Chapter 1 #2
“Working, yes. Networking, no.” Kayla watched Matt disappear in the crowd, affection written all over her face. “And he’s doing really well. Did he tell you he sold that historic Victorian on Monroe?”
“Good thing Estelle thought to introduce the two of you then.” Frankie smiled at the memory of her mother’s excitement at the match of Cousin Matt and Frankie’s once-best friend.
“I’ll forever be grateful.”
“As am I for your support in this.” Frankie gestured to the room, a wave of nostalgia sweeping over her at this rare one-on-one time with Kayla.
Nowadays, it seemed they only ever saw each other at work or with Matt also present.
The school kept her so busy. “I know our lives have sort of diverged, but it means a lot to me that—” Her voice broke without warning as the brief respite came to an end.
She dug her nails into her palms in frustration and turned her face away.
Get a grip. The people of Aspen Creek would expect better of her.
But this was how it had been since that night a week ago when Charlie, the custodian at the school, had shown up at the house after hours to let Frankie know an ambulance had taken Estelle to the ER.
Riptides of emotion without warning. Quicksand where she least expected.
Because she didn’t even get to say goodbye.
By the time she reached the hospital, Estelle was gone. A massive heart attack, just like that.
“Of course,” Kayla said, leaning forward in her chair. “You know I’m here for you. But if anyone can handle this, it’s you. You guys basically ran the school together—you know exactly what to do.”
Did she? Frankie wiped her tears as discreetly as she could.
Of course you do, Estelle whispered in her mind. We’re in this together.
Except they weren’t in it together anymore—that was the problem.
They both fell quiet for a moment, then Frankie sniffed, screwed up her posture, and rose to her feet. “I should get back to it.”
Kayla reached out to touch Frankie’s arm. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Frankie nodded, then she ventured back into the throngs of guests who had come to pay their respects.
There was the florist Mom bought her seeds and bulbs from every year, Frankie’s fifth grade teacher from the year they moved in, and several of her high school ones, the butcher on Main Street, Mom’s hairstylist, the whole chamber of commerce board, and so many current and former students and their families.
The room was lined with flowers, many of them with cards attached, sent by folks who’d been unable to attend, and in a corner, Starview’s students took turns playing short tunes on their instruments.
That wasn’t something Frankie had arranged—they’d just shown up because that’s what this town did.
New tears threatened at that thought, but before they could spill over, a shrill voice said her name right behind her.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” The woman was all rosy cheeks and solemn eyes, which struck Frankie as a contradiction.
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard. How are you holding up?
” She pulled Frankie into an embrace that smelled of jasmine and money while Frankie scrambled to place her.
“I came home as soon as Daddy told me of course. I mean, you know—I owe everything to darling Estelle. Chicago is still ah-mazing.”
The penny dropped. She and Maddie had come up together at Starview, often playing piano duets that brought down thunderous applause, but after high school, Maddie had done what Frankie didn’t and pursued her craft, which later led to her permanent appointment with the Chicago Symphony.
Frankie had been happy for her when she’d heard.
Happy with a sprinkle of “what ifs” for herself, but she would never say so out loud.
“Maddie, I almost didn’t recognize you,” Frankie said, fighting the urge to check her outfit for imperfections in the presence of Maddie’s sheen. “It’s been so long.”
“You know. Just here and back. One night only. But you look good.” Maddie paused, raising her eyebrows. “I’d hoped to hear you play earlier.”
Frankie’s fingers curled into her palms as if prompted to hide by the statement. You and me both.
There had been a certain level of competitiveness between them back then—who mastered “Fantaisie-Impromptu” first, who got the finale solos at the concerts, that sort of thing, but Frankie had long since accepted that when the dust settled, she was the one left behind.
And she’d come to terms with that. Really.
She and Estelle had carved out a nice life for themselves. They liked teaching.
“Who’s your friend, Frankie dear?” Uncle Ray stepped up between them, saving her from having to respond. “I thought I knew every single soul in here.”
“Oh, but you do, Mr. Clark,” Maddie said. “It’s Madeline Forrester. You were on the zoning board with my father.”
“She’s a pianist for the Chicago Symphony now,” Frankie added magnanimously.
“No.” Uncle Ray huffed in disbelief, a wolfy grin stretching his thin lips. “Not Peter’s girl? I don’t believe it.” He took her hand in both of his as she preened. “What a clever young woman you’ve grown up to be.”
He was such a salesman, Uncle Ray—could make anyone believe whatever he wanted them to.
Right now, Maddie likely felt both younger than her thirty-six years and indeterminately brilliant.
It was no wonder he’d built such a successful property development company for himself.
Being able to make anyone feel special was a superpower.
Frankie had loved it as a child, but as she grew older, she’d occasionally spied the intent behind it, seen how the schmoozing preceded handshakes at a Christmas party or town picnic, and more than once, it had made her wonder what Estelle saw in him to have kept him a lifelong friend.
Estelle was never bothered by it though.
“He’s good at his job,” she’d simply said, which had ended the conversation if Frankie ever asked.
But while Frankie took his suave ways with a grain of salt, even joking about them with Matt on occasion, Uncle Ray was still the closest thing to family she had, and you didn’t choose your family.
Besides, he’d given her Matt, and Matt always took after his mom more and couldn’t stand what he called Ray’s “business face.” Although the first time Frankie saw one of Matt’s realtor commercials on TV, she’d called him howling with laughter over his business face.
She wasn’t sure he’d forgiven her for that yet.
The afternoon was drawing to a close and the crowd finally thinning, so Frankie left Maddie and Uncle Ray to their conversation, meandering from group to group to thank people for coming.
There was a gorgeous floral arrangement on the entry table, and as the pressure of the day released its stranglehold, she stopped to smell the pink gardenias and read the card.
Loved and missed. Estelle, you had the patience of a saint. Neither one of my boys practiced their guitar, but you never scolded them, and they’re still playing. Be with God. / The Henleys
Frankie remembered them. They’d moved away a few years ago, but the news must have traveled. Soothed by the scent of the flowers and kind words she didn’t have to interact with, she roamed the perimeter of the room from bouquet to bouquet.
Tulips and peonies:
Deepest condolences, Frankie. I once suggested we’d name a room at the library after Estelle, but she wouldn’t have it. Well, I’m telling you—I’m going to petition for it again. / Maria
A swathe of lilies:
Estelle—Aspen Creek’s very own star. How very missed you’ll be, but how fortunate we are to have had you in our midst these many years. Much love as you move on. / Herbert K.
Roses and carnations:
I met my husband in college when we bonded over our time at Starview. We’re expecting our first child in a few weeks, and if it’s a girl, her middle name will be Estelle. Thank you for everything. / Candace and Leo White
Frankie’s fingertips caressed the expensive cardstock, the strumming beat of “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac at a low volume cushioning another wave of disbelief that her mom was gone.
There was so much love here—more than she’d known or understood while Estelle was alive.
Estelle hadn’t been just her mother; she’d been a mother figure for countless others over the years.
A matron of Aspen Creek. And maybe that should have made Frankie feel less alone, but it didn’t; it only amplified the loss.
Frankie forced herself onward, her eyes landing on one of the many framed photographs of Estelle scattered around the room.
In this one, she was posing outside Starview with her guitar.
The picture must have been twenty years old—her hair was longer, her eyes bigger but still lined with her signature kohl pen.
There was confidence in her posture and pride in her smile, but she’d looked away from the camera at the moment of capture.
“She was looking at you, wasn’t she?” a woman asked next to Frankie, startling her. “I can tell. I remember that wonder in her eyes when you were around.”
Frankie studied the woman’s profile. She was about Estelle’s age, bottle-blonde hair in an updo, tasteful make-up, tailored but feminine pantsuit. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“Oh.” The woman extended her hand. “Silly me. Of course you wouldn’t remember. I’m Orla Monroe. I interviewed your mother for Country Weekly right after her song went gold, but you were still a little tyke then.”
Frankie stiffened at the woman’s name. She hadn’t heard it in a very long time, but for a while, it had been synonymous with everything that was wrong with media’s involvement in the music industry. Give them a finger and they’ll take the whole hand, Estelle had griped.
“Right. Ms. Monroe.” Frankie kept her expression neutral while wracking her brain for exactly what it was that had turned her mother off the reporter. She picked up another card.
“Just Orla. Please.” She mirrored Frankie, grabbing a different one. “My deepest condolences. I stayed in touch with Estelle for some years after that interview, so I understand you were very close.”
There had been a second interview, hadn’t there?
One Estelle had shut down. Something about getting unduly personal when all Estelle wanted to talk about was her music.
They’d moved to Aspen Creek shortly afterward.
How interesting that Orla had mentioned only the Country Weekly feature.
It begged the question why she was here—to pay her respects or because nosiness was a lifelong affliction… ?
“I appreciate it,” Frankie said, though she wished the woman would go away both out of loyalty to her mom and so that she wouldn’t have to repeat the same pitying conversation for the umpteenth time.
“And thank you for coming.” Frankie looked for an out and spotted Matt behind the reporter.
She lifted her chin to signal she needed him.
The understanding that comes with growing up together delivered, and he meandered over. “Hey,” he said. “All good?”
“Yep.” Frankie glanced from him to Orla, hoping he’d continue to read her mind and save her.
“Day’s almost done,” Matt said. “Want to come to our place later?”
Frankie hedged. While she appreciated that he was sticking around, the invite put her on the spot. If she couldn’t keep her emotions in check, it would be better to be alone. “Maybe. I still have a lot of these to read.” She held up the card. “Am I supposed to respond, do you know?”
“I wouldn’t,” Orla said, inserting herself in the conversation. “Orla Monroe. Pleasure.” She shook Matt’s hand.
“Nice to meet you.” He sounded perplexed, and if Frankie knew him right, he’d have a snappy comment or two later about the reporter. Turning his attention back to Frankie, he deliberately angled his shoulder to cut Orla out. “If anything, you could put a note of thanks in the paper,” he said.
“If that’s enough,” she replied. She’d look it up later. Matt meant well, but he didn’t have all eyes on him like Frankie now did. Estelle’s shoes would be hard to fill.
“Oh, people do that all the time,” Orla said from behind Matt. “You’ll be fine. People can’t expect handwritten notes with a turnout like this. Beautiful flowers. Gorgeous. Fitting. I hear she loved gardening.”
“Did you know her well?” Matt asked, his manners taking over.
“Only in a professional capacity, and it has been years. We… lost touch.”
“There are a lot of flowers,” Frankie agreed, too tired to call out the euphemism for whatever disagreement Orla and Estelle had had. She held up the card in her hand. “And I really should try to get through these.”
“Want help?” Matt asked, nudging it. “Who’s that from?”
“The Peltiers. Their son was a student. He’s at Berklee now.”
“Impressive,” Orla said, clearly believing she was still part of their conversation. She flipped open the card she was holding.
Matt took the Peltier one and read it for himself. “Aw, that’s sweet. ‘Will always remember her.’ And Kayla told me Maria at the library wants to get a room renamed. I bet she’ll make it happen. No one would vote no. Like I said—everyone loved Aunt Estelle.”
“Um…” Orla looked up from her card. “Maybe not everyone.”
Frankie and Matt turned to her.
“What do you mean?” Frankie asked, her irritation with the woman growing.
Orla handed her the card. “Look for yourself.”
Frankie read the note, anticipating more laudations, so it took a moment for the sentiment to compute. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the words.
“What is it?” Matt asked.
Frankie showed him the card, and they read it together in silence, the message a stray thread in an otherwise perfectly embroidered tapestry of solicitude and praise.
“What the hell?” Matt said, which was exactly Frankie’s thought as the words danced before her eyes.
Now that you’re gone, I have no choice but to forgive you.
Not that you deserve it.