Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

“Tell that to Freddy Weiss,” I say. Freddy Weiss who will never walk again, never drive again, never pick up his kids again. All because of my mistake. And my inability to fix it.

“Go to sleep, káulochírilo. Uncle Billygoat’ll watch over you.”

I believe him. But it still takes me a long time to get back to sleep.

Chapter 7

I rise from behind my desk to shake the hand of my last appointment of the day. Michelle Palladino. Recently widowed. Desperate to have her dead husband’s child. He had a heart condition; they were careful and had his sperm frozen. She had I.V.F. after his death, only to discover that the fertilized eggs wouldn’t implant. Nothing medically wrong, no tumors or uterine synechia. But no babies, either.

She’s so desperate, she tells me, she’s considering going to India to see if she can hire a surrogate.

“So you’ll start with Dr. Hua on Thursday,” I say. “Two sessions with Dr. Hua and then we’ll get you going on the herbal therapy as well.”

Her eyes are wet as she shakes my hand. “And you’re sure this will—”

I smile gently, both at her and at the balding ghost that hovers behind her. “I’m sure we can help.”

She smiles back, a tremulous smile. But a hopeful one.

When she leaves, I sit down to dictate a note for Lin. Mrs. Palladino’s problem is only partly physical. Probably genetic. Failure of the progesterone receptors or something. The magic milk should fix that. But the other part is that Mrs. Palladino is still grieving, still carrying her dead husband’s ghost around with her. She needs to lay the dead before she can bear the living. And that’s something that a few sessions with Lin’s needles might be able to fix.

My phone rings as I pick up the Dictaphone.

I glance at it. It’s well past five; Evonne will have gone home, and our night answering service should be picking up. With a shrug, I pick it up. Maybe Evonne’s working late.

“Hello?”

Dead air. I’m about to put the phone down when I hear a whisper.

“Please . . .”

The small hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Hello? Hello, is someone there?”

Another whisper, even fainter. “Please . . . make it stop . . .”

“Hello?”

A click and then a male voice. “Hi, Tsara, it’s Peter. Peter Buselli. Do you remember? We, uh, spoke the other day.”

And he was supposed to call back after his ten o’clock class but didn’t. I blink at the phone several times before I find my voice. “Oh, yes. Hi, Peter. How are you?”

“Well, you know, it’s funny you should ask. I’m starving. And I’m standing outside your office, and there’s a really great looking pizza place down the street . . .”

I roll my eyes, but twist to peer through the blinds to see if he really is outside. A man in jeans and a padded vest is standing in front of the clinic, talking into his cell phone and leaning on a battered Toyota. “I thought you wanted to avoid another blind date,” I say.

“Is that you peeking out through the blinds?”

“Um-hum. Is that you stalking me?”

He laughs, that nice masculine laugh. “Ro gave me your address. Look, I brought this huge pile of notes.” He reaches through the Toyota’s open window and pulls out a thick binder that he brandishes. “We can go through it while we eat.”

“I thought it was Ro you owed dinner.”

“I didn’t say I was picking up the tab.” He chuckles. “But if you bring the original of that letter you sent me, I’ll go halvsies.”

“Is that a bribe?”

Another laugh. “Whatever works.”

“Okay. Give me a minute.”

I hang up and go make my excuses to Lin.

Peter Buselli isn’t anything I expect. My college professors were uniformly middle-aged, balding, paunchy academics. Peter’s in his early thirties. August-sky blue eyes peep out from under a dark wave of hair that he’s constantly pushing back from his forehead. It’s an affected gesture, but on him, it’s endearing and entirely forgivable. He has me laughing all through a large pizza with the works and two beers. Where was he when I was in college?

And his behind looks great in his jeans. Really great. When he goes to the counter for the second round of beers, I have to tear my eyes away forcibly. Omigod. I can see why Rowena had a thing with him. The question is, how much of a thing. And is it still a thing on Peter’s end?

When we finish the pizza, he reaches into the pocket of his vest and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Can I?” he asks sheepishly. “It’s my one vice.”

God, he’s cute. Even for a smoker.

“Sure.” I’ll scrub my lungs out with some ma huang later.

“Thanks. You get so many militant anti-smokers these days.” He lights up and, considerately, blows his smoke towards the ceiling. “So, you want to talk about this ring?”

“Okay.” But I’m reluctant to turn to business. Peter’s funny and sexy with those blue eyes and little-boy charm and it would be so much nicer to forget why he came and just pretend this is a date. A real date. With no messiness and no complications. Just two people enjoying each other’s company and the tummy-tickling spark of initial attraction.

But Manny Goldberg’s counting on me. And this isn’t a real date. And everything in my life is messy and complicated.

I sigh and reach for the binder he’s set on the edge of the table.

“Oh, no, let me. I wouldn’t want you to have to decipher my chicken scratch.” He grins and long dimples appear.

I squirm in my seat.

He opens the binder and flips a few pages of handwritten notes to a Xerox. He turns the binder around so I can see.

“There. That’s the best picture of it I could find.”

In the middle of the page is a line drawing of a huge ring. The top of the ring is set with a black stone, engraved with two interlocking triangles. A hexagram.