Chapter 1 : Part 2

Hot Wheels and High Heels
By Jane Graves

(Page 2 of 4)

At first Darcy took his surprise to mean that he thought a woman her age - you know, thirty - couldn't possibly be married to a man as old as Warren. Most people thought that. Even she thought that. But something else lurked behind this man's confusion.

"Yes," she said carefully. "His wife. Didn't he tell you he was married?"

After the man and his wife exchanged a few more of those stunned looks, he cleared his throat. "Actually, he . . ."

"He what?"

The man swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing wildly. "He told us you were . . . uh . . ."

"Uh, what?"

"Dead."

Darcy went totally still. It took a full ten seconds for her to even comprehend the word, then another five or so to find her voice. "Warren told you I was dead?"

"Yes. He said there was a car accident in Cancún. Those Mexican cabdrivers, you know. It was very, uh . . . tragic."

Tragic? Tragic? The only tragedy here was just how delusional these people were. Or maybe it was Warren who was delusional.

Or . . .

Or maybe she really was dead.

For a moment Darcy actually considered that The Sixth Sense might be more than just escapist entertainment. Still, she was quite certain she hadn't gone to heaven in the backseat of a Mexican cab. Now, she had taken a spill off a jet ski and sucked in a little surf, but she'd made it back to the beach still breathing. And she'd driven home from the airport, hadn't she? Everyone knew if a dead person tried to drive, his hands passed right through the steering wheel. She'd seen Ghost. That mind-over-matter thing was way harder than it looked.

No, the problem here wasn't her death, or lack of it, but the fact that she didn't know who the hell these people were - and that her husband was missing in action.

"Where's Warren?" she asked.

When they shrugged, she felt her confusion melt into frustration, which oozed into annoyance. Finally she just let it loose.

"Excuse me, but . . . who are you people?"

She spoke a little louder than she'd intended, and they recoiled as if she'd physically shoved them. The baby stopped littering her breakfast-room floor, screwing up his face as if he was going to cry. Pepé's buggy little eyes grew even buggier. The woman fiddled with the silver bracelet she wore and deferred to her husband. When he shot her a helpless look, she turned back to Darcy, shrugging weakly.

"I guess with you being, you know, dead and all, your husband didn't tell you he . . ."

"He what?"

"Sold the house."

Wooziness overcame her. Warren sold the house. The words whacked the outside of her skull, trying desperately to get through. Entry was denied.

"We had to make a decision quickly," the man said, "but we had cash and were ready to buy, and it was such a steal, especially with all the contents thrown in. This big house at the price he was asking . . . well, you understand. We couldn't say no."

Darcy started to shake a little, sure she was going to be sick. But she managed to hold up her palms, laughing a little in that way people do when they know there has to be some mistake. "There has to be some mistake," she said, in case they missed the laugh.

"No," the man said. "No mistake. I can show you the closing papers."

The guy dug through a kitchen drawer and produced a stack of legal-sized paper and shoved it at her. She saw only one thing clearly before her vision went all blurry. Warren's signature.

Good God, he'd actually done it.

She was about to shout, This is my house, too! How could he sell it without my signature?

Copyright © 2007 by Jane Graves

About the Author

At age five, Jane Graves wrote and illustrated her first book, Padre the Mexican Mouse. It was a hit among family and friends, but failed to make the bestseller lists. And when she realized she'd named her dashing young mouse hero "Father," she was crushed.