Wanted Wed or Alive: Thyme's Wedding by Melissa F. Miller

Author:Melissa F. Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940759425
Publisher: Brown Street Books
Published: 2019-09-24T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Sage

Rosemary’s pacing, back and forth, back and forth, in front of Fake Thyme’s mantle and gas fireplace. As Dad would say if he were here, she’s wearing a path in the carpet.

“Anything?” I ask, even though I know the answer is no. I’m leaning against the wall all of about three feet away from her path. If her text notification sounds, I’ll hear it.

Her eyes are glued to her phone’s screen, as if her sheer concentration is enough to will a text from Thyme into existence. She doesn’t answer me or even give any indication that she heard me.

This isn’t good. I leave her to her back-and-forth loop and go off in search of Dave and Roman. Mainly, Dave, to be honest. Because if anyone can deal with Rosemary in her intense state, I hope it’s Dave.

I find them in the garage. If you can call the space a garage. ‘Garage’ more or less suggests that the space is devoted to storing a vehicle, maybe some yard tools, a lawnmower, bicycles, holiday decorations—the usual. I suppose a workbench or other hobbyist gear would also fit within the traditional definition of a garage.

But this … is not that.

The space is spotless. The concrete floor is swept clean and painted a glossy white. The walls are lined floor to ceiling on three sides with shelving. And I’m not talking about the wire racks available at the big box home improvement stores. This place looks like a retail warehouse ate a smaller retail warehouse and vomited up the contents. These are heavy-duty shelves. They’re deep, solid, and jam-packed with items. The center of the garage—the spot where one would typically find a car—holds a long white counter. A cash register and a rack full of bags anchors one end of the counter. I spot shelves behind the counter that hold neat stacks of cash register tape, a credit card reader, that stiff white paper used to wrap fragile items, bubble wrap, packing tape, clear tape, and twine. The counter is highlighted by warm recessed lighting.

“What in the …?” I trail off, unable to even form a suitable question.

Roman laughs. “Crazy, right?”

“Is this … Santa’s workshop? Or wrapping station?” I finally manage.

Dave throws his hands up. “It might as well be. But, no, apparently it’s Thyme’s Time to Shop.”

“Pardon?”

He edges past me and picks up a roll of preprinted stickers. The circular labels all read ‘Thyme’s Time to Shop’ in a fussy pink script. The font, more than anything else related to the theft of my baby sister’s identity, seems to be the ultimate affront.

“See?”

“Uh. Oh-kay?”

Roman makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the shelving and its contents. “She was selling all this stuff. Out of her garage, apparently.”

I survey the rows and rows of plastic tubs. “What is it?”

“Mainly leggings.”

“Pardon?” I realize I sound like a hard-of-hearing parrot, but my brain isn’t quite able to take in the information it’s receiving. It’s kind of disorienting.

“Leggings. Really soft, colorful leggings.” Roman’s voice holds a hint of longing.

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