7. Coraline
7
CORALINE
“What the hell are those? I thought Ma said you made ice cream sandwiches,” my older brother, Beau, grumbles from across the island. We’re in our parents’ kitchen, getting everything ready for family dinner.
My attention stays on the platter, one hand arranging them so they look like a pastel bouquet of treats and the other darting out to smack the back of my brother’s hand as he reaches toward my little masterpieces.
“Hands off, Beau.”
I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye as he bends down, trying to catch my gaze. “Seriously, Cora. What’s in here?”
I shake my head, enjoying the way the ends of my hair slide across my bare shoulders. “Nope, not-uh. I’m not telling you assholes shit again.”
“Hey, don’t drag me into this,” my oldest brother, Graham, grumbles. “I didn’t say shit about your weird food.”
My gaze snaps up so quickly, I’m honestly surprised I don’t feel my eyeballs rattle. I point my black plastic spatula at Graham first, then swing it toward Beau. “Maybe the two of you should try broadening your horizons, then you’d be less judgmental about trying new things.”
A smarmy sort of grin blooms on Graham’s face. “Hey, I’ve tried lots of new things. Colorful things. Bendy and shapely. And I’m very complimentary to?—”
I lean forward and swat at him with the spatula. “Oh gross. Jesus, Graham. Not everyone wants to hear about your sexual exploits.”
Beau snickers. “ Sexual exploits? You’ve been hanging around Mom and her book club friends too much, sis. You’re starting to sound like?—”
“I’d exercise caution and restraint if I were you, son,” Mom says, breezing in from the doorway.
My brothers straighten immediately, mildly chagrined cringes plastered on their faces. It takes everything in me to keep the smug satisfaction off of mine.
“Ma, didn’t see you there,” Beau says, rounding the island and tossing his arm over her shoulder.
Graham drags his palm across the back of his neck. “How, uh, how much of that did you hear?”
Mom looks at him over the bridge of her nose. An impressive feat for a woman a foot shorter than her sons. My brothers got their height from our dad while my sister and I look like carbon copies of our mother.
In fact, all of the Carter women seem to be made from the same cookie cutter for too many generations to count. The same hair, thick and sort of wavy. A brown so dark that it looks black unless you’re in direct sunlight. Then it sort of sparkles with this deep auburn color. I tried to dye my hair a brighter version of that sunlit color in high school, but the color didn’t last for longer than a couple of days.
And while my sister and I look related, it’s Evangeline and I that look like sisters. Our features are so similar that the only thing that separates us is our eye color. Even our styles have come closer to one another over the past couple of years. She used to be all pressed linen pant suits at work and chiffon summer dresses, while I was chef’s coats and band tees with ripped jeans. Our Venn diagram of style overlapped for a small sampling of textiles. But as we grew up, the center part of commonality grew so large that there are now so very few things we don’t both love.
In fact, she’s let me dip into her closet more than usual over the last year. She argued that her closet needed some love since she was ignoring it for her maternity wardrobe instead. My cousin and subsequent best friend found herself the center of a Reaper love triangle a couple of years ago. I thought for sure she’d listen to my advice and fuck around and leave ’em wanting, because that’s the type of men they are in my experience.
But thank god she didn’t. Because if she had, then I wouldn’t have the most perfect newborn baby girl to spoil at every opportunity and the most charming six-year-old. Hunter is Silas’s son, but Evie is the only mother he’s ever known. I don’t know when I cried more: when she officially adopted Hunter or when she had Ruby a couple months ago.
I’m trying my best to give them their space as they adjust to a family of six. Being in an unconventional relationship like she is in a small town could be ostracizing. But not in Rosewood. No one even blinks at the fact that the Reaper’s president, his brother, and the vice president are all in a committed relationship with the same woman. Of course, none of them love her as much as Hunter does. He’s probably the best older brother I’ve ever seen.
And as I glance at the two clowns on the other side of the island, I know quite a bit about having older brothers. They’re assholes for sure, but they do have their moments.
I finish arranging the ice cream sandwiches on the platter and pop them back in the freezer.
“Where’s Abby?” I glance at the clock on the microwave behind Beau.
Mom steps out from under Beau’s arm, heading toward the counter where the plates and flatware are waiting. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? Your sister has a big event coming up. They flew her out to Portland for a few weeks to help train someone.” She pauses, resting her hands on the edge of the quartz countertop. She narrows her eyes on a spot in the middle of the island. “You know, now that I think about it. I can’t remember if she said Portland or Orlando. Hm.” She shrugs her shoulders and blinks a few times. She looks at me with a smile. “You know your sister. Always so busy. They’d be lost without her. Her boss told her she’s one of the most valuable employees at their company.”
“She works hard,” Graham adds, snagging the stack of light blue linen napkins off the counter.
Mom nods, a proud grin turning up the corners of her mouth. “She does. She’s always worked hard. Straight A’s in school, graduated at the top of her class in college.” She sighs, the sound sort of wistful. “And in just a few years, she worked herself up the top of the corporate ladder, making herself indispensable to them.” She looks between my brothers and me. “Each of you could learn a thing or two from your sister.”
I know I shouldn’t take it personally. My sister did work her ass off and achieved all of those things. She’s dedicated and charming, so fucking smart, and she also puts in sixty to seventy hours a week.
“Ouch, Ma,” Graham grumbles with a faux wince, clutching the napkins to his chest like he’s covering a wound. “You wound me. I’d like to see Abby build you a custom ecommerce website for you to sell your plants and take care of it every time you get a wild hair and watch too many YouTube videos.”
“Or build you and Dad a diversified portfolio that balances growth and income, ensuring a comfortable retirement. Or maybe that’s your plan, yeah? You and Dad want to work until you’re eighty,” Beau chimes in.
“Ach, well, that’s true. What would I do without my boys?” she says, patting Beau’s forearm. “I know you work hard too. But you both sit behind computers all day and your sister travels .” She says travel like it’s an exotic word.
And maybe to her, it is. Born and raised in Rosewood. She met dad at a summer festival in a neighboring town, Monarch Grove. The way he tells it, it was love at first sight for him. They got married, and he came to Rosewood because she wanted to be closer to her family while starting her own.
I clear my throat, the back of my neck prickling with awareness. “I have my bakery, Mom.”
She tsks, her face falling into something that resembles a sympathetic smile. “Right, of course. You have . . .”
“Sugarplum,” I say when she trails off. My cheeks feel hot and I have to force myself to remain still.
“Right, Sugarplums,” she says with a nod.
“Just Sugarplum, Mom. It’s not plural,” I murmur, my gaze darting to my brothers. I hate that they’re bearing witness to this . . . this uncomfortable moment.
She lifts her shoulders, a bright smile on her face. It’s tugged down in the corners for it to be genuine though. She rests her hands on either side of the stack of plates. “I don’t know why I have such a hard time with that name. I’ll get it one of these days, honey. Sugar & Spice was just so catchy, it rolled right off your tongue, ya know?”
Sugar & Spice Bakery, as in my old job. Located just off of Main Street in downtown Rosewood, Sugar & Spice was a nice enough bakery. But it wasn’t without its faults too, something Mom keeps forgetting.
Her gaze flits between my eyes, and behind the veil of motherly concern is judgment. It’s been this way since I announced my plans for my bakery, made possible by her late mother’s will. Nana Jo left all her grandkids something when she passed a couple years ago—gifts with strings. I don’t even know what stipulations she left for my siblings, despite the countless times I’ve asked. But with my sizable check came the stipulation that it’s only to be used to open my own bakery.
Because Nana Jo knew that was my dream. She used to call me her little sugarplum because I spent so much time in the kitchen with her. So it felt fitting to name my bakery after the woman who made it possible.
Mom’s face brightens like a literal lightbulb flashes above her head. She pats the counter top twice. “Oh I know! I’ll have Dad arrange one of his marketing guys in his office to help you narrow down an official name for your little bakery.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, my lips twisting to the side. I spend all of two seconds debating if it’s worth it for me to argue with her or just mildly agree and then talk to Dad later. I clear my throat and blink too rapidly. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Mom exhales and hefts the plates into her arms. “Perfect. I’ll make sure Dad sets it up for you, honey. We’d hate to see Nana Jo’s money sunk into a place that isn’t set up for success.”
“Jesus, Ma. Lay off a bit, yeah?” Beau grumbles under his breath.
“What?” Her head flies to her left, her eyes a touch too wide as she lifts and drops her shoulders dramatically. “She knows I’m just trying to help. Don’t you, honey?” She looks over at me with both brows raised high on her forehead.
“Yeah, Mom,” I say with a sigh.
She flicks her fingers out in a little jazz hand as if to say see, I told you so with a pointed look at Beau.
“Here, Ma, let me grab those,” Beau says, taking the plates from her. “It’s probably my turn to set the table.”
“Well aren’t you the gentleman tonight.” She grabs the silverware and follows him out of the kitchen and into the formal dining room.
“Hey,” Graham murmurs.
I blink a few times and shove those sharp emotions back into the box inside my chest. I glance at him and offer him a weary sort of smile. “It’s fine.”
Concern swims behind blue eyes the same shade as my own. Cornflower blue like the sky on a cloudless day. That’s what Nana Jo always said. They were the same color as my Grandpa Dalton’s eyes, and only Graham and I have the privilege.
“She means well, you know that. She’s just trying to help.”
I curve my palm into a C shape and collect any crumbs on the counter, anything to keep my hands busy so I don’t have to see the pity in his gaze. “Well, I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need it, ya know? I had a hand in making Sugar & Spice what it is today, and I can do it again. On my own terms, for my own brand.”
“I know you can.” He pauses. “Squirt.” He leans forward, knuckles poised like he’s going to give me a noogie as the childhood nickname rolls out of his mouth.
I jerk back, reflexively smoothing a hand over my hair. “I spent thirty minutes curling it today. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you near it, big brother.”
He drops his hand to the island, rapping his knuckles in a quick beat. “Why’d you get all dolled up for Sunday dinner anyway?”
I flick the ends of my hair over my shoulder, glancing at the graphic tee from a concert I went to a few years ago with my roommates. I only knew one of the opening acts, but it was some of the most fun I’d had in ages with them. I tossed it on over ripped jeans that I know for a fact make my ass look amazing.
He holds his hand up, palm facing me. “Wait. Let me guess: You’re going to a show after this?”
I flash him a grin and gather the glasses, calling over my shoulder, “You know me so well, big brother.”
“Well in that case, let’s hurry this dinner up. Sounds like we both have plans tonight.”