time to rumba.”

An unusual number of well-to-do families had settled in and around Chatterley Heights, which made the town a destination for hungry artists of all types, especially those willing and able to teach. Olivia’s mother, Ellie, took full advantage of the opportunities available. On Monday evenings, she would be at her Latin dancing lesson.

The Chatterley Heights Dance Studio occupied a small building located southeast of the town square. A sister team of seamstresses had occupied the building until the early 1960s. The sisters died long before Olivia was born, but her mother had often described the elegant ball gowns and bridal trousseaus she’d admired in the large display window. Ellie had been a little girl in the fifties, but she remembered in vivid detail the delicate embroidery and tiny beads hand-stitched to satin gowns. Ellie had called it sweet karma that, after standing empty for years, the building was renovated for a dance studio. Grateful for the opportunity, underemployed dance teachers came regularly from Baltimore and DC to offer lessons in everything from hip-hop to square dancing.

Through the studio’s front window, Olivia could see the dance floor, which covered what used to be the store’s entire sales area. The dimmed lights left the edges of the room in near darkness. Her mother appeared to be alone on the dance floor, practicing some steps. Behind her, a light shone through a doorway, which Olivia guessed was the instructor’s office. If she hurried, maybe she could catch a word with her mother alone.

Olivia stepped inside the building and felt a rush of cool, dry air. Ellie was across the room perfecting a spin that sent her long, gray hair flying out from her back. In contrast with her usual preference for loose, flowing outfits, Ellie wore a red knit dress that hugged her petite figure. A double row of short ruffles flounced around her knees as she executed a quick twisting movement.

Ellie caught sight of Olivia and waved. She held up one finger to say she’d be back in a minute and disappeared into the office. A moment later, music erupted from speakers around the dance floor, and Ellie emerged in the arms of one of the most gorgeous men Olivia had ever seen. He could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty. His tall, lean, perfectly controlled body swayed like silk in the wind, and he possessed a luxurious shock of white-streaked black hair that set off a chiseled face. He looked down at Ellie, who barely reached his shoulders, and smiled in a way that made Olivia feel squeamish.