Heather Graham - Picture Me Dead

“We’ll just eat more junk at the parks,” Jan said woefully. “Boy, Ashley, you just had to bring these cookies, huh?”

“If I hadn’t brought the cookies, we just would have stopped and ordered something really greasy at one of the rest stops,” Ashley assured her. “There should have been more cookies, actually. Enough to last the trip.”

“What happened?”

“I dropped them. Actually, I banged into some guy looking for Nick and they went flying. His fault, not mine.”

“We’re going to have to stop anyway—coffee to go with the cookies,” Karen reminded her. “In fact, I’m stopping here and now. Not one more bite until we get the coffee to go with the cookies.”

“Milk would be good,” Jan said.

“Milk goes with Oreos,” Karen said. “Coffee goes with chocolate chips.”

“I actually had coffee, but then…oh, well,” Ashley murmured.

“You dropped it, too?”

“Yeah, I dropped it.” She grinned at Jan via the mirror. “Actually, I spilled it all over him. And myself. I had to change. That’s why I was so late.”

“Was it a good friend of Nick’s?” Jan asked. “Was he ticked?”

“Hey, was he cute, or one of the old salts?” Karen asked.

“I don’t think he’s a good friend, but I’ve seen him around before. I guess he was ticked. But it was his fault.”

“That you spilled coffee on him?” Jan said.

“Well, he was just there—practically in the doorway. Who expects to open their door to a hulking stranger before six in the morning?”

“Well, actually, you should,” Karen pointed out. “All those aging old tars living in the houseboats at the marina know Nick is up early, and they’d rather have your coffee than make their own.”

“So, Ash, you started the morning off by burning an old geezer?” Jan said. “That isn’t like you. Most of the people who frequent that place think you’re the most wonderful little darling in the entire world and that Nick is lucky to have you.”

“I hope you didn’t cause an old guy’s pacemaker to stop,” Karen told her.

“I don’t think this guy has a pacemaker.”

“He wasn’t an old geezer?” Jan said, perking up.

“He was a young asshole,” Ashley told her.

“Hey, you never answered me, if he was cute or not,” Karen said.

Ashley hesitated, frowning slightly. She didn’t pay a ton of attention to everyone who came into Nick’s—she didn’t help out now anywhere near as much as she had done in years past. But she was usually observant. She noticed faces, because she loved to draw. And she usually remembered features very clearly. It seemed strange to her now that she had seen the man before and really not taken that much notice of him.

“I would never describe him as ‘cute,’” she assured Karen.

“Too bad. I was thinking there might be someone hot and new at Nick’s to observe,” Jan said sadly.

Ashley was silent for a minute.

“Hey, she didn’t say that he wasn’t hot,” Karen observed.

“I don’t think he’s the type I’d want to take an interest in,” Ashley said.

“Because he was rude?” Jan asked. “It didn’t sound to me as if you were in the mood to be Miss Manners yourself.”

Ashley shook her head. “I wasn’t rude. All right, yes, I was rude. Maybe I should even have apologized. But I was just in a hurry, and he startled me—even scared me there for a few seconds. He’s just…dark.”

“Dark? Hispanic, Latin, Afro-American?” Karen said, confused.

“No, dark, as in…intense.”

“Ah, intense,” Karen said.

“Well, I mean, he’s dark, too. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. Tanned. Apparently likes boats, or water, or the sun.”

“Um. Sounds sexy. The dark type.”

“Did he have a bod?” Karen demanded.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Maybe I’ll start hanging around Nick’s more,” Karen said.

“Oh, right, like you need to go looking for men,” Jan said.

“Yeah, I do. Who do I meet at a grade school? You’ve got it made, because you stand up in front of hordes of people in great outfits and sing. You’re the one who doesn’t need to go looking for men.”

“Looking is easy. They’re all over. Finding good ones is tough,” Jan said.

“Well, forget Nick’s, then. Don’t all the psychologists say never to look for a date in a bar? You’re supposed to meet them by bowling or something,” Ashley said.

“I hate bowling,” Karen commented.

“Then bowling probably wouldn’t be a great way for you to meet a guy,” Jan observed. “There you have it, how not to date in a nutshell. Put the three of us together, and we can really solve the major problems in the world,” she said ruefully.

“Hey, I solve the problems of six-to ten-year-olds on a daily basis,” Karen reminded her. “I’m responsible for molding the minds and morals of the future voters of a country in need of the best next generation in history. Ashley spends her days learning how to shoot and deal with the scum of the earth. This weekend, I think we should leave the serious stuff behind and worry about the next best serious stuff—our tans and the size of our butts.”

“We won’t set our goals too high,” Jan said. “If we can just find a few strangers who have bathed and are halfway articulate and don’t mind a few minutes on a dance floor, we’ll call it social triumph. I need a cookie.”

“Works for me,” Karen agreed. “But…butt size, huh? I think I have to have one more cookie, too, before the coffee, since it’s going to be at least twenty minutes before we reach the rest stop.”

Ashley noted, with a quick glance at her friend, that Karen delicately bit off a tiny piece of cookie and chewed slowly, savoring every nuance. That, she decided, was how Karen stayed the nearest thing to perfect. She ate everything, but had the art of nibbling down pat. One cookie could last Karen an hour. She was petite, a perfect size two, with huge sky-blue eyes and a sweep of natural, near-platinum hair, testimony to a distant Norse heritage, along with her family name, Ericson. Jan, on the other hand, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, five-nine and as fiery as her Latin surname, Hevia, suggested she might be. Ashley referred to them often by the fairy-tale names they had gained as children: Rose White and Rose Red. She was a green-eyed redhead herself, the coloration courtesy of her mother’s family, the McMartins, since her last name was Montague. Her father’s family had been mainly French, with a little Cherokee or Seminole thrown in, which meant that she had only a small spattering of freckles on her nose and the ability to acquire a fairly decent tan without burning like a beet first. She was the medium between Jan and Karen at five feet six. The two had playfully labeled her the thorn in the roses. The three had been friends since grade school, and had shared dreams, victories and heartaches ever since. This weekend was something they had been looking forward to for a long time, since their adult lives had taken them in very different directions. Karen was teaching and going to school for her master’s degree. Jan was a singer, and though she doubted she was ever going to achieve mega-star status, she didn’t care. She loved singing and songwriting, and her career was beginning to take off nicely, if modestly. She and her accompanist were being booked as an opening act for shows across the country. Ashley was in her third month at the metro police academy, and she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into every class, every subtlety of the law, rights and self-defense that could be learned.

“Think Sharon and your uncle Nick are going to get married?” Jan asked, leaning forward.

Sharon Dupre, the baker of the divine cookies, had been seeing Nick for almost a year now. They were definitely a hot item.