Hot Rocks

in eight-year-olds was just plain weird in forty-eight-year-old women.
    Still, Laine reminded herself, they never came into Remember When without dropping a bundle. It might take them hours to drop it, but eventually the sales would ring. There was little that lifted Laine’s heart as high as the ring of the cash register.
    Today they were on the hunt for an engagement present for their niece, and the driving rain and booming thunder hadn’t stopped them. Nor had it deterred the drenched young couple who—they’d said—had detoured into Angel’s Gap on a whim on their way to D.C.
    Or the wet little man with the striped umbrella who looked, to Laine’s eye, a bit frantic and lost.
    So she added a little more warmth to her smile. “I’ll be with you in just a few minutes,” she called out, and turned her attention back to the Twins.
    “Why don’t you look around a little more,” Laine suggested. “Think it over. As soon as I—”
    Darla’s hand clamped on her wrist, and Laine knew she wasn’t going to escape.
    “We need to decide. Carrie’s just about your age, sweetie. What would you want for your engagement gift?”
    Laine didn’t need to transcribe the code to understand it was a not-so-subtle dig. She was, after all, twenty-eight, and not married. Not engaged. Not, at the moment, even dating particularly. This, according to the Price twins, was a crime against nature.
    “You know,” Carla piped up, “Carrie met her Paul at Kawanian’s spaghetti supper last fall. You really should socialize more, Laine.”
    “I really should,” she agreed with a winning smile. If I want to hook up with a balding, divorced CPA with a sinus condition. “I know Carrie’s going to love whatever you choose. But maybe an engagement gift from her aunts should be something more personal than the candlesticks. They’re lovely, but the dresser set’s so feminine.” She picked up the silver-backed brush from the set they were considering. “I imagine another bride used this on her wedding night.”
    “More personal,” Darla began. “More—”
    “Girlie. Yes! We could get the candlesticks for—”
    “A wedding gift. But maybe we should look at the jewelry before we buy the dresser set. Something with pearls? Something—”
    “Old she could wear on her wedding day. Put the candlesticks and the dresser set aside, honey. We’ll take a look at the jewelry before we decide anything.”
    The conversation bounced like a tennis ball served and volleyed out of two identical coral-slicked mouths. Laine congratulated herself on her skill and focus as she was able to keep up with who said what.
    “Good idea.” Laine lifted the gorgeous old Dresden candlesticks. No one could say the Twins didn’t have taste, or were shy of heating up their plastic.
    She started to carry them to the counter when the little man crossed her path.
    She was eye to eye with him, and his were a pale, washed-out blue reddened by lack of sleep or alcohol or allergies. Laine decided on lost sleep as they were also dogged by heavy bags of fatigue. His hair was a grizzled mop gone mad with the rain. He wore a pricey Burberry topcoat and carried a three-dollar umbrella. She assumed he’d shaved hurriedly that morning as he’d missed a patch of stubbly gray along his jaw.
    “Laine.”
    He said her name with a kind of urgency and intimacy that had her smile turning to polite confusion.
    “Yes? I’m sorry, do I know you?”
    “You don’t remember me.” His body seemed to droop. “It’s been a long time, but I thought . . .”
    “Miss!” the woman on her way to D.C. called out. “Do you ship?”
    “Yes, we do.” She could hear the Twins going through one of their shorthand debates over earrings and brooches, and sensed an impulse buy from the D.C. couple. And the little man stared at her with a hopeful intimacy that had her skin chilling.
    “I’m sorry, I’m a little swamped this morning.” She sidestepped to the counter to set down the candlesticks. Intimacy, she reminded herself, was part of the rhythm of small towns. The man had probably been in before, and she just couldn’t place him. “Is there something specific I can help you with, or would you like to browse awhile?”
    “I need your help. There isn’t much time.” He drew out a card, pressed it into her hand. “Call me at that number, as soon as you can.”
    “Mr. . . .” She glanced down at the card, read his name. “Peterson, I don’t understand. Are you