Chapter 16
Ingrid went to bed early that night. She was exhausted, her head still throbbing, but the rest of her buzzed with elation.
She had done it. She’d found the elusive jade flowers for the wedding and secured the elusive harpist. There was no denying it.
Clemmie’s warning about Scoot not liking Edie might be true, but the woman couldn’t deny what Ingrid had done for her daughter.
This would prove to Scoot that Ingrid held nothing but goodwill for the Loeffler family. She couldn’t possibly still hold on to old jealousies after this. Ingrid felt certain of it.
Now, as she lay in bed, she reviewed everything that happened after Sailor left her house.
Ingrid had gone to the attic, to look through the old ledgers her grandmother had stacked under the steep pitched roof.
Specifically, the ones from the nineties.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for.
Maybe just a clue from Edie’s past that would give her some understanding about her relationship with the Loefflers.
She flipped through the pages, perusing the names of Edie’s customers. Random people with random problems, inked beside long-ago dates. As earth-shattering as those problems might have been to each person, they no longer existed now, did they? No problem was big enough to beat time.
She saw a few names she recognized, but mostly none rang a bell.
No Loeffler, Scoot or Rill, appeared anywhere in the columns.
Then she opened the 1995 ledger and noticed one entry that appeared over and over.
That was odd not only for the frequency of appointments, but because there were only initials, S.S. , rather than a full name.
She’d found nothing more and putting away the ledgers, had gone about her day. But she kept wondering who S.S. was … and why they had come to see Edie so many times. There had been at least two dozen entries. Was it some code name for Rill?
Suddenly, there was a knock on her door. Before she could answer, it swung open revealing Miles. Bare-chested, he wore a pair of too-big, old-fashioned pajama pants that had belonged to her grandpa and carried his laptop. His eyes were dancing.
“I’ve got to show you something.”
She waved him in, and he bounded onto the bed, leapfrogging Litha, who was curled up near Ingrid’s feet.
He plumped up the extra pillows and burrowed into the blankets next to Ingrid.
They did this sometimes, she and Miles, watching TV together in her bed, snacking on popcorn, tickling Litha, and laughing about whatever show they were watching.
Sometimes Miles even scratched Ingrid’s back until she fell asleep.
But it was never anything more than that.
In the beginning, when Miles first moved in and he’d never even attempted to kiss her, she had assumed he must be gay or asexual.
But then there had been the nights he’d gone out and hadn’t come home until the next day, and when she asked Boney about it, he assured her that Miles did indeed like women and got around quite a bit down at the riverside bars.
Apparently, Boney added, Miles was pretty famous for his talents.
In spite of not wanting him for herself, Ingrid had been slightly crestfallen, but then she realized how ridiculous that was.
The pure, platonic, doggedly loyal way Miles loved her was a rare thing.
A gift. She was lucky to have it, and she didn’t want any more than that.
Beside her, Miles had propped his laptop on top of the covers and was clicking to a website. A resale site that sold vintage designer stuff.
“Look at that,” he breathed. “Look at the price.”
A huge, quilted, tan-and-black Chanel purse filled the screen. An identical match to the one Clemmie Fairburn had carried earlier that day at the house.
“Fifteen thousand,” he shrieked, as if the numbers weren’t right there in black and white.
“I see that.” Honestly, she shouldn’t allow him to mentally tabulate how much her new friends were worth. It wasn’t wise.
“And that’s the resale price!”
She fixed him with a severe look. “I know you and Boney were just doing your thing the other night at the party, but if you take anything else from the Loefflers—I don’t care if it’s buried at the bottom of their garbage can and rotting—if you ever take anything from them again, or their friends, I’ll never forgive you. ”
He clamped his mouth shut.
“They are my clients now, and I have to keep things professional.”
“Ingrid, come on,” he cajoled.
“I’m not kidding, Miles. You show this purse to Boney and next thing you know, Clemmie Fairburn’s Chanel is going to turn up missing.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” he scoffed. “I was just saying that it was wild how much it—”
“Miles!”
“What?” He looked wounded now. He slapped his laptop shut and slumped back on the pillow, pouting.
Ingrid turned up the volume on the TV, an episode of Medium.
It was far-fetched, but she loved Patricia Arquette and felt that if they ever happened to meet, they’d definitely be friends.
She tried to concentrate on the story, but she could feel Miles’s aura, a stormy blackish purple, swirling on the other side of the bed.
She spoke again, this time in a calm tone.
She needed him to understand. “This is an opportunity for me, Miles. My chance to get in with the people who can actually take my business to the next level. Do you understand what that means? It means I never have to worry about paying the taxes. It means I can afford to fix all the broken stuff, right when it breaks—”
“I’ll fix anything you need, Ingrid—”
She let out an impatient huff. “You do a great job with the stuff you can handle, Miles, but I can’t have you up on the roof, fixing my flashing, falling and hurting yourself. I would die if that happened.”
“You would?” He looked genuinely touched.
“Miles. Of course. And besides all that, I’m talking about securing a place for myself—my business—that will last for decades. That will continue to bring in not just money but … other things.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know exactly.” The words had been pouring out of her mouth, with no thought, but now she truly considered his question.
“Maybe, I don’t know, trips to places we could never afford …
” She was saying we but, in truth, she was picturing herself, wearing a bikini and gauzy sarong, on a tropical beach somewhere, frolicking in turquoise water, turning golden in the sunshine.
The person who watched her wasn’t Miles.
It was Cas Loeffler.
Or maybe it was Rill. He fit into the fantasy just as easily.
“… or parties we could throw,” she hurriedly went on. “Maybe even one of them will even put me in their will.”
Okay, that one was over the top, but it definitely got his attention. Understanding dawned in his simple blue eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, Miles. Dead serious. The Loefflers are my—our—ticket to a future we could never reach on our own.”
He nodded slowly, turning her words over in his head.
This was the way Miles was. You could always see every thought that was drifting through his brain.
It was something that both endeared him to her and aggravated the ever-loving stew out of her.
But it was true. She was not just looking for a friendship with Sailor or a flirtation with her brother for herself. She was working for them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For taking all that stuff from the party.”
“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.”
He nodded and snuggled closer to her, dropping his chin on her shoulder. She reached up and stroked his curls. He sighed heavily and draped an arm across her waist. She knew without looking that his eyes had fluttered closed.
On the nightstand, her phone lit up with a text. Trying not to disturb Miles, she reached for it and tapped the screen. A message appeared from a number she didn’t recognize.
I prayed for you in church today.
Her heart tightened. Church.
She thought of Gloria Ledieu praying to Blond Jesus. A chorus of little girls chanting. Renounce Satan, renounce Satan …
Below the message, three dots appeared. Her heartbeat went into overdrive.
And then, another message appeared on the screen.
And for myself. That God would be gracious and forgive a sinner for his sinful thoughts.
More dots appeared. She held her breath.
Thoughts of you. Thoughts of us.
Sinful thoughts.
She stared at the phone, breathless, heart hammering now. What the hell?
What the hell was happening?
“Don’t stop,” said Miles, pressed into the crook of her neck. “That feels so good.”
She absently stroked his hair again.
Sinful thoughts …
Was it Cas Loeffler? The first time she’d seen the guy, he was on his knees, praying during Sailor’s party. What kind of person prayed during a party at his house? He was on a new religious kick … and definitely someone who disapproved of what she was.
Or maybe it was Rill. It was possible that at the party Sailor’s father had seen a trace of Edie in Ingrid, and now he was sort of …
reliving the past in some way. She didn’t know what to make of the message, though.
Was it a true confession of guilt and a plea for forgiveness?
Or was there something else buried in his words?
An invitation maybe?
Who is this? she typed.
Your sinner came the reply, so quickly she had to swallow a gasp.
She thought for a minute, then answered, No name?
Better this way.
And then, a few seconds later …
Freer. We can be who we really are.
She put the phone face down so Miles wouldn’t notice if it lit up again and turned her full attention to him.
“Bedtime,” she said in a singsong voice and gently shoved him off her.
He groaned but grabbed his laptop and went back to his room. When she was convinced enough time had passed for him to have settled into his own bed and drifted off to sleep, she opened up the text thread, lay back on her pillow, and read each line, over and over again.
The next day, she found it hard to put the Loefflers out of her mind.
Sailor, Cas, Rill, and Scoot. Each of them was fascinating for different reasons.
Each fought for space in her brain, but, the truth was, only one of them called themself her sinner.
Only one of them was texting her anonymously about sinful thoughts.
She hoped it was Cas, but she wasn’t sure.
It could be Rill. Either possibility sort of terrified her but in the most titillating way.
In the end, she had to tell herself to stop obsessing. It was only Sailor who really mattered. Sailor was her friend. Her priority. She needed to remember that.
Ingrid had two appointments that day. Both were tourists, older women from Atlanta and Augusta who looked at her with hungry eyes as she spoke.
They probably saw a psychic every time they went on vacation.
Some people preferred to keep asking questions rather than acting on the answers they got.
Not the most beneficial for them, but at least it was good for business.
After they were gone, Ingrid set about tidying up the shop and thinking about how she was going to reassure Miles.
He got his feelings hurt easily, and Ingrid didn’t want to upset him by seeming too invested in the Loefflers.
Miles was invaluable to her. She resolved that she would be a better friend going forward.
She would make him dinner tonight. Watch The Twilight Zone, as many episodes as he wanted.
When she went back upstairs, she saw the cleared surfaces, the gleaming furniture, the dim, hushed air that smelled of lemon polish.
He’d cleaned up the whole first floor. She was noticing the vacuum marks on the sitting room rug with a twinge of remorse, when he came out of the kitchen, hands in bright yellow rubber gloves and one of Edie’s ruffled aprons tied around his waist.
“Ta-da!” he exclaimed, beaming at her.
“You’re the best,” she said. “I love you.” And she meant it.
The gloved hands dropped down by his side. “I love you, too, Ingrid. I’m sorry for the whole purse thing—”
The doorbell rang. Glad for the interruption, Ingrid hurried to answer it. Sailor stood on the doorstep.
“Hi, Ingrid.” She flipped her impossibly luxurious blond hair over her shoulder. She wore a man’s boxy button-down, untucked over jeans, and expensive-looking loafers. The shirt was blue and matched her eyes perfectly. Rill’s eyes, too, Ingrid thought.
“Hi, Sailor.” Ingrid squinted in the bright sunlight.
“Sorry I keep dropping by without calling, but this time, I have a good reason.” Sailor leaned sideways, peering past Ingrid. She waved. “Hi, Miles.”
Ingrid felt him drawing close, hovering just over her shoulder.
“I just wanted to deliver this.” She handed Ingrid a manila folder and beamed.
Inside was an official-looking document with an official-looking government letterhead and a jumble of boxes and codes and numbers below.
Ingrid tilted her head. “What is it?”
Sailor’s eyes bounced from Miles to Ingrid, a smile playing on her lips. “A receipt. Showing that your property taxes have been paid. And will be, from an account that’s been set up for you, for the next three years.”
Ingrid felt her heart thud painfully. “What?”
Sailor beamed. “Miles let it slip about your situation—yesterday, when I came over—and I wanted to help you out. To let you know how much I appreciate you. So I paid your property taxes.”