I plucked a couple of especially ripe and round tomatoes to take in the house. I could see that a bacon-and-tomato sandwich would be my lunch choice, but before that I had a few things to accomplish.
I found my cell phone and checked my list of contacts. Yes, I had Bernadette Merlotte's number. Bernadette, called Bernie, was Sam's shapeshifter mom. Though my own mother had passed when I was seven (so maybe I wasn't the best judge), Sam seemed to have a good relationship with Bernie. If there ever was a time to call in a mom, this was it.
I won't say we had a comfortable conversation, and it was shorter than it should have been, but by the time I hung up, Bernie Merlotte was packing a bag to come to Bon Temps. She'd arrive in the late afternoon.
Had I done the right thing? After I'd hashed the issue over with myself, I decided I had, and I further decided I had to have a day off. Maybe more than one. I called Merlotte's and told Kennedy that I had the flu. She agreed they'd call me in a crisis, but otherwise they'd leave me alone to recover.
"I didn't think anyone got the flu in July. But Sam called in to say the same thing," Kennedy said with a smile in her voice.
I thought, Dammit.
"Maybe y'all gave it to each other?" she suggested archly.
I didn't say a word.
"Okay, okay, I'll only call if the place is on fire," she said. "You have a good time getting over the flu."
I refused to worry about the rumors that would undoubtedly start making the rounds. I slept a lot and wept a lot. I cleaned out all the drawers in my bedroom: night table, dressing table, chest of drawers. I pitched useless things and grouped other items together in a way that seemed sensible. And I waited to hear . . . from anyone.
But the phone didn't ring. I heard a lot of nothing. I had a lot of nothing, except tomatoes. I had them on sandwiches, and the minute the red ones were gone, the plants were hung with green ones. I fried a few of the green ones, and when the rest were red, I made my own salsa for the first time ever. The flowers bloomed and bloomed and bloomed, until I had a vase full in almost every room in the house. I even walked through the cemetery to leave some on Gran's grave, and I put a bouquet on Bill's porch. If I could have eaten them, I'd have had a full plate at every meal.
ELSEWHERE
The red-haired woman came out of the prison door slowly and suspiciously, as if she suspected a practical joke. She blinked in the brilliant sun and began walking toward the road. There was a car parked there, but she didn't pay it any attention. It never occurred to the red-haired woman that its occupants were waiting for her.
A medium man got out of the front passenger seat. That was how she thought of him: medium. His hair was medium brown, he was medium tall, he was medium built, and he had a medium smile. His teeth, however, were gleaming white and perfect. Dark glasses hid his eyes. "Miss Fowler," he called. "We've come to pick you up."
She turned toward him, hesitating. The sun was in her eyes, and she squinted. She'd survived so much - broken marriages, broken relationships, single motherhood, betrayals, a bullet wound. She was not of a mind to be an easy target now.
"Who are you?" she asked, standing her ground, though she knew the sun was mercilessly showing every line in her face and every deficiency in the cheap hair dye she'd applied in the jail bathroom.
"Don't you recognize me? We met at the hearing." The medium man's voice was almost gentle. He took off his dark glasses, and a chime of recognition sounded in her brain.
"You're the lawyer, the one that got me out," she said, smiling. "I don't know why you did that, but I owe you. I sure didn't need to be in jail. I want to see my children."
"And you will," he said. "Please, please." He opened the rear door of the car and gestured for her to get in. "I'm sorry. I should have addressed you as Mrs. Fowler."
She was glad to climb inside, grateful to sink back onto the cushioned seat, delighted to revel in the cold air. This was the most physical comfort she'd had in many months. You didn't appreciate soft seats and courtesy (or good mattresses and thick towels) until you didn't have them.
"I been Mrs. a few times. And I been Miss, too," she said. "I don't care what you call me. This is a great car."
"I'm glad you like it," said the driver, a tall man with graying hair clipped very short. He turned to look over the seat at the red-haired woman, and he smiled at her. He took off his own dark glasses.
"Oh my God," she said, in an entirely different tone. "It's you! Really! In the flesh. I thought you was in jail. But you're here." She was both awed and confused.
"Yes, Sister," he said. "I understand what a devoted follower you were and how you proved your worth. And now I've said thank you by getting you out of jail, where you in no way deserved to be."
She looked away. In her heart, she knew her sins and crimes. But it was balm to her self-regard to hear that such an esteemed man - someone she'd seen on television! - thought she was a good woman. "So that's why you put up all that money for my bail? That was a hell of a lot of cash, mister. More money than I'd ever earn in my life."
"I want to be as staunch an advocate for you as you were for me," the tall man said smoothly. "Besides, we know you're not going to run." He smiled at her, and Arlene thought about how fortunate she was. That someone would put up over a hundred thousand dollars for her bail seemed incredible. In fact, suspicious. But, Arlene figured, so far so good.
"We're taking you home to Bon Temps," said the medium man. "You can see your children, little Lisa and little Coby."
The way he said her kids' names made her feel uneasy. "They ain't so little anymore," she said, to drown out that flicker of doubt. "But I sure as he . . . sure want to lay eyes on them. I missed them every day I was inside."
"In return, there are a few little things we want you to do for us, if you will," the medium man said. There was definitely a slight foreign cadence to his English.
Arlene Fowler knew instinctively that those few things would not really be little, and definitely not optional. Looking at the two men, she didn't sense they were interested in something she might not have minded giving up, like her body. They didn't want her to iron their sheets or polish their silver, either. She felt more comfortable now that the cards were spread out on the table and about to be flipped over. "Uh-huh," she said. "Like what?"
"I really don't think you'll mind when you hear," said the driver. "I truly don't."
"All you have to do," said the medium man, "is have a conversation with Sookie Stackhouse."
There was a long silence. Arlene Fowler looked back and forth at the two men, measuring and calculating. "You going to get me put back in jail if I won't?" she said.
"Since we got you out on bail pending your trial, I guess we could make that happen," said the tall driver mildly. "But I would certainly hate to do that. Wouldn't you?" he asked his companion.
The medium man shook his head from side to side. "That would be a great pity. The little children would be so sad. Are you afraid of Miss Stackhouse?"
There was silence while Arlene Fowler wrestled with the truth. "I'm the last person in the world Sookie'd want to see," she hedged. "She blames me for that whole day, the day . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"The day all those people got shot," the medium man said pleasantly. "Including you. But I know her slightly, and I think she'll let you have a conversation. We will tell you what to say. Don't worry about her talent. I think all will be well in that regard."
"Her talent? You mean her mind-reading? Some talent!" Arlene, surprisingly, laughed. "That's been the curse of her life."
The two men smiled, and the effect was not pleasant at all. "Yes," agreed the driver. "That has been a curse for her, and I imagine that feeling will get worse."
"What do you want with Sookie, anyway?" Arlene asked. "She ain't got nothing but that old house."
"She's caused us, and a few other people, a great deal of trouble," said the driver. "Let's just say she's got some trouble coming."
Chapter 2
The night of my second day of solitude, I faced the fact that I had to go to see Eric. Sure, he really should have visited me. He'd been the one to skedaddle when I'd raised Sam from the dead, because (I figured) he was sure it meant I loved Sam more than I loved him. But I would go to Shreveport, and we would talk, because Eric's silence was painful to me. I watched some of the fireworks go up in the city park - today was the Fourth of July - but then I went inside to dress. I was giving in to my impulse. I was going to Fangtasia.
I wanted to look as good as I could, but I didn't want to overdo it. I didn't know who I'd be seeing, though I wanted to talk to Eric by himself.
I hadn't heard from any of the vampires I knew who frequented Fangtasia. I didn't know if Felipe de Castro, King of Arkansas, Louisiana, and Nevada, was still in Shreveport, meddling in Eric's affairs, making Eric's life difficult. Felipe had brought his girlfriend, Angie, and his second-in-command, Horst, with him, just to compound Eric's vexation. Felipe was treacherous and wily, and his little entourage was much of a kind with their leader.
I also didn't know if Freyda, Queen of Oklahoma, was still in town. Eric's maker, Appius Livius Ocella, had signed a contract with Freyda that (to my mind) basically sold Eric into slavery with Freyda, but in a really cushy way: as her consort, with all the benefits you might imagine would pertain to such a job. Only thing was, Appius hadn't checked with Eric first. Eric was torn, to put it mildly. Leaving his job as sheriff was not something he'd ever planned to do. If ever there was a vampire who enjoyed being a big fish in a small pond, that vampire was Eric. He'd always been a hard worker, and he'd made plenty of money for the ruler of Louisiana, whoever that happened to be. Since the vampires had come out of the coffin, he'd done much more than make money. Tall, handsome, articulate, dynamic, Eric was a great poster boy for mainstreaming vampires. And he'd even married a human: me. Though not in a human ritual.
Of course, he had his darker side. He was a vampire, after all.
All the way to Shreveport from Bon Temps, I wondered for the fiftieth time if I was making a huge mistake. By the time I'd pulled up to the back door of Fangtasia, I was so tense I was shaking. I'd put on my favorite pink dotted sundress, and I yanked the halter into place and took a few deep breaths before I knocked. The door swung open. Pam was leaning against the wall in the hallway, her arms crossed on her chest, looking broody.
"Pam," I said, by way of greeting.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
Granted, I knew that her first allegiance was to Eric, and it always would be. Nonetheless, I'd thought Pam liked me a bit, as much as she ever would a human, and her words smarted like a slap in the face. I didn't need to hurt any worse than I already did, but I'd come here to see if I could smooth things over with Eric a little, tell him that he was wrong about Sam and me, find out what he'd decided about Freyda.
"I need to talk to Eric," I said. I didn't try to enter. I knew better.
At that moment, the door to Eric's office flew open. He stood framed in the doorway. Eric was big and golden and all male, and normally when he saw me, he started smiling.
Not tonight.
"Sookie, I can't talk to you now," he said. "Horst will be here any second, and he doesn't need to be reminded you exist. They've called in a lawyer to go over the contract."
It was like he was talking to a stranger, and furthermore, a stranger who had very little business appearing on his doorstep. In fact, Eric seemed both angry and wounded.
I had a mouthful - and heart full - of things I wanted to say. More than almost anything else in the world, I wanted to put my arms around him and tell him how much he meant to me. But as I took a half step in his direction, Eric moved back and shut the office door.
I froze for a moment, trying to absorb the shock and hurt, and keep my face from crumpling. Pam glided toward me and put one hand on my shoulder to spin me around and guide me away from the door. After it clanged shut behind us, she said into my ear, "Don't come here again. It's too dangerous. There's too much going on, too many visitors." And then she raised her voice and said, "And don't come back until he calls you!" She gave me a little shove that propelled me into the side of my car. And then she zipped back inside and closed the door with that quick vampiric movement that always seemed like magic, or a really good video game.
So I went home, brooding over Pam's warning and Eric's words and demeanor. I thought about crying but didn't have the energy. I was too tired of being sad to make myself even sadder. Obviously, there was a lot of upheaval at Fangtasia and a lot of things hanging in the balance. There was nothing I could do about it except stay out of the way in the hope that I'd live through the change in regime, whatever that turned out to be. It was like waiting for the Titanic to sink.
Another morning went by, another day I passed holding my emotional breath, waiting for something to happen . . . something conclusive, or terrible.
I didn't feel as though I were waiting for the other shoe to drop; I felt as though I were waiting for an anvil to fall on my head. If I hadn't met with such a crushing reception when I went to Fangtasia, I might have tried to shake things up on my own, but I was discouraged, to put it in the mildest possible way. I took a very long, hot walk through the woods to put a basket of tomatoes on the Prescotts' back porch. I mowed my meadowlike lawn. I found I always felt better when I was outside: more whole, somehow. (And that was good, because there was a shitload of yard work to do.) But I brought my cell phone with me every step I took.
