Bones and Roses Read Online Free Page A

you’re not in love with him. And he’s not in love with you.”
    â€œHow can you say that? We have a very loving relationship.”
    â€œYou have a loving relationship with your cat. I should hope you want more from your boyfriend than to have him curl up next to you.”
    â€œNothing wrong with that. When you’ve been together as long as we have—” going on two years now— “you don’t go from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. You take it slow.”
    She scoffs at this. “I have two words for you: rug burns.”
    I roll my eyes. “Jesus. What is it with you?” The bedroom was an amusement park, in Ivy’s view, and anything less than Six Flags-worthy was beneath consideration. “No, I don’t get rug burns with Daniel, but—”
    â€œEnough said.”
    I sigh. It’s no use arguing with Ivy. She has no idea what it is to be in a long-term relationship. She’s seldom without a boyfriend, but she checks out as soon as he lets her know he wants more than sex and companionship. She always says she’s perfectly content with her life as it is. She has me and her other friends, a career she loves, and the rambling Victorian a half mile from my house she calls home. Personally I think her problem with men is related to the abandonment issues she won’t admit to. On the other hand, maybe she just hasn’t met the right guy.
    Not until after lunch, as we’re headed back to work, do I remember what else is on my to-do list. The other day I heard from a man named Tom McGee, the manager of the White Oaks self-storage facility out on Old County Road, who informed me he’d been instructed to release the contents of one of the units to me. It was all very mysterious. He didn’t have the name of the lessee, just the entity listed on the contract: Starfish Enterprises.
    At first I couldn’t think who my mystery benefactor might be, but I’ve since come to suspect it’s a former neighbor of mine, old Mrs. Appleby, who died a couple of months ago. She used to say I was more of a daughter to her than her own daughter because I took her grocery shopping or to the drugstore to get her prescriptions filled, that kind of thing. Her own daughter rarely visited and only when she needed money. Probably this was Mrs. Appleby’s way of ensuring Ms. Greedy Graspy didn’t get it all. I can’t imagine what she might have left me, though, since she was far from rich. Some old furnishings or a set of china? A painting she thought was valuable? I’ll know soon enough. I’m scheduled to meet with Mr. McGee later this afternoon for the big “reveal.” I’m not optimistic.
    â€œIt’s probably just a pile of junk,” I speculate aloud to Ivy.
    We’re strolling along the pedestrian mall at the heart of the business district, a street lined with stucco storefronts painted in beach-umbrella shades and adorned with decorative wrought-iron and terra-cotta planters from which bright blooms spill. We pass a homeless man begging outside the Hang Ten Surf Shop. He looks sporty if unkempt in banana-yellow board shorts and blue-tinted Oakleys. I toss a quarter in his cup and he glances up from the battered paperback he’s reading to smile at me from his recumbent position on the sidewalk where he sits with his legs outstretched, reclining against his backpack. I only wish I were as content as he appears to be.
    Ivy smiles and says, “You know what they say. One man’s junk …”
    â€œâ€¦ is another man’s treasure,” I finish for her. “We’ll see. Just don’t expect a lost Rembrandt.”
    I spend the next hour at the Noels’ vacation rental readying it for the paying guests due to arrive later in the day. One of my nicer properties, its desirable location overlooking one of the prettiest beaches in Cypress Bay, has it much in demand. So far I’ve been lucky with