Grilling the Subject Read Free Page B

anxiety.
    â€œTraitor,” I muttered.
    â€œConcerned friend.”
    â€œTrust those feelings, Jenna, dear.” Aunt Vera studied my neckline. “Where’s the white quartz necklace I gave you?” Quartz, according to my aunt, could dispel negative energy and purify one’s mental and physical planes. She expected me to wear it nonstop.
    â€œOn the counter in my bathroom. Soaking.”
    â€œSoaking?”
    â€œI touched the chain after I’d poured honey into my tea earlier. It was sticky.”
    Aunt Vera raised an eyebrow. “Why do you even try to fib, dear?”
    â€œI’m not fibbing.”
    Her eyes sparkled with humor. “Your lower lip gives you away every time. C’mon. The truth shall set you free.” She rubbed the phoenix amulet she always wore. I resisted, but the force was strong within her.
    â€œOkay, fine.” She was right; I was pretty lousy at lying. “I took it off for my shower and forgot to replace it.” I got too involved choosing the right outfit. Red or blue top? Skirt or trousers? I opted for a halter dress with bold blue stripes.
    â€œThere, now. Don’t you feel better? You should—”
    Twang. Crackle.
    â€œWhat the heck was that?” I tossed the knife onto the cutting board and raced to the patio.
    Bailey and my aunt followed.
    My silver-haired father with movie-star good looks was standing at the railing, a cordless telephone in one hand, binoculars in the other. The sun was setting along the horizon, its rays highlighting him in a happy golden glow, but myfather looked anything but happy. In fact, his square jaw was vibrating with rage. “Answer, dang it!” He was peering down the hill toward the next tier of homes.
    â€œDad, was that an electric guitar?” I asked.
    He didn’t answer. He started yelling into the phone: “Lady, you have no right!”
    Lola, a shapely woman in her sixties and the same petite size as Bailey with the same short hairstyle although hers was silver, stood beside my father. Despite her size, she could be fearless. She tried to wrest the telephone from my father’s hand. “Cary, please. Don’t.”
    â€œWho is he screaming at?” I asked.
    â€œSylvia Gump,” Lola replied while trying to gain control of the cordless phone.
    Sylvia owned Sterling Sylvia, a specialty shop that offered everything from high-end jewelry to silver cookbook holders and bookmark clips. Customers had to make appointments to see Sylvia. I knew a few women who came from as far away as New York to buy her designs. Sylvia had a passion for cooking and was a regular customer at The Cookbook Nook.
    â€œYeah, you heard me right, Sylvia,” my father went on. I had never seen him so openly angry. He was usually an ace at keeping his emotions hidden. “We’re building fences to keep you out, do you hear me? That’s right,
we
. You’ve done enough damage. You—” He paused, listening. “Oh yeah? Well, you can burn in hell, too!”
    â€œCary, no!” Lola finally won the battle and whisked the telephone away. She stabbed the Off button. “Honestly!”
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Aunt Vera demanded.
    â€œJudge for yourself.” My father pointed down the hill.
    About fifty yards away, at the bottom of my father’s property on a stretch of what appeared to be uncultivated land, a group of musicians was setting up amplifiers. They looked about the size of beetles, the bug kind. A musician strummed his electric guitar, and electricity popped again.
Twang. Crackle.
    â€œAre caterers setting up a barbecue?” I asked.
    â€œNot if I can help it,” my father muttered. “That shrew.”
    Sylvia’s house was directly below my father’s and was so large it dwarfed the size of all the others in the neighborhood. She had made additions every other year for the past five years, or so I’d heard: an extra