Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Jodi Taylor was thirty-six years old, and beautiful in the way that only women with a measure of maturity can be beautiful. Not like in a fashion magazine. Not like a model. There was a quality of realness about her that let you feel that you might meet her at a supermarket or in church or at the PTA.
She was adopted as a baby, and wants to know if there are any medical issues of which she should be aware.
Which is how Elvis ends up in Louisiana.
“Whatchu say ’bout dat boudin now?” I said,
“Tell me the truth, Dottie. This isn’t really Ville Platte, is it? We’re all dead and this is Heaven.” S
he grinned wider and nodded, satisfied. “Dottie say it’ll fix you up. Dottie know.” She touched her cheek beneath her left eye and then she laughed and turned away.
Of course things are never quite as they seem, and things get complicated for Elvis quite quickly. But that brings me to one of the things I especially like about Elvis Cole. He all man, but he’s not macho and is honest about himself to himself.
I watched them leave, then went to my room and tried to let myself in, but I couldn’t get the key in the lock. I tried as hard as I could, and then I sat on the sidewalk with my hands between my knees and pressed my knees together to try to make myself stop shaking. I pressed for a very long time, and finally the shaking stopped.
This was another book I didn’t particularly remember–they were very good drugs I was taking for my broken ankle, apparently. And there were of course bits showing the age of the story which amused me.
Ben ate quickly, then asked to be excused and raced to the TV so that he could watch Star Trek— The Next Generation.
But of course most of the story stands outside of those few scenes. Like this:
The cat came in while I was thinking about it, and hopped up onto the counter the way he does when he’s hoping I won’t notice. You could see his nostrils working, smelling the steak. I said, “Bet you missed me, huh?”
He made a little cat nod.
I carved a piece of steak, then put the cat and the steak on the floor. He sniffed once, then went to work on the meat. I said, “I missed you.”
I love that he has an anti-social cat, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a softie.
And there are of course the loving descriptions of food. I’m beginning to think that there is some strange link between strong male mystery leads and lavish descriptions of food.
Not that I mind at all.
Published by Hachette Books