Chapter 3 Flora
Flora
On their second night alone, Flora and her sister, Isabelle, made noodles with butter for dinner—the weird, square χυλοπ?τε? noodles, the butter tangier than American Land O’Lakes.
“I know you think I’m paranoid,” said Flora, wiping her lips with a paper napkin, “but I just have a bad feeling about Mom and this craft workshop. When I checked her location, I couldn’t find her on my list. She disabled Find My! ”
“And I sent her a text and it didn’t show delivered or read, Isabelle. Something’s wrong.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Isabelle, scrolling. “Just let her have her weirdo artist retreat, Jesus.”
“I think we should call Grammy Charlotte.”
“Oh my God, I miss Palmetto Shores! I miss the club and the golf cart and even the creepy dog painting in Grammy’s guest room.”
Flora smiled. “Where did she even get that painting?” she said.
“Why would bulldogs be sailing a boat?”
“They have little sailor hats!” exclaimed Flora.
“And Grammy always has food for us. The whole closet pantry full.”
“I was just thinking about that—Mallomars!”
“And those mini ice cream sandwiches in her freezer,” said Isabelle, stretching her arms on the table and putting her head down in dramatic anguish. “Whyyyyy did we move here?”
“Do you really think Mom’s OK?”
“Nobody’s OK, Flor. But I’m sure she’ll text you back. Don’t call the police just yet.”
“I’m just worried.”
“You’re always worried,” said Isabelle.
She said it kindly.
For once, Isabelle was being kind.