Dreaming Of The Bones

“I’m not. You’ve had him out all day and Holly’s pining for him. I can’t bear listening to her whine another second. Humor me.” Hazel crossed the room to Kincaid and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Mmmm, you smell lovely. Nice shirt, too,” she added, rubbing a bit of the sleeve fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, Hazel. I’m sure that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

It was Gemma’s favorite shirt, a fine-textured dark blue denim that made Kincaid’s gray-blue eyes look uncompromisingly blue. The realization that he’d worn it to visit Vic made her temperature start rising again.

“Auntie Hazel!” Toby darted into the room and clung to Hazel’s leg like a limpet. “Are we going to watch The Lion King?” He made growling noises and pranced round them, king of the jungle.

“I suppose you are,” said Gemma, giving in gracefully. “We’ll get no peace otherwise, now.” She tousled his fair hair.

“You, too, Mummy,” he demanded. “You watch, too.”

“No, sweetheart, I—”

“Do, Gemma,” Kincaid broke in. “I’ve got to go, anyway. It’s been a long day, and we’ve an early start in the morning.” He retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair, gave Gemma a quick kiss that just missed the corner of her mouth, then knelt and held out a palm for Toby to slap, saying, “See ya, sport.” At the door he turned back. “’Bye, Hazel. Gemma, see you at the Yard first thing, all right?” He smiled at them and slipped out.

Gemma and Hazel stared at each other as the echo of the door closing died away, then they heard the distant sputter of the Midget’s engine.

“Gemma, love, did I do something wrong?” asked Hazel, frowning. “Put my foot in somehow?”

Gemma shook her head wordlessly, then managed a strangled, “Of all the bloody cheek…”

Assessing the situation, Hazel said, “I think it’s time for a bit of female bonding. I vote we move the party. What do you say, Gemma?” Seeming to take Gemma’s nod for acquiescence, she shepherded her and Toby out the door.

The garage flat stood at a right angle to the Cavendish’s Victorian house, below and behind its garden. Gemma locked the flat’s yellow door, then they climbed the steps that led up from the garage forecourt. Squeezing through the iron gate, they picked their way along the flagged garden path in the dark, Toby leading as comfortably as a cat. The flat’s windows were now at a level with Gemma’s knees, and glancing down, she could see through the half-open slanted blinds. Empty, the flat looked serene in its simplicity, yet lived in, and with a jab of awareness Gemma realized how much she loved it. To her it represented escape from the conventional, semidetached life she’d been expected to embrace—and independence, for she could afford it without help and without strain.

Toby reached Hazel’s back door first and let himself in, as at home here as he was in his own flat. Gemma, trailing, entered the kitchen to find Hazel’s husband, Tim, stirring something on the cooker, and the children chanting, “Chocolate, chocolate,” like little demons. Hazel referred to them as Night and Day, for blue-eyed Toby’s fair hair was straight, and Holly had inherited her mother’s curls, along with her father’s dark hair and eyes.

A clinical psychologist, Hazel had taken leave from her practice to care for her small daughter, and had soon insisted on taking Toby as well—on the grounds that two were much easier to entertain than one. She charged Gemma the going rate for child-minding—though Gemma suspected this had more to do with salving her pride than Hazel’s financial gain—and never seemed fazed by the demands of the boisterous three-year-olds.

“Fancy a milky drink while we watch the video, Gemma?” Tim flashed her a welcoming smile, just visible through his dark beard.

Giving her husband an affectionate pat as she passed, Hazel said, “I think Gemma and I will join you in a bit, love. We’ve a weekend’s worth of gossip to catch up on.” She moved efficiently about the kitchen, fetching mugs, spoons, and the Cadbury tin.

After removing a broken crayon and a naked baby doll, Gemma sank into her usual chair at the kitchen table. It seemed impossible not to relax in this room—Gemma had often told Hazel that its essence should be bottled and sold as a sedative. She looked about her, noting the details, deliberately letting their familiarity calm her. Colorful cookery books vied with Hazel’s knitting wool for space on the worktops, a basket filled with toys and picture books stood next to the Aga, and the braided rug on the floor invited games of make-believe beneath the table. Even the sponged peach walls and dusty-green cabinets added comforting warmth.

“I was going to offer you coffee and fresh strudel,” Hazel said to Gemma when she’d dispatched Tim into the sitting room with a tray, children in tow. “But let’s open that bottle of Riesling I’ve been saving for you instead. You look as though you could do with a medicinal drink.”