But, hey, I also found it thrilling that he liked to make sandwiches and sit around watching TV, too.

“Your brain is working overtime again,” Derek said as he reached out and pulled me closer, moving his hands up and down my arms and across my shoulders.

“Just thinking about how much I’ll miss you,” I said, and wrapped my arms around him.

“Such a bad liar,” he murmured.

“I’m not lying about that,” I said, laughing.

“No, you’re simply withholding information.”

“Never.”

He chuckled and we stood holding each other for a while, until he leaned back and looked at me. “I know right now isn’t a good time, darling, but once Max’s problems are taken care of and things are back to normal, we have to talk.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Is everything okay?”

His eyes were focused on me, intense and indecipherable. “What do you think?”

Am I missing something? “I think everything’s wonderful.”

His knuckles grazed my jawline and moved down my neck, causing shivers and tingles to rise with his touch.

What does he want from me? I mean, besides the usual sexual favors and mindless devotion.

I was kidding, sort of.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked, serious now.

“Yes.” He kissed me then, touching my lips so tenderly that I went boneless, almost dissolving in his arms. My eyes fluttered open to see him smiling at me in a way that was almost…victorious? Had I just capitulated to something? Was there a contest I didn’t know about?

“Be careful, please,” he murmured, kissing me again. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” I said. It was getting easier to tell him how I felt, especially when he said it first. Was that so wrong? It wasn’t like I needed permission to say it. But it was still nice to hear him say it first. Was I being neurotic? Hell, when it came to matters of the heart, when was I not?

He pulled open the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll call you this afternoon when I’m on my way out of the city.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

He flashed me one of his sexy, twisted grins that made my whole body sit up and take notice. I smiled and waved as he started the engine and drove away.

Instead of racing back into the house, I stopped to pull some weeds growing among the flowers along Mom’s walkway.

Derek and I had been together for almost six months now. The fact that we’d managed to maintain a strong relationship, given Derek’s secret security assignments and my odd predilection for finding dead bodies, was a monumental achievement. If that wasn’t love, what was it, right? So why rock the boat when it looked like smooth sailing ahead?

I mentally rolled my eyes. Rock the boat? Smooth sailing? So many clichés, so little time. It was never a good thing to hear myself thinking in clichés.

I had a great-aunt, Aunt Jessica, my dad’s father’s sister, who spoke only in clichés and the occasional mixed metaphor. Instead of ever giving advice or admonishing, Aunt Jessica would nod gravely and say, “Sleeping dogs.” Or she would wink at one of us and murmur, “Bird in the hand.”

So from an early age, my siblings and I recognized the true wisdom of her words. We would outdo one another trying to come up with some ridiculous comment to describe a given situation. Finally, my father outlawed all clichés and silly metaphors. He decreed that we were allowed to think only original thoughts. It was silent at the dinner table for a few nights until he relented. But we learned our lesson, and from then on we did try to avoid clichés like the plague. Ha!

My point was that when I caught myself thinking in metaphors, mixed or otherwise, I knew I was either extremely tired or in serious danger of losing my heart. Both of these circumstances could cause brain cells to diminish. It was a well-known fact.

I just hoped I wasn’t getting stupid where Derek was concerned. He’d told me straight out that he worked in dangerous situations all the time, but maybe I’d missed the subtext. Maybe that meant he didn’t want to face danger when he came home. Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to me about. Maybe he’d rather come home to someone more settled, someone less likely to stumble over dead bodies. Someone who didn’t attract death like honey attracted flies. Or was it bees?

Didn’t matter. Either way, it was another cliché. Good grief.

“Well, that’s too damn bad, pal,” I said stoutly, as I stood and brushed bits of grass and dirt off my pants. “You’re stuck with me and I’m stuck with you.”

And just like that, I felt better. Lighter. Happier. Weird, but I guessed I would have to pull weeds more often. No wonder Mom often looked and acted so Zen-like. Through her gardening, she had found a way to clear her mind. Good to know.

Walking around the side of the house, I tossed the handful of weeds into the green trash can to be dried and mulched.

Mom was waiting in the kitchen, putting away the last of the breakfast dishes. I smiled at her outfit: work boots and a faded denim jacket over a long-sleeved purple T-shirt and a calf-length crinkly skirt she’d tie-dyed several shades of sage green.

I felt so plain standing next to her in my blue jeans, a thick navy sweater, and loafers.

But her eyes lit up when I walked inside. “There’s my beautiful girl.”

“Mom, you look fabulous.”

She whirled around like a little girl and we both laughed. Then she sobered. “I’m feeling a little antsy about our mission so I’m going to perform a success ritual before we leave.”

Our mission? Ooh, boy. And rituals? God help me. I thought about stopping her, but how could I argue with a success ritual? After all, I’d never admit it to Mom, but I was a little antsy, too. I’d had a few bad dreams last night featuring Solomon and Angelica. And this morning, the same fearful thoughts had been recycling through my mind.

I could picture them both gloating over their malevolence, rubbing their hands in excitement at the power and control they wielded. I would really hate to run into them on the street in Dharma, knowing they’d be able to read the fear and loathing on my face.

As I waited for Mom to gather her herbs and tools, I recalled that summer I taught the bookbinding class at the Art Institute. I had loved my class, loved bookbinding, and enjoyed teaching in general. But any thoughts of pursuing a career as an art teacher had been effectively squelched, thanks to Solomon and Angie.

I suppose it was unfair to blame my decision not to teach solely on the two of them. Academia was a strange, provincial world and I simply didn’t fit in. The insular attitudes of many of the professors and staff were suffocating at best. And Solomon, while fascinating in the classroom, ruled his department like a despot, handing out praise, assignments, and retribution as though he were Julius Caesar.

Angelica was worse. She was gorgeous, yes, but haughty and domineering. And possessive. Not just with Max, I realized now, but with the school itself and the students. This was Angie’s territory and how dared I think I could ever be a part of it?

I shivered, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was still holding on to so much fear of her. I knew I would have to confront her one of these days.

“Assume the position,” Mom said as she walked back into the room. She chuckled at her own joke while she assembled her ritual herbs and tools on the dining room table.

I gave her a look. “Very funny, Mom.”

“Never gets old.”

When my siblings and I were growing up, Mom and Dad used to regale us with tales from the sixties. One of their favorite stories was of the time they were arrested at China Lake for protesting nuclear weapons. (That’s where my sister China was born, the day after Mom was released from jail. My parents were sentimental that way, naming us all after the places where we were born or conceived or, apparently, where they’d spent a night in jail.)