Lie of the Needle(11)

            “Sure he will,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. “He’s just taking his time working up to it. He’s not the kind of guy who can be rushed.”

            Cyril Mackey was a difficult character, but he really did care for Martha. A couple of months ago he’d shown me the weather vane he was planning on giving her for Christmas. He’d spent hours and hours on careful restoration, and the result was spectacular. You didn’t do all that work for someone you didn’t love. Plus it proved he was capable of long-term planning for the relationship.

            But I didn’t think Cyril was the type of man who would want to be asked for his hand in marriage, so I prayed he popped the question before Martha’s impatience got the better of her.

            “You realize if you married him that it would make you Martha Mackey, don’t you?” Eleanor snickered as she peeled back the foil and snatched a handful from the mountain of spice cookies.

            “Those are supposed to be for Daisy’s customers.” Martha glared at her. “And don’t be absurd. I’ll still be Martha Bristol.”

            I could sympathize. I’d kept my maiden name for that very reason, not relishing the prospect of going through life as Daisy Daly.

            “Let’s hope to God that he musters up the courage before Christmas,” Eleanor whispered in my ear.

            Martha had wandered over to the children’s section of the store. She selected a vintage lunch box and brought it to the counter. She placed a linen napkin on the bottom of the box, piled the rest of the cookies on top and was about to pop one in her mouth when she turned to see Eleanor and me watching her.

            She blew out a long breath. “Okay, okay, you’re right. That’s it. I’m going to put myself on a strict diet between now and December fourth. No more treats for me.”

            She handed the cookie to me. I handed it to Eleanor.

            “Or there’ll be hell to pay.” Eleanor took a big bite and chewed with relish. She ate like a teenage boy after football practice, drank like a dehydrated rugby player, and never gained an ounce on her slim frame.

            I decided to change the subject. Quickly. “So. Did you guys enjoy the rest of the show?”

            “We didn’t watch any more.” Eleanor’s expression turned glum. “You made us feel too guilty. Ruined the whole thing.”

            I smiled and set some fresh bay leaves and eucalyptus on the counter. I gathered together bunches of the aromatic greens to make a wreath.

            “You know, it’s been quite a week so far,” Martha said. “Starting with the cute little barber. Even though he was the first to take his clothes off, you didn’t have to ask him twice.”

            “The man’s an exhibitionist.” Eleanor sniffed.

            “I must say, I’d never realized how well-built he was,” Martha continued. “I mean, he’s short and everything, but very nice-looking. Especially with his clothes off.”

            “I suppose.” Suddenly Eleanor brightened. “Hey, remember when Angus mooned us?”

            “Ew, yes!” I said. Our irrepressible auctioneer had loved every second of his fifteen minutes of fame.

            The door banged open, and Alex Roos strode in. He wore a long black trench coat, black leather pants, and a bright aqua-colored V-neck shirt, together with a lemon-and-blue scarf tossed around his neck.

            “My mains!” he said to us, flinging his arms wide. “How’s tricks?”

            Martha looked at me and shrugged one plump shoulder. She’d told me once she couldn’t understand half of Roos’s West Coast expressions. To Martha, it was like he was speaking another language.