Bridal Wreath
by Jill Hand
About the author:
Jill Hand is a member of International Thriller Writers. She is the author of the Southern Gothic novels, White Oaks and Black Willows.
Jill Hand is a member of International Thriller Writers. She is the author of the Southern Gothic novels, White Oaks and Black Willows.
Richard always arrived late at night, usually on a Friday or a Saturday. Headlights would sweep across her window, followed by the sound of tires crunching in the driveway gravel. Robin would leap out of bed, hastily pulling on jeans and a clean shirt, her heart thumping with excitement. Richard’s here!
She’d run a comb through her hair and put on a dab of lip gloss, just enough to give her lips a hint of color. Richard didn’t care for women who wore too much makeup. He said it made them look cheap.
Then she’d go downstairs, turn on the porch light, and make a pot of coffee.
Richard preferred coffee made in a percolator.
“None of this French press business for me. No lattes or yak’s milk cappuccinos, or whatever. I like my coffee made the old-school way,” he told her the first time they met, smiling.
Richard had a nice smile, a little bashful, a little impish. His teeth were straight and gleaming white, like a film star’s. It’s a shame his fingernails were always dirty.
“It’s the price I pay for working with garden supplies. I buy gloves, but I keep losing them,” he said ruefully, noticing her looking at his hands.
She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. “A little dirt never hurt anyone,” she said.
“You’re right; dirt never hurt anyone,” he said.
That conversation took place at Don and Dottie’s Diner. Don was in a nursing home, but Dottie, eighty years old and tough as an old boot, still came in every morning at five. She’d switch on the OPEN sign, fire up the grill, and chew out Ramόn, the busboy, dishwasher and general dog’s body if he were even two minutes late.
She’d run a comb through her hair and put on a dab of lip gloss, just enough to give her lips a hint of color. Richard didn’t care for women who wore too much makeup. He said it made them look cheap.
Then she’d go downstairs, turn on the porch light, and make a pot of coffee.
Richard preferred coffee made in a percolator.
“None of this French press business for me. No lattes or yak’s milk cappuccinos, or whatever. I like my coffee made the old-school way,” he told her the first time they met, smiling.
Richard had a nice smile, a little bashful, a little impish. His teeth were straight and gleaming white, like a film star’s. It’s a shame his fingernails were always dirty.
“It’s the price I pay for working with garden supplies. I buy gloves, but I keep losing them,” he said ruefully, noticing her looking at his hands.
She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. “A little dirt never hurt anyone,” she said.
“You’re right; dirt never hurt anyone,” he said.
That conversation took place at Don and Dottie’s Diner. Don was in a nursing home, but Dottie, eighty years old and tough as an old boot, still came in every morning at five. She’d switch on the OPEN sign, fire up the grill, and chew out Ramόn, the busboy, dishwasher and general dog’s body if he were even two minutes late.
Like the sample? Read the whole story in the Summer 2021 issue of Guilty Crime Story Magazine!
