“Somebody with brains. You know he’s got brains,” he added for the benefit of the true civilians in the area. “I heard since I left, they gave Riley my old job. Hey, Riley!” Stan popped off the bench. “I was just telling Josie here that those guys in her shop, they should be—”
“Nice to see you, too, Stan.” They shook hands. “But Josie’s the one I need to talk to.”
My stomach clutched. And not because I get anxious talking to those in authority or anything.
Let me explain. See, after my divorce, my friends and neighbors decided to do me a favor and get me out and dating again. Only it wasn’t exactly a favor. And not because I was pining for Kaz or anything. I mean, sure, there are times I still think about that honeymoon in Barbados and . . .
Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about friends who fix up their friend and they think they’re doing this fabulous thing for her, only they never stop to think that the friend they’re trying to help is a button nerd who doesn’t get out much, and always has her nose in a book about buttons or is writing an article about buttons for the local or the national button society newsletters or is busy studying the buttons she already owns or dreaming about the ones she’d like to get her hands on. That means that friend isn’t very good at discussing the weather or current events or . . . well, or much of anything except buttons.
The accountant Adele Cruikshank fixed me up with? He didn’t notice; he was even more boring than me.
The advertising executive my ex-sister-in-law insisted was just right for me? He talked so much that he didn’t have a chance to find out how dull I was.
As for the guys Stan found for me . . .
Well, no big surprise there. The guys Stan arranged for me to meet were always cops, and cops are hard-charging, quick thinking, and macho. The last thing they want to hear about is buttons. I did a couple quick mental calculations (which was pretty impressive considering my current emotional state), and figured out that thanks to Stan, I had had three such dates from hell.
And none was more horrible, more uncomfortable, and more downright disastrous than the one I had with Nevin Riley.
The curt nod he sent my way gave me a quick moment of hope—he didn’t remember. No such luck. Cops have steel-trap minds. Which means Nevin remembered, all right—the long, uncomfortable silences in the restaurant, the couple times I brought up buttons, his resulting attempts to change the subject, fast. I wondered if he also remembered that phone call he got just as the pizza came to the table, the call I knew was a setup. Sure, he claimed it was so important, he had to cut our date short and get back to the office, but I knew better. Nevin Riley couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“Ms. Giancola.” Nevin is a tad over six feet tall and has a runner’s body, lean and athletic. He gave me a cursory once-over and took a small leather notebook out of the pocket of his charcoal-gray suit. “You found the body?”
So much for small talk. But then, I guess he remembered I wasn’t very good at it anyway.
I nodded. “We had an appointment, Kate and I and—”
He stopped me with a quick shake of his head that mussed his shaggy, sandy-colored hair.
“Is there some place we can talk? Alone?”
This was not a come-on and I knew it. For one thing, he’d run out on our one and only date with nothing more than a flimsy excuse. For another, he’d never called after that one, awful date, so I guess it was pretty clear that Nevin wasn’t interested. For a third . . . Well, I’m logical enough to know he couldn’t take the chance of my statement contaminating what anyone else had to say. Of course we had to talk alone.
I guess Dr. Levine was paying more attention than I thought. Typing with one hand, he pointed across the street to his office. “Door’s unlocked,” he said, fingers flying. No doubt, the fact that
“Nice to see you, too, Stan.” They shook hands. “But Josie’s the one I need to talk to.”
My stomach clutched. And not because I get anxious talking to those in authority or anything.
Let me explain. See, after my divorce, my friends and neighbors decided to do me a favor and get me out and dating again. Only it wasn’t exactly a favor. And not because I was pining for Kaz or anything. I mean, sure, there are times I still think about that honeymoon in Barbados and . . .
Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about friends who fix up their friend and they think they’re doing this fabulous thing for her, only they never stop to think that the friend they’re trying to help is a button nerd who doesn’t get out much, and always has her nose in a book about buttons or is writing an article about buttons for the local or the national button society newsletters or is busy studying the buttons she already owns or dreaming about the ones she’d like to get her hands on. That means that friend isn’t very good at discussing the weather or current events or . . . well, or much of anything except buttons.
The accountant Adele Cruikshank fixed me up with? He didn’t notice; he was even more boring than me.
The advertising executive my ex-sister-in-law insisted was just right for me? He talked so much that he didn’t have a chance to find out how dull I was.
As for the guys Stan found for me . . .
Well, no big surprise there. The guys Stan arranged for me to meet were always cops, and cops are hard-charging, quick thinking, and macho. The last thing they want to hear about is buttons. I did a couple quick mental calculations (which was pretty impressive considering my current emotional state), and figured out that thanks to Stan, I had had three such dates from hell.
And none was more horrible, more uncomfortable, and more downright disastrous than the one I had with Nevin Riley.
The curt nod he sent my way gave me a quick moment of hope—he didn’t remember. No such luck. Cops have steel-trap minds. Which means Nevin remembered, all right—the long, uncomfortable silences in the restaurant, the couple times I brought up buttons, his resulting attempts to change the subject, fast. I wondered if he also remembered that phone call he got just as the pizza came to the table, the call I knew was a setup. Sure, he claimed it was so important, he had to cut our date short and get back to the office, but I knew better. Nevin Riley couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“Ms. Giancola.” Nevin is a tad over six feet tall and has a runner’s body, lean and athletic. He gave me a cursory once-over and took a small leather notebook out of the pocket of his charcoal-gray suit. “You found the body?”
So much for small talk. But then, I guess he remembered I wasn’t very good at it anyway.
I nodded. “We had an appointment, Kate and I and—”
He stopped me with a quick shake of his head that mussed his shaggy, sandy-colored hair.
“Is there some place we can talk? Alone?”
This was not a come-on and I knew it. For one thing, he’d run out on our one and only date with nothing more than a flimsy excuse. For another, he’d never called after that one, awful date, so I guess it was pretty clear that Nevin wasn’t interested. For a third . . . Well, I’m logical enough to know he couldn’t take the chance of my statement contaminating what anyone else had to say. Of course we had to talk alone.
I guess Dr. Levine was paying more attention than I thought. Typing with one hand, he pointed across the street to his office. “Door’s unlocked,” he said, fingers flying. No doubt, the fact that
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