Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [114]
“Well?” he prodded.
“For one thing, I’m older than you.”
“Ex-cuse me?” Roelke hooted with laughter. “Aren’t you the person who scolded me for saying ‘maiden name’ instead of ‘birth name’? And now age is a problem?”
Chloe smoothed a wrinkle in the tablecloth. Agreeing to come this evening had not been one of her better moves, potato pancakes or not.
Libby appeared, and slid into the empty chair. “Sorry I’m late.” She turned to Chloe. “It’s good to see you. You’ve been through the wringer.”
“Kinda.” Chloe stirred her drink, watching the ice cubes whirl.
“So, what were you two bickering about when I got here?” Libby asked.
Roelke smiled. “Whether or not we should go out.”
“You are out, aren’t you?” Libby began filling her plate.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Chloe muttered.
“Chloe thinks I’m too young for her,” Roelke added, sounding a little smug.
“Tell the whole bar, why don’t you?”
Libby rolled her eyes. “You’re both acting like seventh graders.” She grabbed two cocktail napkins and slapped one on the table in front of each of them. “Here. You’ve both been around the block. Write down three pet peeves from past relationships. Things that you can’t live with. Don’t think about it!” she added, as Roelke opened his mouth. “Just do it!” Two pens appeared from the depths of her purse.
Chloe sighed, feeling cornered. Did Markus dumping her because she had a miscarriage qualify as a pet peeve? Probably not. Better to dredge up her pre-Switzerland era. Feeling Libby’s frown, she picked up a pen and scribbled a list.
Roelke wrote quickly, slapped his pen down, and glared at his cousin. Libby snatched both napkins, gave them a quick scan, and handed them off.
Roelke began to read. “One: Leaving the toilet seat up.” He frowned. “Isn’t that a cliché?”
“Not if you find it irritating.”
He returned to her list. “Two: Leaving the TV on as background noise. Three: Being too quick to shut windows and turn on the AC or heat.” He regarded Chloe, gaze inscrutable. “Well, hunh.”
Chloe looked at Roelke’s peeves, written in a tight, slanting hand: “One: Mindless chatter. Two: Foo foo.”
“What’s ‘foo foo’?” she asked, confused by a mental image of the malicious bunny that delighted in scooping up field mice and bopping them on the head.
“You know. Candles that smell. Teddy bears wearing lacy dresses.” Roelke shuddered. “Knick-knacks.”
“Got it.” Chloe looked back down at the list in her hand. “Three: Pulling down the blinds before it’s completely dark.”
She sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly, seeing the exquisite filigree of bare black limbs against a cobalt sky. Something beneath her ribcage tightened.
“O-K,” Libby said, holding up one hand. “I don’t see any insurmountable problems here. I’m going to get a drink. You kids decide what you’re going to do.” She shoved back her chair and headed toward the bar.
Roelke rolled his beer bottle between his palms, regarding her across the table. “So. How about tomorrow? You free for the afternoon?”
Tomorrow? The afternoon? Whatever happened to evening dates—a bracketed time span that left plenty of room for “It’s getting late, I gotta go?” Chloe swallowed uneasily. “What do you have in mind?”
“Something fun,” he promised. “I’ll pick you up at one o’clock.”
Roelke was predictably prompt. As she finished braiding her hair, Chloe watched him survey the living room: a vase with a single white rosebud on top of the bookshelf, next to a framed photograph of the Swiss Alps. A stack of record albums on the floor, her dulcimer on a chair, some books on the shelves.
“This is better,” he said.
“I’m ready,” Chloe said. “Let’s go.”
They drove through Whitewater and continued west. Roelke started humming, exuding an air of actual good cheer. They were headed toward Fort Atkinson … was he taking her to hear bluegrass music at the Green Lantern? Probably not. In profile, even his jaw looked relaxed. Too relaxed for an afternoon of music he didn’t like.
“So,” she said. “What are we doing this afternoon?”
“We’re going sky diving.”
“… I beg your pardon?