Larkspur Dreams - By Anita Higman Page 0,14

blissful, crocodile tear rolled down Lark’s cheek. Life was so good.

She believed the gavel was indeed from Everett. He had apparently decided to give her a little funny present in return. How sweet. But now for the riddle. What could the gavel represent? Oh, she loved a good brainteaser. Okay. Gavels are made of wood. Gavels are used in courtrooms. The full meaning hit her as if she’d been smacked in the mouth by a giant, slushy snowball. What are gavels used for in a court of law? To silence those who are out of order!

Eight

The computer screen glowed in front of Everett, keeping him connected to the pulse of life like an umbilical cord. The analogy felt strange and slightly worrisome to him, but some days it felt true.

Everett stared at the floor. The expensive blinds he’d purchased the day before had fallen in the weight of their own gloom and now sat in a strangled mess. He’d been glad when they’d come crashing to the floor and decided to leave them there to remind himself of what could come from decisions made in haste. He’d just have to learn to toss a wave to Lark in the morning and then focus on his work.

Everett glanced at the box of mothballs on his desk and broke out into another smile. He touched the soft ribbon tied on the box. After he’d heard the doorbell earlier, he’d brought the present inside and proceeded to waste an hour trying to figure out what the mothballs were for.

Then he got the meaning. The day of the Igor-gift episode, his jeans had been full of holes. And the mothballs were meant to be comedic in some way. Sounded ludicrous when he’d said it out loud, but he couldn’t think of any other answer.

Back to the screen. Amazingly, in spite of all the interruptions from Lark, Everett had still caught up on his work. Of course, he’d worked half the night to accomplish his goals, but he’d been pleased to get a complimentary e-mail from one of his clients, praising him on a job well done.

So, in a flash of something he didn’t fully comprehend, he allowed himself a moment of revelry to celebrate. He’d decided to place a gift on Lark’s doorstep—an old gag gift from a party. He thought she’d appreciate the meaning. By giving her a gavel, he cleverly welcomed Lark to speak. In other words, she held the reins of speech now.

Is that the doorbell? Lark. He headed downstairs with the box of mothballs. Once at the door, he was surprised to see his principal client, Zeta, standing there on his porch. Her extra tall height loomed over his medium frame. Everett smoothed his blue tie and found his vocal cords. “Zeta? Hi. This is a surprise. A good. . .one.” He wondered if he sounded wooden or anesthetized. He’d had little sleep and no client had ever come to his home before.

“Well, so here you are. Look at this place. I wouldn’t have picked this enormous dollhouse as being quite your style. But it’s impressive nevertheless.” The angles on her face suddenly appeared sharper, and her dark eyes took on their usual narrowing glare. “In fact, maybe we’re paying you too much.”

Everett tried to laugh, but it came off like a choking cough.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” Zeta stuck a loose strand of black hair into her felt hat.

“Would you like to come in?” Everett knew he sounded more like Igor than a highly paid accountant.

“Maybe. . .just for a moment.” Zeta stepped inside, almost pushing him out of the way, and then looked around. “Hmm. Not too bad. But why do all members of the male species feel compelled to buy brown leather?”

What could he possibly say? Everett cleared his throat.

“I brought you the file we discussed.” Zeta threw her cape over her shoulder, revealing a blood-red suit. Kind of a post-Dracula look. “You were so close by, I thought I’d drop it by on my way to lunch.”

Zeta pulled another frown out of her hat, but he had no idea why. He wondered if he were simply out of practice at reading human emotions since he spent so much time alone. Locked away in his office, dealing mostly with e-mail, maybe he’d lost some people skills. Or perhaps Zeta just needed some lessons in manners. He cleared his throat.

“Do you need a lozenge or something?” Zeta set the file on his entry table.

“No. I’m