Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
I’d never thought of myself as a particularly angry person, but that was probably only because I’d had no reason to be mad before that day.
I’d been raised in a good family—even if unconventional, with no known father and Momma and Aunt DeeDee acting as my co-parents.
My life had been a steady downhill stream of academics and animals, flowing to a future as a successful small-town veterinarian.
A bit dull, maybe, but even as a kid that’s how I liked it: Set a goal. Work hard. Reach it. Repeat.
With every setback in Momma’s treatment though, the angrier I’d grown, so by the time I stood at her graveside, my black dress itching at the zipper, I was spitting mad.
I hated the preacher and my aunt and the hospital and this town that would bring pies and “easy to heat up” casseroles.
I hated Momma for dying. I hated myself for my powerlessness.
I hated life. For one whole week. Then, I ran out of steam.
The anger evaporated, and a heaviness settled in my bones, making me sleepy and languid, like I was walking through water all the time.
One of my professors had worked in the wilds of Africa, studying behavioral patterns in elephants.
I remember her talking about their grief process, how a young elephant would walk around the matriarch’s dead body in circles, how the herd would bury their dead, how they would cry and show signs of depression.
I knew that’s what I had, but knowing something doesn’t fix it.
Sleep really is a lovely escape, as I’d found a month or so after Momma’s death, when friends were announcing on social media their return to what would’ve been my final year of vet school.
I’d fall asleep with my phone in hand and stay that way anywhere from twelve to fourteen hours a day, that is until Aunt DeeDee woke me one morning by banging pots and pans around the kitchen.
She’d come by at least once a day, often bringing food, but she hadn’t made me a full breakfast since weeks before Momma died.
“No more of this,” she said when I stumbled into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of day-old coffee. “Today, we’re going to the doctor to see about some medication. I also got you a job at the stables until you can find something more permanent, or go back to school.”
I was surprised that she’d gone to such lengths, not that I should’ve been. She’d organized my after-school activities and driven me to doctors’ appointments for more than half of my life. Still, this kind of directness, this demanding—this was new.
I tried to brush aside her talk of a job. I planned to live on… well, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have a plan. Failing so spectacularly to save my mother’s life had knocked all of that right out of me.
As soon as Aunt DeeDee had seen that I’d finished my breakfast, she’d shoved me into the bathroom, handing me a worn pair of jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt she’d probably found on my floor.
Later, she shook her head as she located my boots—one in the hallway and the other under the couch—and tisked about how Momma would be ashamed at the state of her house.
That got my attention—a little.
Later that morning, we saw Doctor Palmer, who gave me a prescription for an antidepressant, and that afternoon, I swallowed my first dose before trying to make a list of things I’d need to do to properly clean the house.
At the end of the day, I’d felt better—only two percent better, but still… it was something.
The next day, Aunt DeeDee arrived and we did the entire process all over again, but this time instead of taking me to the doctor, she dropped me at Straight from the Horse’s Mouth Stables for an informal orientation and introduction to Bella and the other horses.
Ever since that day, I’d had a routine, a place to go, a purpose. Thanks to Aunt DeeDee.
Lacy moved back home a couple of months later—a job in New York hadn’t panned out—and started her event planning business for Aubergine and surrounding towns.
I never confirmed it, but I wondered if she’d also been encouraged by my aunt to return to open her new business there because of the state of me.
Lacy and my aunt saved me from starving to death or being buried beneath my clutter—and the weight of my own grief—but I hadn’t fully rejoined the world again as a whole and functioning person. I hadn’t needed to. Yet.
With renewed purpose I told my aunt I loved her and hung up, and I made my way back to the Finch residence. I knocked on the door labeled The Tickled Pink Apartment, and Katie called for me to let myself inside.
The name of the apartment did not disappoint.
The entryway sported a rosy-pink glow, and blond wood stairs rose half a floor into an open living area.
By the door was a hat stand, so I hung up my garment bag.
I took in the high domed ceiling and the curved windows before my eyes landed on Mrs. Finch, lying with her legs elevated on a hot-pink velvet settee.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Mrs. Finch said. At first I thought she was speaking to me, but then she extended an arm to Katie Gilman. “Doris went back to her own room to take a nap, and Savilla’s in the kitchen, making me toast—as if I could eat a bite. I’m here all alone with my thoughts.”
Katie gave a pitying smile to Mrs. Finch before motioning for me to take off my boots.
My feet sank into a pale pink carpet. Behind us, the walls popped with vertical magenta stripes against a light silver plane.
Barbie’s Dream House had nothing on this palatial abode.
As Momma would’ve said, It was something else.
I had trouble imagining the man I’d chatted with earlier, and who was now missing, in this very pink environment. Not that Mr. Finch had seemed overbearingly masculine, but he also didn’t seem like someone who would appreciate pink, Pink, PINK!
“Do you need anything? Can I get you water? Or a drink?” Katie asked Mrs. Finch, falling easily back into her role as former employee.
“My slippers—if you’d be a dear—and then if you could pour me the slightest smidge of Mr. Finch’s whiskey.”
Katie opened a tall, cherry-wood cabinet that stood regally behind Mrs. Finch’s settee and then motioned for me to pour the woman a drink before she strode into the recesses of the apartment to locate the requested slippers.
“Carolina, isn’t it?” Mrs. Finch asked me, though with her arm thrown dramatically across her eyes, I wasn’t sure how she could see me clearly enough to know.
“Dakota,” I answered, trying not to sound offended that this woman couldn’t seem to remember my name.
“That’s right. Savilla’s friend.”
Uh. That might be a stretch, but I’d go with it.
“Just this much,” she requested, lifting her other hand and separating her fingers about an inch apart.
“It’s on the top shelf, behind the books.
We haven’t been here since December, but still my husband feels the need to hide his whiskey.
Says he doesn’t like to share his vintage stash…
always paranoid people are after his things. ”
This assessment of her husband was an interesting one, particularly since he’d donated enough money to the town of Aubergine for a premier park and a renovated school, as well as invested in a slew of businesses on Main Street.
Not exactly the behavior of a paranoid or stingy man.
I wondered how well Mrs. Finch knew her own husband.
I took the books from Mr. Finch’s cabinet shelves and stacked them one by one on an end table.
Most were expected—A History of the Pageant World and A Pageant Coach’s Guide to Being Crowned—but there were a couple of surprises, namely Backyard Apiaries and How to Rebuild a Broken Home.
Fleetingly, I wondered if this last title was literal or figurative.
As I pulled the whiskey decanter from its resting place, a thin ledger book that could fit in the palm of my hand fell forward. Since Mrs. Finch’s forearm was still draped languidly across her eyes, I picked it up and silently turned the pages, which were filled with row after row of numbers.
I slipped it in my back pocket, promising myself that I’d return the item after a closer look.
Opening the bottle, the scent of caramel and vanilla wafted out. A tray of mixers lined the very back of the shelf: ginger, lemon, honey, sweet vermouth, and grapefruit juice. There were two small glasses next to the tray.
“Would you like me to add anything?”
“Is there honey?” she asked.
I opened the lid of the small glass jar which was much like the one I’d been gifted when checking in earlier that day.
This one sported a homemade label featuring a tiny purple bee and a small white flower with scarlet dots.
As I peered inside, the fragrance of grapevines met my nose.
It reminded me of hikes with Momma when she’d taught me to spot nightshade, hellebore, and mandrake.
We weren’t witches—unfortunately—but Momma had wanted to make sure I would know what not to eat if I ever got lost up there.
“There’s a bit left,” I told her, just as Katie reappeared.
“Now, Mrs. Finch, you always say that eating sugar makes you anxious,” Katie advised, slipping Mrs. Finch’s feet into the fuzzy pink slippers. The gesture was surprisingly intimate.
“Never mind, then.” Mrs. Finch sighed, seeming frustrated by my slowness as much as by the advice that Katie had offered. “I’ll take it neat.”
I poured a smidge as fast as I could. As I handed it to her, I decided to go with a direct approach. “Mrs. Finch… if your husband left of his own accord, where do you think he might go? Does he ever walk the grounds?”
“Not during pageant week. He’s either here with me or downstairs with the contestants.” Mrs. Finch took a sip. “The library and the solarium are his favorite places—besides our apartment—but security would’ve found him if it was that obvious.”