The slight chill in the air meant a sweater was preferable, but a frilly tunic would suffice. The wind puffed, rattling leaves of orange, rust, and gold. That same breeze lifted Olivia’s hair, making it dance free and wild. I watched her move—graceful and confident, wearing a smile that read friendly to passersby, yet flirtatiously evocative to me. I knew pieces of her would find themselves in a future game iteration, but this time in a more positive semblance. Maybe it would be the wave of her hair tonight. Maybe it would be the ocean blue eyes that saw every detail. Pieces of her would also stay permanently stored in my memory—her scent, her face, the gift that was tonight.
Her fingers tightened around mine, and she took a left on the next street like she was in a race for gold. “Step lively, Lancelot. I see little Timmy Johnson, and that kid grabs extra handfuls when he thinks no one’s looking.”
But Olivia knew.
You couldn’t get a thing past my wife.
Like many of the neighborhoods in Sugar Creek, this one was a collection of Victorian homes painted in shades of sherbet and variations on white. The beauties had stories to tell, and their character and style made me regret my modern home on the edge of town. My house had afforded me the privacy and security my life required, but it had been a sterile place from the onset. Since Olivia had moved in, my house felt homey and warm. I didn’t notice the emptiness or hear that nagging echo from the cold floors and lifeless walls.
In two shakes of an oak leaf, we climbed the steps of a mint green Queen Anne.
“Ring the bell,” Olivia said.
“I’m not totally ignorant on the process,” I told her. I pressed my gloved finger to the bell, praying the homeowner wouldn’t see two adults and go to yelling.
“Do it again. The lady in there is practically deaf and refuses to wear her hearing aids.”
I obliged, trying to be a sport.
“Are you clear on what you say when the door is opened?” Olivia asked.
“Bring me your wallet and no one gets hurt?”
Olivia’s pink lips curved as we waited. “Don’t forget I like sour candy.”
I looked down at my wife, who was in a curiously playful mood tonight. “Is that a hint I’m supposed to choose your needs over mine?”
She turned back to the door. “I think that was in our vows.”
A woman finally appeared, her hair as red as fruit punch. “Well, hello there! Don’t you two look precious?”
I turned to Olivia. “She called me precious.”
“It’s a compliment.” Olivia held out her plastic pumpkin. “Trick or treat, Marge.” My wife gave a small incline of the head. “Do you have something to say, Lachlan?”
“Trick or treat, ma’am.”
Marge tossed back her head and cackled. “Aren’t you polite.” Her commitment to volume was as commendable as it was painful. “Say, what are you two supposed to be? A lovely princess and her lace-loving stable boy?”
“Marge”—Olivia rested her hand on my arm—“this is my husband. You probably saw him at book club.”
“I did indeed.” The woman’s gaze dipped southward. “Nice pants.”
I moved my candy bag over the treasures of my kingdom. “Thanks.”
Marge leaned against the doorjamb, seemingly oblivious to the line of kids forming behind us. “Do you read romance novels, young man?”
“I’m more of a nonfiction reader.” Was I supposed to hold out the bag or wait for her to make the first move? This trick-or-treating stuff was as tricky as high school dating.
“Speak up, you tall, handsome thing.” Olivia’s friend tapped the side of her head. “Worked at the Daisy BB gun factory for forty years. Lost my hearing and my first husband to that place.”
When Olivia’s elbow dug into my side, I stifled a laugh. “I, um, I like books on programming, coding.” Was I shouting? I was pretty sure I was. “Occasionally a biography.”
“Hmph.” Marge should’ve been impressed but was not. “Well, there’s a lot to be learned from romance novels.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
She aligned her pointer finger inches from my nose. “You better treat this girl right, you hear me?”
