Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] by Alice Duncan

Author:Alice Duncan [Duncan, Alice]
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2011-06-14T20:23:07+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“I think I'm allergic to wool,” Marianne said as I pulled up in front of Grenville's Books.

“Don't throw off the blanket yet,” I advised. “I don't see Harold or Mr. Grenville.”

“But it itches.”

“Then scratch. Don't show yourself until I know what's going on.” I fear my voice reflected my impatience with the girl. Here I was, putting my entire life and freedom on the line--not to mention the good opinion of my husband, if he had such a thing--and she was griping about an itch. “It's wool,” I said, straining to keep my temper in check. “Wool's supposed to itch.”

“I'd make a lousy sheep,” she muttered.

That was a pretty funny comment. I'd have laughed if I hadn't been so all-fired nervous. I was, however, vaguely encouraged to think that Marianne might develop a sense of humor if allowed to remain apart from her father's domineering influence for long enough.

I let the Model T idle at the curb, hoping it wouldn't have to idle for long, because it tended to overheat if it wasn't moving. Actually, it tended to overheat anyway, although its behavior was better in cool weather than it was during the summertime. It was a good thing Marianne had waited until autumn before making her bolt for freedom.

Squinting east down Colorado Street, which was all but deserted on this cool Sunday afternoon, I spotted a low-slung automobile speeding our way. “I think Harold's coming!” I sagged behind the steering wheel, not having realized until that moment exactly how edgy I was.

“Can I come out yet?”

“No. Keep scratching. I've got to talk to Harold about where to take you. I don't see Mr. Grenville anywhere.”

“I hope this works,” Marianne mumbled.

“You and me both.” We'd discussed Harold's plan, and she'd balked at first when she learned that Mr. Grenville was a single gentleman. I didn't tell her that most men were beasts, married or single, because I didn't want to shock her. However, when I'd pointed out that she had no choice in the matter unless she wanted to return to her father's house, she gave up her protests. She was all too eager to give up, actually. It was only fear of her father that had kept her away from home this long.

When I glanced at the woolen lump on the floor, I noticed it was moving in spots, as if Marianne had taken my advice and was scratching her itchy skin. I'm not really heartless; I'd have been glad if the blanket hadn't been made of wool, but gosh, a body can't have everything, can she?

Sure enough, the automobile turned out to be Harold's snazzy, jazzy, bright-red Stutz Bearcat. It was a great motorcar, although I didn't envy Harold too awfully much. A bright-red Bearcat would seriously compromise the image I'd so carefully crafted of myself as a serious spiritualist--if that isn't a contradiction in terms. A sober-hued, closed-in Oldsmobile or Chevrolet would be better for my purposes.

Harold made a U-turn in the middle of Colorado Street.

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