Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(15)
The card was tacky, a mass--produced Valentine’s Day card, the kind Jesse had said I was too good for, in the shape of a heart, with a cupid on it, aiming an arrow at the viewer. You Slay Me, it said, in a goofy font.
When I opened it, Paul had written, in his atrocious handwriting (he was used to typing, texting, and gaming, not writing with a pen, like Jesse):
I know you’ll hate this, but I saw them (both the card and bracelet), and thought of you. The emeralds match your eyes (I know, I’m getting sentimental in my old age, aren’t I?) and you slayed me long ago.
I know your first impulse is going to be to send the bracelet back, but why? That undead cholo boyfriend of yours can’t afford to get you anything nice for Valentine’s Day, so just pretend it’s from him. It can be our little secret, like the other little secrets we have from him ;--)
Love always,
Paul
I lifted my gaze—-not to look at anything in particular, only because I couldn’t stare for a second longer at those words anymore—-and found Ashley looking in my direction, her face bright red. She must have seen what I was doing, noticed my expression, and thought my anger was targeted at her as the only likely suspect for filching the gift that should have been inside the package.
She thrust the wrist encircled by the bracelet behind her back, then, looking even more sheepish, brought it out again, and pointed to it.
Sorry, she mouthed guiltily, looking anguished. I’ll give it back.
I nearly laughed out loud. Yes, I mouthed back. You will.
But only so I could mail the bracelet back to Paul, with a note advising him that he could take both it and his Valentine and stuff it up his—-
“Are you ready to go?” Jesse asked. Then he noticed the card in my hand. “What’s that?”
“Oh,” I said, and shoved everything—-the card, envelope, and empty jewelry box—-into a nearby pedal bin. “Nothing.”
Jesse seemed bemused as he watched me try to close the lid of the trash bin. I might have been hitting it a little more violently than necessary. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Trust me, it is.” The lid finally went down and stayed down. I straightened. “And yes, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Ocho
“IT LOOKS LIKE the Farhats are having a party.”
“What?”
Jesse’s voice startled me. I’d become hypnotized by the sound of the wipers against the windshield as we’d navigated our way through the flooded streets of Carmel--by--the--Sea, ruminating on how in the course of one evening, I’d had funerary planters thrown at me, ruined a perfectly good marriage proposal, been stalked by an ex, and caused a catastrophic weather event in Northern California.
Surprisingly, this wasn’t the worst Valentine’s Day of my life.
“I said, it looks like the Farhats are having a party.”
It did, actually. The house at the address Parisa had given us was on a seaside road so exclusive, the homes there listed in the high seven figures (when they went on sale at all, which was rarely). The Farhats’ sprawling place was lit up as brightly as a toy store on Christmas Eve, and bouquets of heart--shaped, helium--filled balloons—-now looking a bit bedraggled in the rain—-dotted the fence, punctuating the line of cars all down the long driveway, stretching out onto the street.
Evidently the Farhats weren’t going to let the weather—-or the death of a beloved teenage cousin—-spoil their good time.
“Good,” I said. “We can go in like we were invited. Too bad we didn’t bring that bottle of sparkling wine. It would have been a nice hostess gift, to throw them off.”
Jesse pulled into a space as close as he could get to the house, though we were still going to be soaked as we made our way in.
“That’s one of the many things I love about you, Susannah,” he said. “You’re always so polite to the parents of the kids you’ve unintentionally set up to be murdered.”
“It’s just the way I was raised.”
I checked my reflection in the sun visor’s vanity mirror, and saw that my eyeliner, lip gloss, and hair were in order, though they’d soon be ruined by the rain, despite the fact that there was an umbrella in the backseat, and I had every intention of using it. This wasn’t that kind of rain. It was the mean, sideways--slanting kind.
“Shall we?” I asked.
“Let’s.”
Bursting into parties to which I wasn’t invited—-but acting as if I had every right in the world to be there—-is another one of my many gifts. It’s basically all about confidence—-and having the right shoes, of course. If you have the right shoes, you can do anything.
And I had on my favorite shoes, a pair of black leather platform boots with a steel--reinforced toe and chunky heel that basically screamed, This girl is not to be messed with. I don’t know why Mark Rodgers hadn’t been intimidated.
It helped also that I walked into the Farhats party with Jesse at my side. He’s so tall and handsome and—-it must be admitted—-otherworldly looking, despite living in this world now, -people can’t help staring and wondering if they’ve seen him before. (They have. He looks just like every mid--nineteenth century romantic Spanish poet or soldier or ship captain who died tragically just after having his portrait painted by some artist who was besotted with him. Everyone’s seen pictures like these hanging in museums or in some mansion on a show on PBS or something).