I squirm in my chair. Why my ears are getting hot, I don’t know. I’m not the type to be unsettled by a handsome face. “Maybe I remind him of someone he doesn’t like.”
“Or maybe you’re an idiot.”
I’m not, though. His wasn’t a look of lust. It was more like I owe him money.
The waiter returns with another round for us, and Sloane orders guac and chips. As soon as he’s out of earshot, she sighs. “Oh no. Here comes Diane Myers.”
Diane’s the town gossip. She probably holds the world record for never shutting the fuck up.
Having a conversation with her is like being subjected to water torture: it goes on and on in a constant, painful drip until eventually, you crack and lose your mind.
Without bothering to say hello, she pulls up an empty chair from the table behind us, sits down next to me, and leans in, engulfing me in the scent of lavender and mothballs.
In a hushed voice, she says, “His name is Kage. Isn’t that strange? Like a dog cage, but with a K. I don’t know, I just think it’s a very odd name. Unless you’re in a band, of course. Or you’re some kind of underground fighter. Whatever the case, in my day, a man had a respectable name like Robert or William or Eugene or such—”
“Who are we talking about?” interrupts Sloane.
Attempting to look nonchalant, Diane jerks her head a few times in the direction of where the stranger sits. Her shellacked gray curls quiver. “Aquaman,” she says in a stage whisper.
“Who?”
“The man by the window who looks like that actor in the movie Aquaman. What’s-his-name. The big brute who’s married to the girl who was on The Cosby Show.”
“Are you talking about Jason Momoa?”
“That’s it,” says Diane, nodding. “The Samoan.”
Sloane rolls her eyes. “He’s Hawaiian.”
Diane looks puzzled. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
Grateful I’ve got a full glass of wine, I take a big swig of it.
“Whatever,” says Diane. “They’re all large brown people is my point. Quite handsome, in a native sort of way. Of course you can’t trust those island types. They’re used to living free like gypsies, wandering around in their raggedy caravans and never wearing shoes. I just feel so sorry for the children. Raised like wild animals. Imagine!”
I wonder what she’d do if I dumped my glass of wine over her hideous perm? Shriek like a startled Pomeranian, probably.
Picturing it is oddly satisfying.
Meanwhile, she’s still talking.
“…very, very odd that he paid in cash. The only people who keep that kind of cash handy are up to no good. Don’t want the government to know their whereabouts, that kind of thing. What do they call it? Living off the grid? Yes, that’s the expression. On the lam, living off the grid, hiding in plain sight, whatever the case may be, we’re going to have to keep a close eye on this Kage person. A very, very close eye, mind you, especially since he’s living right next door to you, Natalie dear. Make sure you keep everything locked up tight and all the blinds drawn. One can never be too careful.”
I sit up straighter in my seat. “Wait, what? Living next door?”
She stares at me like I’m simpleminded. “Haven’t you been listening? He bought the house next to yours.”
“I didn’t know that house was on the market.”
“It wasn’t. According to the Sullivans, that Kage person knocked on their door one day recently and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. With a briefcase full of money, no less.”
Surprised, I look at Sloane. “Who pays for a house with a briefcase of cash?”
Diane clucks. “You see? It’s all exceedingly strange.”
“When did they move out? I didn’t even know they were gone!”
Diane purses her lips as she looks at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, dear, but you do live in a bit of a bubble. One can’t blame you for being distracted, of course, with what you’ve been through.”
Pity. There’s nothing worse.
I glower at her, but before I can clap back with a smart remark about what I’m about to put her ugly perm through, Sloane interrupts.
“So the hot rich stranger is gonna be living right next door. Lucky bitch.”
Diane tsks. “Oh no, I wouldn’t say lucky. I wouldn’t say that at all! He has the look of a felon, you can’t deny, and if anyone is a good judge of character, why, it’s certainly me. You’ll agree, I’m sure. You remember, of course, that it was I who—”
“Excuse me, ladies.”
The waiter interrupts, bless him. He sets the bowl of guacamole on the table, puts a basket of tortilla chips beside it, and smiles. “Are you just having drinks and appetizers tonight, or would you like me to bring you dinner menus?”
“I’ll be drinking my dinner, thank you.”
Sloane sends me a sour glance, then says to the waiter, “We’d like menus, please.”
I add, “And another round.”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
The second he leaves, Diane starts right up again, turning eagerly to me.
“Would you like me to call the police chief to see about having a patrol car come by at night to check on you? I hate the thought of you all alone and vulnerable in that house. So tragic what happened to you, poor thing.”
She pats my hand.
I want to punch her in the throat.
“And now with this unsavory element moving into the neighborhood, you really should be looked after. It’s the least I can do. Your parents were dear, dear friends before they retired to Arizona because of your father’s health. The altitude in our little spot of heaven can be difficult as we get older. Six thousand feet above sea level isn’t for the faint of heart, and god knows, it’s dry as a bone—”
“No, Diane, I don’t want you to call the police to babysit me.”
She looks affronted by my tone. “There’s no need to get huffy, dear, I’m simply trying to—”
“Get all up in my business. I know. Thank you, hard pass.”
She turns to Sloane for support, which she doesn’t find.
“Nat’s got a big dog and an even bigger gun. She’ll be fine.”
Scandalized, Diane turns back to me. “You keep a gun in the house? My goodness, what if you accidentally shoot yourself?”
Looking at her, I deadpan, “I should be so lucky.”
Sloane says, “Actually, since you’re here, Diane, maybe you could weigh in on the discussion Nat and I were having when you came over. We’d love to get your insight on the topic.”
Diane preens, patting her hair. “Why, of course! As you know, I have quite a broad array of knowledge on various issues. Ask away.”
This should be good. I sip my wine, trying not to smile.
With a straight face, Sloane says, “Anal. Yes or no?”
There’s a frozen pause, then Diane chirps, “Oh, look, there’s Margie Howland. I haven’t seen her in ages. I should say hello.”
She rises and hurries off with a breathless “Bye now!”
Watching her go, I say drily, “You know that within twenty-four hours the entire town will think we were sitting here discussing the pros and cons of anal sex, right?”