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“Poor woman’s an absolute wreck and still she donates the clothes off her rack. How could you refuse?” Cal gave me privacy to change.
“So you’re Stephen’s little sister?” I asked, knotting my jeans and shirt in a plastic bag she’d provided. “Forgive me for saying, but you look nothing alike.”
“My parents couldn't get pregnant. Of course, less than a year after they'd brought him home, here comes the queen." She pulled a few black hairs off her brush and handed it to me. “Flea-free.”
I laughed and started at my knots.
“Lipstick?” she continued, testing a matte pink in the mirror. “I’m an excellent applicator.”
“Not now.”
She blew a kiss.
“The sheriff calls you Mrs. Finn. Is there a Mr. Finn?”
“We’re in the process of finalizing the divorce papers.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. My lesser half ditched us for a job with the Vatican museum. It’ll be rough going forward solo, worse without Stephen to act as Aiden’s substitute father figure. He’s got a devil of a mother already; where’s he gonna find balance? Stephen was our GPS. Whenever I’d strayed too far he’d be there with directions on how to get home and attractions to visit along the way. We were a team, him and I, more than I ever was with my husband.” Her eyes were soft, downcast. “I’m not ready to spend forever missing him.”
With all that’d been dug up recently, my heart stirred. Setting aside the brush, I felt close to tears myself.
Cal, hands limp in her lap, jumped when my fingertips brushed her shoulder.
“In ancient periods, artists often portrayed morality through musculature and form. From what I’ve known of Stephen, he seems every bit a hero of old.”
Her smile wavered. “He was.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got Aaju now to watch over Aiden, at least while he’s in the house.” I armed her with all the knowledge I possessed about the dolls, then steered the conversation toward a pack curiosity of mine: had Stephen’s death made her the alpha?
“Evie refused to take his place on the grounds she’s got no blood or bone left in the pack to justify ruling. Like I have time for her noble shit with a pup to raise and a business to run. I was the adviser telling Stephen which strings to pull when. Now I'm the ear everyone whispers into. I can’t even plan his service without thirty emails claiming to know his favorite hymn.”
“You’ll get through,” I said, unsure what more to add.
She pulled a fuzzy off my dress. “Life changes more than werewolves do.”
“Was Stephen born a werewolf? Are there adoption agencies for the supernatural?”
“Yes, there are, but no, he wasn’t. Adopting humans is frowned upon in the Otherworld, but my parents knew his birthmother. He grew up knowing what we were and had a choice when he was old enough to understand.”
“What if he’d chosen human?”
She sighed. “Society rules might appear unkind under the microscope, but they work. Doesn’t mean I hate sheriffs any less. Life’s one complicated bitch. We’ve a few of those in the pack as well. Shall we meet them?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, mind your fingers, Marcy. It is lunch time." Laughing, she took my arm. “Joking, sugar. We're all house-trained and good around other animals.”
???
Calico had paid a small fortune for her kitchen. Sixteen foot ceiling with a nifty office loft and enormous windows to draw in the beauty of the orchard. Marble counter-tops, a kitchen range and hood from a company whose low end appliances sold for more than my college tuition, custom tile— every element, from the handcrafted ceramic fruit bowl to the live edge oak table, indicated an appreciation of craftmanship.
As she poured two glasses of chardonnay to ‘calm our nerves,’ I caught sight of a Caravaggio that hadn’t seen the open market for fifty years. There was nothing I dared do in the current moment, and from her smile Calico knew it.
“Some fakes are worthy of their own extensive provenance. Wouldn’t you agree, Marcy?”
Art dealer, indeed.
