Sergeant Thunder.”
“He’s a real sergeant in the police force?” Lilly gasped. “I didn’t know they did that. Do horses have to go to the police academy or something?”
The officer’s finely drawn lips twitched. “Sergeant Thunder is the name given to him before he was recruited by us. Purely a coincidence. I call him Sarge for short.”
“Oh.” Lilly sat back to digest that. Lilly isn’t big on animals. She doesn’t hate them, but she doesn’t pay much attention to them, either—except Winky, who gives her a lecherous wolf whistle every time she enters Norah’s Ark.
“My name is Norah Kent. I own Norah’s Ark. This is Lilly Culpepper of The Fashion Diva. Welcome to Shoreside.” His handshake was warm, firm and rough with calluses. They were a working man’s hands like those of my grandfather, a farmer. I had the sense of being protected even as Nick and I shook hands. Perfect vibe for a policeman to emanate. Still, a smile would have been nice, too.
Lilly dropped Valley Girl and went straight for Queen Elizabeth. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she murmured huskily as he took her hand. Lilly is always adopting personae other than her own. They’re like clothing for her. She tries something different for whatever mood she’s in. She slides in and out of movie star guises like other people change T-shirts. Personally I like her best when she’s being Barbara Walters or Kelly Ripa. If Lilly is wearing a tailored suit and a hat, it’s Margaret Thatcher every time.
I reached out and touched Sarge’s flank. It twitched and rippled as if my finger were an unwelcome fly but he made no other movement. Neither horse nor rider was going to let you see them sweat.
“It was a pleasure to meet both of you. Now if you’ll excuse me…” The officer made a clicking sound with his tongue and Sarge obediently backed off. They were a team, all right.
After they moved away, Lilly squirmed excitedly in her chair. “What a dream!”
“The horse is great,” I agreed.
“Not the horse, silly. The man!”
“Did you even notice the horse, Lilly? The one that was twelve hundred pounds heavier than the guy leading him?”
“What if you met a guy someday who was perfect for you but didn’t like animals?” Lilly said exasperatedly. “Then what would you do?”
“A guy who didn’t like animals couldn’t be ‘perfect’ for me. It’s like that policeman and his horse, or Bentley and me, we’re a pair, a team, and that’s all there is to it. I’m in no danger of falling for a man who won’t have anything to do with God’s furry creatures.”
“You and your animals. One of these days you’re going to have to start looking at men, Norah, or you’ll end up one of those crazy cat ladies whose house smells like a litter box and has kittens born in your bed.”
My first notion was to gross her out and tell her that it didn’t sound like such a bad life to me, but I know what she means. I don’t want to live forever with a parrot with a ribald mouth and a dog with more emotional issues than he has fleas as my only companions.
We didn’t have time to debrief the advent of the new police officer any further because at that moment Joe walked out of the Java Jockey and headed for the lake. He turned briefly to wave at us.
Lilly pointed to Joe’s broad, muscular retreating back as he sauntered down the sidewalk. “Maybe you should marry Joe. He’s handsome, successful and crazy about you.”
“There’s only one small problem, Lilly. I don’t want to get married right now.” I slapped the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Oh, yes, silly me. There are two problems. I’m also not in love with him—not that way, at least not yet.”
“But you like him, don’t you?”
“Of course, but…”
“Has he asked you out lately?”
“We’re going out for Italian food on Saturday.”
Lilly clapped her hands and leaped to her feet. “I’ve got just the dress for you.”
“Dress? Lilly, when was the last time you saw my legs?” Granted, I do wear a skirt to church on Sundays—but it isn’t my usual uniform. That’s anything with a Norah’s Ark logo on it.
“Exactly my point.” She grabbed my hand and tugged until I reluctantly followed her across the street into The Fashion Diva.
The Fashion Diva has every bit as much élan as Lilly does. My friend is an artist at putting items of clothing together in unexpected ways. Today she had a beach-party theme on her wall, a collage of summer clothing—shorts, halter tops, flowing skirts—that appeared to be worn by invisible bodies playing volleyball. She’d tacked a scrap of webbing and two sticks to the wall to indicate the net, deflated a volleyball and arranged it as if it were sailing midair.
“Cool wall,” I managed before she shoved me into a dressing room and began flinging clothes in behind me.
“Lilly, I can’t just walk out of my store and leave it untended.”
“You try these on. I’ll watch for customers. If anyone comes to buy one of those gargantuan puppies you have, I’ll call you.”
“They are mastiffs. They’re supposed to be gigantic.”
“They grow up to be Volkswagen vans. Why don’t you sell miniature poodles, the kind people can carry in their purse? Such a trendy look right now.”
“Animals are not accessories, Lilly.”
A big sigh came from outside the door. “Okay, okay. How does the skirt fit?”
“Like a collapsed canvas mainsail.”
There was a long silence outside the dressing room door, then another sigh. “Let me see.”
I trudged into the painful light of day. The skirt she’d given me was actually canvas-colored, with rivets, stitched pockets and a slit on the side which was probably supposed to show off my long, shapely leg. Instead, it made me look like one of the concrete foundation footings they were pouring for the new bank being built down the street.
“Oh, dear. Maybe we can’t do this quickly after all.”
“Exactly. To entertain yourself, put together a couple outfits that will make me look human rather than like squat, ugly buildings. I’ll try them on later just to satisfy you. No promises I’ll buy, though.”
“You are my newest crusade, Norah, even if I have to order clothes made of denim, flannel and sweatshirt fabric, I will make you a representative of Fashion Diva style.”
Terrific. Being Lilly’s pet project is always a pain because she’s relentless in whatever she sets out to do. The only one she’s ever had to admit defeat on is Auntie Lou whose style can be best described as a Civil War combined with consignment store chic.
Why, I wondered as I hurried back to feed the animals, didn’t she just advertise on the side of a bus rather than make me, a cute but admitted sow’s ear—fashionwise, that is—into a silk purse?
