Darkangel

2. Meeting Mr. Wrong-2

Fridays were always fairly busy in Jerome. People came to spend a long weekend, or drove in from neighboring towns to shop and eat and sightsee. So I knew that sitting in my room and brooding over my failure with Mr. Number Forty-Four was not an option. Probably just as well. At least by working in the store I could keep myself occupied until it was time to go out with Sydney.

The shop had once been a general store, but over the last fifteen years my aunt had transformed it into an eclectic space filled with Jerome-related memorabilia, local pottery and baskets, some antiques, books, music, and jewelry. My jewelry, to be exact.

I was about twelve when I first started playing around with stones and settings. It was easy enough to pick up those sorts of things in Jerome, a place inhabited by artists and artisans. Luis Sandoval, a local designer, though not a member of the clan, began to show me how to work with metal — how to use a soldering torch, to set stones, to twist pieces of delicate wire to make intricate and unique settings. Once I’d mastered those skills, I began to experiment with creating pieces based on the resonances of the stones they contained, of making them harmonious as well as beautiful. After that I also began to make talismans, some of which were purchased by tourists who had no idea of their real power, only that they were somehow attracted to them.

Two or three days a week I would work in my studio — well, a converted spare bedroom — and create new pieces to sell in the shop. Friday through Sunday I helped out behind the counter. Working weekends all the time wasn’t much fun, but I owed my aunt that much. Besides, the shop closed at six unless there was a special event going on that would keep people around later at night, so it wasn’t as if being there Saturdays and Sundays seriously impinged on my social life.

Not that I really had much of a social life.

That Friday was especially busy. October in our part of the world was generally mild and lovely, a good time to sightsee and go antiquing and visit the wineries. I didn’t have much of a chance to chat with my aunt that day, which maybe was just as well. Telling her about a new and somehow frightening twist in my dreams of the mystery man would only make her that much more worried. And what could she do about it? She was a powerful witch in her own right, and had kept me safe for more than twenty years, but even she didn’t have the ability to prevent the dreams from forming.

So I smiled at the tourists, and pulled earrings and pendants and the odd talisman out of the showcases as requested, then escaped at noon to grab some lunch. At twelve-thirty my aunt went to get some lunch, then came back at one, just as we always did. Something in her features seemed troubled, as if she’d seen worry surface in my expression, despite my attempts to act as if everything was fine. Luckily, she didn’t ask any questions. Maybe she would later; the store was way too public to be discussing anything remotely sensitive, and she knew it.

It seemed that she didn’t want to do anything to upset my evening out with Sydney, though. We went home, made a few comments about it being a good day, and then she headed to her own room to primp a little before Tobias showed up to take her to dinner. That was their own ritual — she might cook for him the rest of the week, but on Friday nights he always took her out. Most of the time they stayed right here in Jerome, although occasionally they’d head down into Cottonwood or even Sedona if they wanted something different.

I changed out of my T-shirt and Levi’s into a tighter pair of jeans and a slinky dark green top that Sydney had picked out for me as a birthday present last year. My footwear consisted of cowboy boots and work boots for the winter and flip-flops for the summer, so I had to make do with cowboy boots, but at least they were pointy and shiny black and looked good with the jeans tucked into them. Some turquoise jewelry, some lip gloss, and I had to admit I didn’t look half bad. Not runway-model material, that was for sure, but going out on the town in Cottonwood wasn’t quite the same thing as going out in New York or L.A.

Or so I supposed. It wasn’t as if I’d actually been to either of those places, and I guessed I never would.

“I’m leaving,” I called out as I descended the stairs. “Taking the Jeep!”

“Don’t be too late,” was her reply, but she didn’t emerge from her room.

Considering the shows at Main Stage didn’t even start until nine-thirty, that was a silly request, but I thought I knew what she was trying to say. Be careful, be vigilant, don’t get a wild hair about driving off to Sedona or anywhere except Cottonwood or maybe Clarkdale.

Like I would. It might have been tempting, but I knew better than to go outside the immediate area without backup. That would change once I had found my consort, but until then my world would have to remain as closely guarded and circumscribed as that of the most sheltered nunnery-raised medieval princess.

I went out the back door to the carport where the Jeep waited. My aunt and I shared it, since it was silly to have two cars when we walked to work and only went down the hill for groceries about once a week. Even so, I always experienced a fleeting sense of freedom when I was able to get away alone, to drive down the winding highway into Cottonwood, even if it was only to get gas or pick up some extra toilet paper or whatever.

The sun had gone down behind Mingus Mountain by the time I pulled into an open space on Main Street in the old-town section of Cottonwood. There weren’t too many of those parking spaces left; the tasting rooms stayed open later on Fridays and Saturdays than they did the rest of the week.

I found Sydney leaning up against the bar in the Fire Mountain Winery tasting room, a position guaranteed to give Anthony, the object of her interest, a really good look at her cleavage. It was working, too; I noticed how he kept having to jerk his eyes upward toward her face. Just past her were a couple in their thirties with a selection of the winery’s offerings in front of them. The woman didn’t look too thrilled with Sydney or Anthony at the moment, and I hoped Sydney’s flirting wouldn’t get him in trouble with his manager.

“Hey, chica,” she said, and waved for me to come stand next to her at the bar. “Nice top.”

“Yes, it is,” I said coolly, and turned toward Anthony. “Hi, Anthony — a glass of the Fire, please.”

“You got it,” he replied, clearly glad to have something to distract him from Sydney’s rack.

“You trying to get that boy fired?” I asked in an undertone, and she just grinned.

“Of course not. I’m just trying to get him to ask me out.”

“You know, you could ask him.”

“Hell, no. I’m too old-fashioned for that.”

Since I couldn’t really think of an adequate retort, I settled for sending her a disbelieving stare, at which she only smiled more broadly.

Anthony came back with my glass of wine, giving me the perfect opening. “Hey, Anthony,” I began.

“Yes?”

“What time do you get off work? Because Sydney and I are going over to Main Stage after dinner tonight. Want to come hang out?”

Sydney raised her eyebrows and gave me her best “oh, no, you didn’t” stare, even as Anthony replied, “We close at nine, so I should be able to make it by nine-thirty.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Meet us there?”

“Sure.” He was trying hard to sound casual, but I could tell he was looking forward to it.

At that moment the man from the couple next to Sydney waved Anthony over, so he was spared having to make any other comment.

“What the hell?” Sydney whispered fiercely.

“Well, he’s too shy to make the first move, and you’re just being stupid with that whole ‘old-fashioned’ thing, so I took care of it for you.”

“Oh, really? And what if he thinks he’s going there to meet you and not me?”

“He isn’t,” I told her. “He didn’t look at my chest once.”

She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

It was my turn to grin. “Well, I try to be.”