The Angel Wore Fangs(2)

“Because it’s a video. Celie sent it to us. At least, I think it came from her. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Oh, well, I’m looking at it on my laptop right now. Celie is talking about Allah and the evil United States and that kind of crap. She has black eyebrows. What is her natural hair color, anyway? Oh, that’s right. Blonde, like yours.”

Andrea hadn’t seen her sister for months—in fact, almost a year. Not for any particular reason. There was a ten-year difference in their ages, and that wasn’t the only difference. Celie was of average height, with curves out the wazoo. Andrea was genetically thin, rarely gained an ounce, and thank God for that with her calorie-laden occupation. Celie’s hair could be any color under the rainbow, from bright purple to an actual rainbow, and styled short, long, or half long/half short. Once she even shaved her head. Andrea had sported the same long, blonde ponytail since she was a teenager. It suited her and her work.

Celie was the adventurous one. Always looking for thrills (can anyone say zip line off a cliff?), while Andrea didn’t even like roller coasters. As for men, forget about it! Celie drew men, like flies or bees or whatever. Boys had been chasing her since she was ten years old. Andrea didn’t even want to guess how many lovers Celie had gone through in her nineteen years, while Andrea, at twenty-nine-almost-thirty, had had two real relationships. Three, if you counted Peter Townsend. Pete the Pervert. He had the weirdest fetish involving . . . never mind.

Back to Celie. Despite their clashes in personalities and interests, they were still fairly close sisters. They had to be during those early years of their mother’s death, and their father’s grieving. It was just the two of them against the world. Until he married Darla. And then, it was the two of them against Darla. Poor Darla!

They just never seemed to be in the same place at the same time these days. Celie was always traveling somewhere or other. Andrea was an ambitious workaholic with hopes of one day opening her own upscale pastry shop.

While Andrea’s mind had been wandering, she just realized that Darla was still talking. She interrupted her by saying, “I thought Celie was spending the summer with that cult in Jamaica, where they run around half naked and sell sun catchers to tourists. Led by that whack-job swami person who believes that world peace will come with global warming, or some such nonsense.”

“That was last year.”

Celie was a great one for joining cults, not that she called them cults, and mostly they were harmless. Modern-day hippies looking for the light, usually via some weed. Heaven’s Love Shack. Serenity. Free Birds. Pot for People.

“Remember, I told you about her boyfriend. He’s an A-rab or a Mexican, or something. Maybe Egyptian. They all look alike.”

That narrows it down a lot. Darla was no dummy, but sometimes she revealed a little inner Archie Bunkerism. And Edith, too.

“His name is Kahlil, you know, like that poet guy.”

“Kahlil Gibran?”

“Yes! Don’t you just love his poems? They’re so deep.”

Talking to Darla was like trying to catch popcorn from an unlidded pot. Here, there, all over the place.

“About Celie’s boyfriend?”

“Oh, right. He came to a dinner party your daddy hosted last month for one of his big clients. You were at that food convention in Las Vegas. Anyhow, Kahlil Ajam . . . that was his last name, I remember now because his last name reminded me of jelly. Do you still make that honey mint jelly to serve with lamb chops? That reminds me. Maybe I should make lamb chops for your daddy and me tonight. With those fingerling potatoes and little Brussels sprouts. I wonder—”

“Aaarrgh!”

“What?”

“Stop getting sidetracked.”

“Stop being so impatient.” Darla sighed, as if Andrea were the one who was irritating. “Anyhow, Kahlil just frowned the whole time he was here because we served alcohol. So rude! Honestly! Who doesn’t drink red wine with beef Wellington? And he had this dish towel thingee on his head. By the way, your raspberry torte was a huge success. Did I tell you that?”

Can anyone say Orville Redenbacher? “Yes, you told me.” About the dessert, not the boyfriend. “Thanks.”

“Anyhow, this Kahlil fella talked the silly girl into going with him to a dude ranch in Montana run by some Muslim church. Circle of Light.”

“What? That’s crazy!”

“You’re telling me, honey. I’ve been saying for years that your sister is two bricks short of a wall. You must admit, Andy—”

“I didn’t mean that Celie . . . never mind. What has any of this to do with ISIS?”