The Glass Coffin by Gail Bowen Read Free Book Online Page A

stuff?”
    “I’m sure she’s heard rumours,” I said.
    “Good,” Taylor said. “Anyway, after we come back from the mall, we eat lunch and put on our dresses so the photographer can take our pictures.” She stretched luxuriously. “My hair is going to be soooo good.”
    “Still committed to the ringlets?” I asked.
    “Why wouldn’t I be? The flower girl in that bride’s magazine looked so neat.” She cocked her head. “Didn’t you think she looked pretty?”
    “Sure,” I ran my hair through Taylor’s straight, dark hair. “I guess I just think you’re beautiful the way you are.”
    “Wait till you see me with ringlets,” Taylor said.
    On our way down to breakfast, I stuck my head in the guest room, and was relieved to see Jill sleeping. Angus took Willie for his run while I made oatmeal and toast. After we’d eaten, I poured a mug of coffee and took it up to Jill. “Rise and shine,” I said.
    “Just ten more minutes,” she mumbled.
    “Not for the bride,” I said.
    Jill sat up and took the mug gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said.
    “Proud to be your java-enabler,” I said. “Rapti’s coming by in twenty minutes to work her magic.”
    Jill got out of bed, walked over to the mirror, and squinted at herself. “I hope she’s bringing some industrial-strength MAC concealer. She’s got serious work ahead.”
    Rapti Lustig didn’t reach for the MAC III , but she did make judicious use of the skills she’d acquired during her ten years as a makeup person at NationTV. She gave Jill and me facials that left us dewy-skinned, and smoothed our deep-conditioned hair into styles that were as elegant as they were understated.
    There was nothing subtle about my daughter’s ’do. Using the photo clipped from the magazine as her guide, Rapti spray-gelled and dry-rolled Taylor’s hair into a medusa explosion of ringlets that was nothing short of spectacular. Taylor usually displayed a healthy lack of interest in her appearance, but that morning, she couldn’t take her eyes off herself. As soon as the last spritz of hairspray kissed her curls, she leapt out of the chair. “Okay,” she said, grabbing my hand, “let’s hit the mall.”
    Despite my concern about Jill’s marriage, Taylor’s buoyancy was infectious, and I had my own private source of pleasure. A permanent relationship with Gabe Leventhal was out of the question. He and I lived in parallel universes, but, at fifty-five, I was old enough to know that carpe diem wasn’t just a phrase from Latin class. A walk in the snow with a man who could make me laugh was nothing to sneeze at, so I left the house carrying the tool prized by those who know the value of seizing the moment: a cellphone.
    Taylor loves malls, and that day I did too. The holiday decorations, the lights, the contact buzz that came from jostling shoppers giddy with impossible last-minute quests, and – a bonus – the chance to scope out the trees that were being raffled off for the symphony’s year-end fundraiser. I was a fan of the symphony, and Taylor was a fan of glitz, so we had bought a dozen tickets. The Scotch pine in our living room was, in my daughter’s opinion, okay but boring, and for two weeks she had fantasized about winning a second more spectacular tree. She had savoured some seductive possibilities before she settled on a feathery confection titled Snowfall at Swan Lake. The draw was that afternoon, so between stops in front of mirrors to verify that her curls were still sizzling, Taylor scrutinized her favourite, while I reminded her that the symphony had sold hundreds of tickets and that winners were promised a tree but not necessarily the tree of their choice. She listened politely, then pointed out that if we moved the parson’s bench and the grandmother clock out of the front hall, there would be a ton of room for Snowfall at Swan Lake. As I checked our home voice mail again to see if there was a message from Gabe, I knew Taylor wasn’t