These thoughts are interrupted by Quinn. “I haven’t asked,” she says. “But how’s it going with Colin?”
My best friend adores Colin and doesn’t much care for Josh. She wishes I’d just hurry up and choose the guy she likes, settle down, and produce a playmate for Abby.
“Good,” I say, only to think of his beautiful new partner, Miriam. “He’s just been really busy at work.” Did this sudden new busyness coincide with Miri’s arrival?
My response must be off because Quinn tilts her head. “Oh yeah?”
“Well, he has a new partner,” I say. “Who looks like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.” I’m embarrassed to even admit this is an issue. But it is. How could it not be? Miriam—Miri—is beyond gorgeous.
Quinn takes a sip of wine. “Oh yeah. Have you talked to her?”
I nod. “She seems very nice,” I admit.
My best friend studies me. “Colin’s crazy about you,” she says. “But it’s got to be tough for him.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well, you haven’t committed. You’re still seeing Josh, aren’t you?”
I think of my last conversation with Josh, the night before last, after I finally left Daphne’s. He’d sounded annoyed and told me we’d make it another night. I ended up eating cereal standing up in my kitchen, feeling guilty for missing our date and put out by his lack of concern. I don’t usually bail at the last minute. He must have known it was important yet asked nothing.
Again, my best friend must detect something in my response—or lack thereof—because she looks thoughtful. “Trouble there?”
I hope that’s not a hopeful glint in her eyes, but suspect it is. Quinn finds Josh self-absorbed—and maybe some part of me does too. Other parts, however, feel a buzz whenever he’s close. Beyond his success and good looks, there’s just something about him. You can’t buy chemistry. Can you?
“We haven’t talked since the night we were meant to come here,” I admit.
Quinn swallows her last gulp of wine. “Colin had your back that night,” she says. “Coming over to look for Daphne.”
I know she’s right but don’t want to hear it. “Dessert?” I say, to change the subject.
It takes a minute to catch Jean-Luc’s attention. He doesn’t even ask if Quinn wants dessert but just hands her a menu and steps back, lest she jump him. I take a menu too. Being naturally skinny, I eat dessert whenever I want. Plus I’m hungry. Quinn stole most of my dinner.
After deciding—crème brûlée for me, mousse au citron (with extra whipped cream) for Quinn—we sit in silence for some minutes. I’m thinking about Josh and Colin. I know Quinn’s thinking about Abby. When a phone beeps nearby, Quinn’s onto hers like a seagull on a dropped donut. I bet she’s dreading—and hoping—it’s Bruce begging her to come home. Peering at the screen, she looks confused, then crestfallen. “Not mine,” she mutters.
I dig my phone out of my purse to find a message from Josh. My heart lifts.
Hi. Want to go out on the boat tomorrow? There are two little emojis: a sailboat and a smiley face in sunglasses.
“It’s Josh,” I say. “Inviting me out on his yacht, tomorrow.”
Quinn’s full lips tighten. Just two months ago Josh and I were attacked on that very yacht. While boating doesn’t hold great memories for me, Josh runs a yacht charter business. If we do have a future together, I’ll need to get over my misgivings. Josh loves being out on the water.
“I’m going to go,” I tell Quinn.
She nods. But it’s a disapproving nod. For what seems like a long time, she chews. Finally, she swallows. “Where to?” she asks.
shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe a cruise around the Gulf Islands.”
At just that moment the waiter reappears with our desserts. The dishes are tiny but beautifully presented. “This is the chef’s special,” he says, setting my crème brûlée before me. “The raspberry coulis is to die for.”
As Quinn and I dig in, my thoughts return to Gerard and Lukas. What was it Gerard said, about a Sooke cabin?
“Have you been to Sooke recently?” I ask Quinn.
She licks some whipped cream off her spoon and shakes her head. “It’s been a few years. Bruce and I went out to the potholes.” Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Oh, well, Daphne Dane’s got a cottage out there.”
Quinn scoops out another spoonful of yellow mousse. “And?” she says. “What’s going on? Why are you so preoccupied with this cookie lady?”
“I’m not preoccupied,” I say. “Just kind of . . .” I struggle to find the right words. “A little worried. Mostly about my mom.” I think of our most recent conversation: my mom still twittering on about Daphne’s ominous cards. “She wants to file a Missing Person Report . . .”
My best friend licks her lips. “Well, if both you and Ivy feel anxious, maybe there’s something to it.” She chews on her cheek, studying me. “Your mom’s definitely psychic, and you’ve got a bit of it. Maybe you could learn to . . .” She shrugs. “You know? Enhance it.”
I swallow another mouthful of crème brûlée. How does Gerard make it so smooth and creamy? As always, I’m amazed by Quinn’s enthusiasm for my mom’s New Age mumbo jumbo. Crystal therapy. Color healing. Herbal lotions and potions. Quinn’s a scientist. She ought to know better. Quinn knows me well enough to know how I feel about psychics, including and especially my mother.
Seeing my scowl, Quinn laughs. “Ivy’s instincts have been right before.” She scrapes out the last of her mousse. “And so have yours,” she says, pointedly.
I nod. Instincts. I’m okay with that word, and all my instincts say there’s something wrong with the Danes. Too much money and too many grubby hands hoping to reach into the giant pot of Daphne’s fortune.
Sooke isn’t far, less than an hour’s drive westward. It’s practically a bedroom community now, part of Victoria’s ever-expanding suburbs.
I’ll call my mom tonight and see if she knows how to find Daphne’s cabin. Is it on the coast? If Josh and I are going on a boat cruise, we may as well have a destination.
CHAPTER 8:
PORTENTS
My mom’s phone rings twice before she answers in her most chirpy, professional voice: “Ivy Wong’s psychic services. How may I help you?”
I roll my eyes. Shouldn’t she already know? “Hey, it’s me, Mom.”
“Toby!” She sounds pleasantly surprised to hear from me. “How are you?”
“Good. Sorry to call so late,” I say, although it’s actually only ten-past-nine. Quinn scurried out of the restaurant at nine on the dot, desperate to get home to Abby.
I’m in the back of a cab, heading up Fort Street, past rows of twee faux-Tudor shop fronts displaying antiques and old-lady knickknacks. I’m tipsy enough not to mind the cabbie’s Classic Rock radio station. Every second song is the Eagles. Welcome to Victoria—you can check out any time, but damn, it’s hard to leave.