A Dollhouse to Die For(88)

            Would it have been too much for Joe to call and let me know that he wouldn’t be home to let the dog out?

            “Good boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

            Jasper and I took what was becoming our regular route toward the south end of Millbury and the Browns’ house, the giant pumpkin calling me like a siren. I’d miss it when it went off to the competition.

            A couple of blocks away, I heard the singing.

            If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the aria from Roméo et Juliette, when Romeo sings up to his love on her balcony.

            I stopped in the shadow cast by the side of the house. In the twilight I saw the diminutive barber standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch, surrounded by leaves the size of dinner plates, his hands held up to the regal fruit in supplication. Above him, dark spikes of high tree branches pierced the indigo sky, and the moon was a milky blur behind the clouds.

            His soaring tenor resonated around the garden with gorgeous, lush tendrils of sound, and I fancied I could almost see the leaves trembling. Even Jasper sank unbidden into a sitting position, his ears pricked and head slightly cocked to one side.

            I closed my eyes, the melody washing over me, sometimes tender and soft, sometimes heartbreaking in its passionate entreaty.

            “Bellissimo,” I whispered.

            If that didn’t encourage Gloria to thrive, I didn’t know what would.

            When we got home, Joe was still out. I watched television for a while, but finally went to bed. It was close to 10 p.m. by the time I heard a car pull up outside, the front door open, and the stairs creak as he made his way upstairs.

            I slipped out of bed, drew on my robe, and met him in the hallway.

            He took a step back. “Oh, Daisy, you’re still up? Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

            I swallowed, hardly knowing where to start.

            “Look, Joe, I don’t know if you should be spending a lot of time alone with that woman. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.”

            His face was in shadow in the dim hallway and I had trouble reading his expression.

            “Why not?” he said. “You hang out with Angus. You meet up with that playboy Serrano whenever you like. I don’t get jealous of that, do I?”

            I opened my mouth to protest, when I spied the smile playing around his lips, and I released the breath I was holding. “It’s just that there’s something a little creepy about her. And she could be a killer!”

            Joe hugged me to him. “You’re a nut. You and your imagination. Come and see what I have for you.”

            He pulled me into the bedroom, turned on the overhead light, and patted the bed. “Sit. And close your eyes.”

            Obediently I climbed onto the bed and felt him place something wrapped in a soft cloth into my hands. I opened my eyes, unwrapped the package, and looked up in wonder.

            His face was flushed with success. “It’s the dining table for Claire’s dollhouse.”

            “Oh, Joe.” The mahogany table had delicately carved spiral twist legs, and there were eight tiny side dining chairs and two armchairs. His usual perfectionism had been zoomed down into exquisite miniature. It was magnificent.

            “That’s what I was working on tonight with Mac. It also has two extra leaves to seat up to ten people.”

            “It’s so beautiful. Thank you.” I swallowed hard and smiled up at his dear face, anger and insecurity evaporating in the warmth of my love for him. “Cyril finished the painting and repairs on the dollhouse, so we’re almost done.”