The Bride Wore Size 12
Page 63
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“He is,” Hal says quickly. “That’s what I mean. Nothing to worry about.”
So why am I only worrying more?
“Great,” I mutter beneath my breath. “I’m the one Cooper’s marrying, but he doesn’t tell me anything. You, the arms dealer, he tells everything.”
“I’m not an arms dealer.” Hal looks hurt. “I would never sell any of these. I’m a collector. I only loan them to special friends. And don’t you think it’s better that someone like me has them than some mutt who’s going to do something terrible with them?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait a minute. Did you just say ‘mutt’? Hal, are you a cop?”
“I . . . used to be,” he says, with his head ducked. I can’t see his eyes, because of the thick glasses, but he appears unhappy. “I don’t really enjoy discussing those days. Could we please concentrate on selecting a weapon for you instead? It would make me very happy. You’re a good shot, you know.”
Now I widen my eyes at him. “I am?”
“I saw you at the practice range,” he says, glancing up shyly. “You shot very accurately, even though you hadn’t had much experience. Many women do, though.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice as he adds, “They tend to have a lighter touch on the grip than men, and more stability in the”—his gaze dips below my waist, and he clears his throat uncomfortably—“lower body area. A lower center of gravity helps with stance.”
I have no idea how to respond to this. “Is that a fact?”
Hal is warming to his subject. “Oh, yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “The only reason you don’t see as many women as men in shooting competitions is because often the women who are the best shots are the ones least interested in pursuing shooting as a sport or hobby. They tend to be like you: they think guns are too violent, or too loud, or are only for criminals, or hunters. That kind of thing. It’s a shame.”
He sighs sadly, and it’s evident in that moment why Hal is still a virgin (if his nickname is accurate): he simply hasn’t found the right girl . . . or is too shy to have opened himself up this candidly in front of her.
“Really,” is all I can think of to say.
I remember the few times I’d reluctantly allowed Cooper to drag me to the shooting range where he and his friends go to practice firing their weapons (something he feels he’s required to do as a licensed gun owner in the state of New York, and also, I suppose, as someone in his line of work). The men had far outnumbered the women there, but there’d definitely been a few women.
One of them had been a bleached blonde wearing head-to-toe pink: pink stilettos, pink minidress, pink hair band, and even pink shooting gloves (to protect her manicure) to go with her pink-handled Ruger. She had fired a perfect heart shape (in bullet holes) around the center of her target from fifty feet away, then lowered her pink-tinted eye protectors, nodded with satisfaction, and walked out, swinging her pink Hello Kitty plastic gun case.
That was the only part of my trip to the gun range that I’d enjoyed. I’d mentioned to Cooper that I’d go with him more often if I could have an outfit color-coordinated with my gun, like the pink lady, but I’d been kidding.
So it isn’t completely out of the blue that Cooper has sent Hal over on a mission not only to protect me, but to offer me a weapon with which to protect myself.
Sadly, none of the pistols Hal has on offer are pink. I sigh. I have absolutely no intention of taking a gun to work, but I figure I might as well play along to keep Hal happy.
“Okay. Which one did you think I shot best with?”
Hal looks pleased, and shows me. Once I’m holding the smooth handle in my hand, I remember.
“It’s basically a target pistol,” Hal explains. “Not at all what I or anyone else would recommend as a gun for personal safety. But you seemed to feel comfortable with it—at least, you hit the target pretty much dead to center every time—and at close range it will definitely maim someone, so that’s all that matters.”
“How nice,” I say.
“Also, it will easily fit in your purse or a deep pocket,” Hal goes on, missing my sarcasm. “It only holds nine rounds, but you won’t need more than that. The key is to shoot and get out. Never let anyone take the gun off you. Unless they’re a police officer, of course, in which case you have to surrender it, but then you’ll go to jail because you don’t have a license to own a gun, let alone carry it around the streets of New York City. Otherwise, though, never ever give up your weapon, no matter what.”
“Okay,” I say weakly. Simply holding a weapon outside a shooting range makes me feel a little sick. How does Cooper wear one every day? Maybe Hal is right, and I’m one of those women who is a good shot but simply doesn’t like guns. “Are you sure I’m in enough danger to need this?”
“Well, Cooper seems to think so. And if he thinks so, it must be true.”
It’s kind of funny that just as Hal says this, Lucy, who’s been lying worshipfully at his feet, suddenly lifts her head, her ears perked up. A second later, she’s barking excitedly and racing up the stairs to the first floor, her foxlike tail streaming behind her.
This can only mean one thing, as confirmed when Jessica’s strident voice shouts down the stairs, “Heather! You’d better get up here. Cooper’s home. And you’re not going to believe this.”
26
Hearts and flowers, ribbons and lace,
The look of love upon her face.
A happy heart that’s hard to hide,
This woman is soon to be a bride.
Source unknown
Jessica’s right. I don’t believe it.
Cooper’s coming through the front door, supported around the waist by another one of his bosom pals, Sammy the Schnozz. This is because Cooper’s right foot is swathed in a black-fabric-and-metal cast, from his bare toes all the way up to his knee.
When he turns around as Sammy closes the door behind them, I see that Cooper’s lip is swollen to three times its normal size, and there’s a mouse forming under his left eye as well.
“I’m all right,” he says when he sees the horror on my face, and hears the gasps from his twin sisters. He gently fights off Lucy’s excited leaps with the foot in the cast. “It’s worse than it looks.” He attempts a wink and a boyish grin. Both look painful. “You should see the other guy.”
So why am I only worrying more?
“Great,” I mutter beneath my breath. “I’m the one Cooper’s marrying, but he doesn’t tell me anything. You, the arms dealer, he tells everything.”
“I’m not an arms dealer.” Hal looks hurt. “I would never sell any of these. I’m a collector. I only loan them to special friends. And don’t you think it’s better that someone like me has them than some mutt who’s going to do something terrible with them?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait a minute. Did you just say ‘mutt’? Hal, are you a cop?”
“I . . . used to be,” he says, with his head ducked. I can’t see his eyes, because of the thick glasses, but he appears unhappy. “I don’t really enjoy discussing those days. Could we please concentrate on selecting a weapon for you instead? It would make me very happy. You’re a good shot, you know.”
Now I widen my eyes at him. “I am?”
“I saw you at the practice range,” he says, glancing up shyly. “You shot very accurately, even though you hadn’t had much experience. Many women do, though.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice as he adds, “They tend to have a lighter touch on the grip than men, and more stability in the”—his gaze dips below my waist, and he clears his throat uncomfortably—“lower body area. A lower center of gravity helps with stance.”
I have no idea how to respond to this. “Is that a fact?”
Hal is warming to his subject. “Oh, yes,” he replies enthusiastically. “The only reason you don’t see as many women as men in shooting competitions is because often the women who are the best shots are the ones least interested in pursuing shooting as a sport or hobby. They tend to be like you: they think guns are too violent, or too loud, or are only for criminals, or hunters. That kind of thing. It’s a shame.”
He sighs sadly, and it’s evident in that moment why Hal is still a virgin (if his nickname is accurate): he simply hasn’t found the right girl . . . or is too shy to have opened himself up this candidly in front of her.
“Really,” is all I can think of to say.
I remember the few times I’d reluctantly allowed Cooper to drag me to the shooting range where he and his friends go to practice firing their weapons (something he feels he’s required to do as a licensed gun owner in the state of New York, and also, I suppose, as someone in his line of work). The men had far outnumbered the women there, but there’d definitely been a few women.
One of them had been a bleached blonde wearing head-to-toe pink: pink stilettos, pink minidress, pink hair band, and even pink shooting gloves (to protect her manicure) to go with her pink-handled Ruger. She had fired a perfect heart shape (in bullet holes) around the center of her target from fifty feet away, then lowered her pink-tinted eye protectors, nodded with satisfaction, and walked out, swinging her pink Hello Kitty plastic gun case.
That was the only part of my trip to the gun range that I’d enjoyed. I’d mentioned to Cooper that I’d go with him more often if I could have an outfit color-coordinated with my gun, like the pink lady, but I’d been kidding.
So it isn’t completely out of the blue that Cooper has sent Hal over on a mission not only to protect me, but to offer me a weapon with which to protect myself.
Sadly, none of the pistols Hal has on offer are pink. I sigh. I have absolutely no intention of taking a gun to work, but I figure I might as well play along to keep Hal happy.
“Okay. Which one did you think I shot best with?”
Hal looks pleased, and shows me. Once I’m holding the smooth handle in my hand, I remember.
“It’s basically a target pistol,” Hal explains. “Not at all what I or anyone else would recommend as a gun for personal safety. But you seemed to feel comfortable with it—at least, you hit the target pretty much dead to center every time—and at close range it will definitely maim someone, so that’s all that matters.”
“How nice,” I say.
“Also, it will easily fit in your purse or a deep pocket,” Hal goes on, missing my sarcasm. “It only holds nine rounds, but you won’t need more than that. The key is to shoot and get out. Never let anyone take the gun off you. Unless they’re a police officer, of course, in which case you have to surrender it, but then you’ll go to jail because you don’t have a license to own a gun, let alone carry it around the streets of New York City. Otherwise, though, never ever give up your weapon, no matter what.”
“Okay,” I say weakly. Simply holding a weapon outside a shooting range makes me feel a little sick. How does Cooper wear one every day? Maybe Hal is right, and I’m one of those women who is a good shot but simply doesn’t like guns. “Are you sure I’m in enough danger to need this?”
“Well, Cooper seems to think so. And if he thinks so, it must be true.”
It’s kind of funny that just as Hal says this, Lucy, who’s been lying worshipfully at his feet, suddenly lifts her head, her ears perked up. A second later, she’s barking excitedly and racing up the stairs to the first floor, her foxlike tail streaming behind her.
This can only mean one thing, as confirmed when Jessica’s strident voice shouts down the stairs, “Heather! You’d better get up here. Cooper’s home. And you’re not going to believe this.”
26
Hearts and flowers, ribbons and lace,
The look of love upon her face.
A happy heart that’s hard to hide,
This woman is soon to be a bride.
Source unknown
Jessica’s right. I don’t believe it.
Cooper’s coming through the front door, supported around the waist by another one of his bosom pals, Sammy the Schnozz. This is because Cooper’s right foot is swathed in a black-fabric-and-metal cast, from his bare toes all the way up to his knee.
When he turns around as Sammy closes the door behind them, I see that Cooper’s lip is swollen to three times its normal size, and there’s a mouse forming under his left eye as well.
“I’m all right,” he says when he sees the horror on my face, and hears the gasps from his twin sisters. He gently fights off Lucy’s excited leaps with the foot in the cast. “It’s worse than it looks.” He attempts a wink and a boyish grin. Both look painful. “You should see the other guy.”
