Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes
Page 63

He heard the crack in my voice. “Oh, Rose, don’t cry. I’m so sorry about last night. Of course, I remembered. I remember everything about you, including your list. Please, just give me another chance. I promise to make it up to you.”
I wiped the tears off my cheeks. I’d be an idiot to say yes. I wanted to ask him why he was in my shed the night before, but then he’d know I’d been snooping on him. Why did I have to like him so much?
“Please?” He was begging, desperation clinging to his voice.
It was a public place, what could happen? I’d make him answer my questions and if he didn't answer them to my satisfaction then I'd just avoid him all day Saturday.
“Okay,” I sighed.
I heard his exhale of relief.
“But I’ll meet you there. We’ll go separately.”
“Why? No, never mind. I don't care. How about seven-thirty? I’ll make reservations.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
I hung up, exhausted. There were a million things I needed to do, but I couldn’t face a single one. Instead, I went to bed to take a nap, pulling an afghan over me.
Muffy sat on the floor by the bed and whined. I patted the space beside me. “Come on, Muffy."
I woke up hours later, rested but groggy. For someone not used to naps, I seemed to be getting my fair share. I looked over at the clock. It was six o’clock. I had literally slept the day away.
Unsure whether to dress up or go casual, I decided to go fancy since I might never get the chance again. I wore a red sleeveless dress with a deep V in both the front and back. The slim skirt hit above my knee. I almost hadn’t bought it, wondering where I would wear such a thing. Now I was glad I did. I decided to wear my red lingerie underneath. Might as well go all the way. I flipped the ends of my hair out and put on makeup. After I put on my strappy black heels, I looked into the mirror and felt pretty. No, beautiful. I felt like a princess.
I pulled up to Little Italy right at seven-thirty but didn’t see Joe’s car in the parking lot. I ordered a glass of wine to sip while I waited. And waited. At seven-forty-five, Joe still hadn’t shown up. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, surprised to see a text message Joe sent only a minute earlier. I wondered why I hadn’t heard it ding, and saw it was still on silent.
Can’t make it. Tied up at work. I am so sorry. I’ll make up to you tomorrow. Promise.
I shook my head. Over my dead body. Then I laughed at the irony. Give him a day and it would be.
I couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with me. Two dates and both guys left me stranded in a restaurant. One thing was sure, I wouldn’t go hang out in the bar and get the bartender killed.
The thought made my heart skip. Oh my goodness, had I gotten Sloan killed? Joe had a good point. That was a lot of activity for a small city like Henryetta, all of it having something to do with me. The memory of Daniel at the DMV came back.
“Sloan isn’t your brother, is he?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“He’s a cop, isn’t he?”
Daniel Crocker thought Sloan was a cop and I was somehow involved with him.
Oh my God, I got Sloan killed.
Facing my own death was one thing, but causing the death of someone else was completely different. It made being stood up on a date seem pretty insignificant.
I paid for the glass of wine and left, unsure what to do. I felt drawn to the funeral home. Sloan’s visitation might be tonight. I could pay my respects. It was the least I could do if I really got him killed.
I drove past the building, the parking lot filled with cars. It didn’t mean it was Sloan’s, but I knew one way to check. It was so crowded, I had to pull into the gravel overflow parking. Picking my way through the gravel proved a challenge, considering I wasn’t used to wearing heels. By the time I made it to the paved lot, teetering on asphalt felt like walking in flip-flops.
A sign propped up inside the front door announced that Sloan Chapman occupied the Magnolia Room. The Magnolia Room was the big room, which explained all the cars in the lot. I walked down the hall, making my way around the mourners milling about.
“It’s such a shame,” a woman said to her companion in a hushed tone. “He was such a nice guy.”
I knew that firsthand.
Overdressed for a wake, I attracted more attention than I wanted. When I entered the Magnolia Room, at least four times the size of the Jasmine, I stood toward the rear, getting my bearings. A throng of people gravitated to the front, where an elderly woman stood next to the casket, weeping. A younger woman stood next to her, looking shell-shocked.
I found it hard to believe that a week ago I had been in the same spot.
“Did you know him very well?” The man next to me wore a suit, but he tugged at the collar like he wasn’t used to being dressed up. I guessed him to be around my age.
I shook my head. “No, not really. I only knew him from Jaspers. He was really nice to me.”
“That was Sloan, nice to everyone. He took off to Dallas for several years and came back about six months ago sporting his tattoos and his earrings, but still the same sweet guy. A giant teddy bear.”
What little I knew of Sloan, I believed that. “Why did he come home?” I asked.
“His mom is sick. That’s her up there.” He pointed to the woman up front. “She got breast cancer. Sloan came home to help her out.”
A lump formed in my throat, making it difficult to talk. “I’m so sorry.”