Chapter Fifty-Two
FIFTY-TWO
Phoebe
I do a lazy scour of the family room at Stonehaven, in search of someone. Floors have been polished, chandeliers dim for a moody ambience, dark damask wallpaper restored, and all nooks and crannies have been checked for black mold. Biohazard-free.
Livable for longer than a summer. But this is not my place of residence. Even though I love things that go boo, I wouldn’t live somewhere that could potentially cause Rocky grief every time he’s ready for bed.
I rotate in a circle and tap my lips. “I wonder where she could be? Is she…under the pillow?” I swipe the quilted pillow off the tufted love seat. “Nope, not there.”
Giggles emanate from the arched window. Two teeny-tiny combat boots stick out from the bottom of a thick purple curtain.
“Is she”—I creep closer—“behind the tea cart?” I glance around the tea cart, only to hear bright snickering.
“Is she—”
“Boo!” A little girl in a black jean skirt bounces out with the cutest giggles ever.
As I said, I really love things that go boo. Particularly this gap-toothed toddler with light brown pigtails and big enchanting gray eyes that immediately steal hearts. I should know; she stole mine the minute Hailey gave birth to her and I held her in my arms.
Really, I think she stole seven hearts that night.
I gasp. “Were you hiding there this whole time?”
“Uh-huh.” She nods robustly and rocks on her feet.
“What a terrific hider you are, little miss. Your mommy will be so happy to know.”
She presses her tongue against her tiny baby teeth in a cheek-dimpling smile, her shoulders rising a little bashfully. It reminds me of Hails.
“Auntie Phoebe.” She enunciates very well for not even being three yet. “You hide now,” she says, but goes and scurries back behind the curtain with a giggle.
“You ready?” Rocky saunters in, slipping his phone in his back pocket. “The nine-a.m. tour group is one room over.”
Shit. “Did you get the thing resolved?”
“The thing,” he whispers, like I’m understating this. “You mean the tourist who pissed in my great-grandmother’s vase?”
“Yeah, that thing.” The caretaker called us and said there was a “situation” from a tour group last night. I thought we were going to show up to something far worse. Like a busted pipe leaking through the walls. Or stolen trinkets, like the Sèvres porcelain or bronze wolf figurines.
Instead, it was the mysterious case of the pissing tourist. Which is extra funny, because out-of-towners are called “skunks.”
“Really putting skunk in skunk,” I tell Rocky now.
That makes him smile. “It’s resolved.”
“Yippee—”
“Where is she?” he cuts me off, instant I will go to war levels of defense in his voice. And Rocky says Jake is the Arthurian knight.
“I think she went up the chimney. Pulled a reverse Santa.”
“Funny.” Rocky nods to me a couple times, relaxing as he sees her little combat boots beneath the curtain. “How long have you been working on that one?”
“You get my on-the-fly material.”
“It fucking shows,” he whispers lowly.
I flip him off subtly at my side.
“And if you’ll all just pool right in here.
” Susie, a college student and one of our excellent tour guides, directs a group of ten inside.
“This is where the Wolfe family would gather, especially during stormy days when boating to town would guarantee seasickness to even the most experienced sailors.”
I take one step to collect my niece when she decides to spring out and proudly yell, “Boo!”
Tourists laugh, some clap, and she giggles, swaying side to side. Her lack of stranger danger drives Rocky out of his mind.
He scoops her up fast.
“Oh dear, her eyes,” a lady says. “They’re stunning.” This is the fourth eye compliment and it’s not even ten a.m. yet.
“Thank you,” the toddler says very clearly, her shoulders lifting again. She shies away with a little giggle-smile into Rocky’s chest. Too precious. Will easily murder for. Thankfully none of us have ever had to.
“These are the owners of Stonehaven,” Susie says, introducing us. “Grey Thornhall and Phoebe Thornhall. They’re the reason the public can venture inside this historic home and truly appreciate its significant part of Victoria’s rich history.”
Rocky didn’t do it for the kudos. He’ll say he did it for the money. But he’s not pocketing a dime. All proceeds from Stonehaven tours go back to the town.
I think he did it for them.
I glance over at the humongous oil painting hanging over the fireplace mantel of his brothers squished on a couch and his parents on either side and his mother holding him in her arms. No longer hidden in a musty secret room under a canvas tarp, but alive for all to know, for all to see.
“We appreciate you all coming out,” I tell them. But we have to go. I must not evoke enough hurriedness.
An older woman acknowledges the toddler perched in Rocky’s arm. “And who’s this little adorable girl?”
“Hi,” she greets cheerfully with a wave, no hesitation. “I’m Winter.”
I try not to panic because her name is Winter. She’s allowed to introduce herself. There is nothing wrong, but we were told as kids to never tell anyone our names. Even when asked. Because our parents were afraid we’d give someone the wrong one.
When we leave the mansion and board the speedboat, I’m a little shaken by the interaction. My pulse hasn’t calmed down.
“Phebs?” Rocky bends toward me with a toddler life jacket.
I’m seated in the copilot’s chair. Winter on my lap, humming to herself.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, trying not to appear freaked out. Last thing I need is for Winter to sense she did anything wrong.
She did everything right.
I hold her securely.
“She’s safe,” Rocky whispers to me, fitting her little arms through the life jacket. She has on a black-striped tee with embroidered red strawberries.
Hails said she’s been on a strawberry kick all summer because “Auntie Phoebe wears ’em and I wanna, too!”
I crinkle my nose to stop from getting emotional.
She’s safe.
“Uncle Rocky, no,” Winter whines as he buckles the vest tight. She tries to pinch at the clasps, but it’s too tough for her tiny fingers. “Unbuckle. Unbuckle.” Her brows crease, a panicked look in her eyes.
I almost crumble.
Rocky stays firm. “It’s for your safety, Winter. You wear life vests around water.”
“Unbuckle. Unbuckle.” She kicks her legs and looks up at me for help.
“Oh no,” I tell Rocky. “We’re about to meet a toddler meltdown.”
“Unbuckle, please. Unbuckle.” She’s near tears. Okay, now she’s full-on blubbering.
Rocky curses under his breath, and I make an executive decision and unbuckle her. He gives me a headshake. Though not a hard one. His lips twitch up a little.
Maybe at the notion that I’m not calling Hailey to ask for step-by-step instructions on what to do. It even surprises me how quickly I can make some choices without consulting others whether it’s okay or right.
“It’s a five-minute boat ride,” I defend. “I’ll hold her tight.”
“Fine. Don’t tell Jake.” He mans the wheel, staying on his feet.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Winter immediately calms. As happy as a clam. She sprawls back against my chest like she’s sunbathing. Her arms spread wide as she feels the wind in her pigtails, the same light brown shade as Jake’s hair.
Rocky and I share a smile. Even loving her to the deepest core, we haven’t changed our minds about having children of our own. He had a vasectomy years ago, and there hasn’t been a day when I’ve wanted a baby.
If anything, I’m more resolute in our decision to not have kids. I’m happy as Winter’s auntie.
The town is bustling with tourists and locals when we make it to shore.
Docks are pristinely clean. Beaches raked. Storefronts all have fresh coats of paint. Everything about Victoria seems brighter, livelier.
In large part, because of Jake. He contributes sizable amounts of money to Victoria the same way that Rocky does through the Stonehaven tours.
Together, Jake and Rocky have given more to this community in the past three years than the Konings and the Wolfes did in the past decade.
“Hold hands, Winter,” I tell her once we’re in town on foot.
She grabs my hand and Rocky’s as we cross the street.
“Jump,” Winter says, and Rocky and I lift and swing her together over the cobblestone sidewalk. She giggles. “Jump!” We do it again and again.
The bookstore comes into view, and we let go of her hands. Winter races to the entrance, yanking at the locked doors with all her might. Then she presses her back to the glass with a smile like someone will come help her if she’s sweet.
“Does she remind you of Oliver?” I ask him.
“Every fucking day.”
I don’t have to unlock the bookstore. Hailey opens the doors from the inside. We’re closed on Mondays, and we all meet here for coffee and breakfast from Seaside Griddle. Not to plot a job.
Just to catch up.
The store isn’t Baubles & Bookends. For almost three years, it’s been The Bleeding Shelf: Books & Merch. A decal of the logo—a knife stabbing a heart on top of a book, blood dripping off the blade—covers the front glass door.
Just the right levels of romance and horror.
The bells ding as we go inside and the door shuts behind us.
It’s a typical bookstore except for the iron shelves, the black walls with waves of pink, and stocked merch from various slasher flicks.
Rocky jokes about my portion of the store being a Hot Topic, but we make a pretty penny off the campy Scream T-shirts.
And he has purchased way too many kitschy mugs for me to believe he doesn’t love it.
“Mommy. Mommy.” Winter immediately embraces Hailey’s legs with a big squeeze.
Hailey hugs her daughter with so much tender affection.
My best friend has grown out her brown roots.
These days, she only leaves the ends platinum-blonde.
My hair is still a dark shade of blue. I watch Hails straighten Winter’s crooked skirt.
“Did you have fun with Auntie Phoebe and Uncle Rocky?” she asks her.
Winter nods robustly.
“What’d you do?” She fixes her droopy pigtail.