Rachel Gibson - It Must Be Love

He wanted to come home from work and have someone waiting for him. He wanted to walk in the door without dinner in his hand. He wanted a down-to-earth girl, someone who had both feet planted firmly on the ground. And of course, he wanted someone who liked sex the way he liked it. Hot, definitely hot. Sometimes down and out dirty, sometimes not, but always uninhibited. He wanted a woman who wasn't afraid to touch him or afraid to let him touch her. He wanted to look at her and feel lust twist low in his gut. He wanted to look at her and know she felt the same thing for him.

He'd always figured he'd know the right woman when he met her. He didn't really know how he'd know, he just would. He'd feel it smack him between the eyes like a knock-out punch or a bolt of lightning, and that would be it. He'd know.

Tanya walked back into the room with a frown wrinkling her brow. "That last call return number belonged to mom's friend Bernese.

Why would Bernese make a prank phone call?"

Joe shrugged and decided to throw his sister off the track of the real culprit. "Maybe she's bored. When I was a rookie, an old lady called in about once a month to report that someone kept breaking into her house, attempting to steal her priceless afghans."

"And they weren't?"

"Hell no. You should've seen those things- all bright green and orange and purple. Damn near made you go blind just looking at 'em. Anyway, she'd always have Nilla Wafers and root beer waiting for us. Sometimes old people get real lonely and do weird things just to have someone to talk to."

Tanya's brown eyes stared into his, and her frown deepened. "That's what's going to happen to you if you don't find someone to take care of you."

The women in his family had always nagged him about his love life, but ever since he'd been shot, his mother and sisters had stepped up their efforts to see him happily wed. They equated marriage with happiness. They wanted him to settle down into their version of a nice cozy life, and while he understood their concern, they drove him crazy with it. He didn't dare let them know he'd actually been giving it some serious thought. If he did, they'd be all over him like magpies on roadkill.

"I know a really nice woman who-"

"No," Joe interrupted, not even willing to consider one of his sister's friends. He could just imagine having every little detail reported back to his family. He was thirty-five, but his sisters still treated him as if he were five. As if he couldn't find his own ass if they didn't tell him it was at the bottom of his spine.

"Why?"

"I don't like nice women."

"That's what's wrong with you. You're more interested in the size of hooters than personality."

"There's nothing wrong with me. And it's not the size of hooters, it's the shape that counts."

Tanya snorted, and he didn't remember ever hearing a sound like that coming out of a woman before.

"What?" he asked.

"You're going to be a very lonely old man."

"I have Sam to keep me company, and he'll probably outlive me."

"A bird doesn't count, Joey. Do you have a girlfriend these days? Someone you might consider bringing around to meet your family? Someone you might consider marrying?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I haven't found the right woman."

"If men on death row find women to marry, how hard can it be?"

The small historical district of Hyde Park lay nestled at the bottom of the Boise foothills. In the seventies, the district had suffered from neglect brought on by an exodus to the suburbs and the popularity of strip malls. But in recent years, its businesses had been given a face-lift and a fresh coat of paint, and they had benefited from the resurgence of life back into the city.

Three blocks long, Hyde Park was surrounded on all sides by one of the oldest residential neighborhoods in town. The residents themselves were a diverse mix of bohemia and affluence. Rich, poor, young, and those as old and humped as the cracked sidewalks. Struggling artists and prosperous yuppies lived side by side. Run-down purple houses with orange sunbursts around the windows sat beside restored Victorians, complete with pocked carriage blocks next to the curb.

The businesses were as eclectic as the residents. The shoe repair shop had operated in the district since before anyone could remember, and down the block, a guy could still get his hair cut for seven bucks. A person could grab a taco, pizza, espresso, or a pair of edible undies at the Naughty or Nice lingerie boutique. You could pull into the local 7-11 and buy a Slurpie and a National Enquirer after you filled your car with gas, or walk half a block and shop for books, bicycles, or snowshoes. Hyde Park had it all. Gabrielle Breedlove and Anomaly fit in perfectly.

The morning sun poured over the district and in through Anomaly's front windows, washing the room with light. The large windows were crammed with a display of Oriental porcelain plates and washbowls. A two-foot goldfish with its great fantail cast irregular shadows on the Berber carpet.

Gabrielle stood in her darkened store, squeezing several drops of patchouli oil into a delicate cobalt vaporizer. For almost a year now, she'd been experimenting with different essential oils. The whole process was a continuous cycle of trying, failing, and trying again.

Studying chemical properties, mixing the oils into the little bottles, using her burners and blending bowls, it all made her feel a bit like a mad scientist. Creating wonderful aromas appealed to her artistic side. Her belief was that certain aromas could potentially heal the mind, spirit, and body, either through their chemical properties or by triggering warm, pleasant memories that calmed the soul. Just last week she'd successfully created her own unique blend. She'd packaged it in beautiful rose-colored bottles, then, as part of her marketing ploy, she'd filled the store with the gentle fragrance of citrus and voluptuous flowers. She'd sold out the first day. She hoped to do as well at the Coeur Festival.

Today's blend wasn't unique but was reputed to have calming effects. She screwed the dropper lid back onto the brown patchouli bottle and replaced it in the wooden box containing her other oils. She reached for the sage oil and carefully added two drops. Both oils were supposed to help reduce stress, promote relaxation, and relieve nervous exhaustion. This morning, with an undercover cop due in her store in twenty minutes, Gabrielle needed all three.

The back door to Anomaly opened and closed, and dread settled in the pit of her soul. She glanced over her shoulder toward the rear of the store. "Good morning, Kevin," she called out to her business partner. Her hands shook as she replaced the bottle of sage. It was only nine-thirty in the morning, her nerves were already shot, and she was exhausted. She'd been up all night trying to convince herself that she could lie to Kevin. That by allowing Detective Shanahan to work undercover in her store, she was really helping to clear Kevin's name. But she had several big problems: She was a notoriously bad liar, and she didn't honestly think she could pretend to like the detective, let alone imagine herself as his girlfriend.

She hated lying. She hated creating bad karma. But really, what was one more lie when she was about to create karmic retribution of seismic proportions?

"Hey there," Kevin called from the hallway and flipped on the light switches. "What are you cooking today?"

"Patchouli and sage."

"Is it going to smell like a Grateful Dead concert in here?"

"Probably. I made it for my mother." Besides aiding in relaxation, the scent reminded her of pleasant memories, like the summer she and her mother had chased the Grateful Dead throughout the country. Gabrielle had been ten and had loved camping in their Volkswagen bus, eating tofu and tie-dyeing everything she owned. Her mother had called it their summer of awakening. Gabrielle didn't know about their awakening, but it had been the first time her mother had claimed psychic powers. Before that, they'd been Methodists.