Chapter 28 HOME TRUTHS
HOME TRUTHS
I was up late the next day, courtesy of the generous pours of the Hammer and Thistle and the quality time I’d spent with Josephine’s journal after Mom had gone to bed.
You should listen to her, Josephine had written, when I’d relayed our conversation. Don’t do what I did.
Which is what??? I’d scrawled, my pen just about scoring through the page.
Don’t wait too long. Because delaying is also an answer. And that’s how you end up with nothing.
She was right, just as Mom had been. The longer I left things, the more I risked hurting people, and the more people I risked hurting.
The house was quiet by the time I emerged from my room, feeling slothful with my wild hair and silk pyjamas, Cleo winding around my feet.
The boys were nowhere to be seen, and from the murmured chit-chat from the office, Mom and Tiff were busily coworking side by side.
Just a regular day at the Pink House, then.
But as I poured myself a pot of tea, I caught a glimpse of something unexpected: Rosie was chatting with a stern-looking woman by the gate. They were deep in a thoughtful conversation – perhaps something about permits? Or Charlie’s effects?
I’d made it through two cookies and half a croissant by the time Rosie came back in.
‘Who was that?’ I asked curiously as I stroked Cleo.
The woman had seemed unnervingly pantsuit-clad to be one of Rosie’s usual visitors.
A lawyer, perhaps. Definitely not one of the floaty ladies who popped in for an early-morning cup of tea and a pastry while the rest of us lazed around in bed, regretting drinking that last sangria or binge-watching Lost yet again.
Rosie drew in a sharp breath, as though contemplating crafting a lie. Then she thought better of it. She and I shared everything, after all.
Well, just about everything, I thought, twisting Josephine’s ring.
Because I hadn’t told her about Josephine’s diary. And though she clearly knew what was going on under her own roof – she had eyes, after all! – I hadn’t confided in her about my dilemma regarding the boys.
Rosie went over to one of her gorgeous rose bushes, magic glimmering at her fingertips as she gently removed dead leaves and browning buds.
‘I’ve been thinking of selling the Pink House,’ she said finally. ‘That was Peta, Paulie’s mom.’
I remembered Paulie: he and Finn had taken jobs as lifeguards for a few Summerweens during high school.
‘She wanted to do a walk-through to get a sense of the place and see what it might sell for.’
It took me a moment to respond. How could Rosie possibly sell the Pink House? Our families had spent countless Summerweens here, and she’d owned it with Charlie long before I was even born.
But then I thought of the whisperwind Tiff had caught the night before: ‘It was something about embracing love elsewhere.’
‘It’s just so hard to be here,’ Rosie said quietly.
‘Every spot, every moment, reminds me of Charlie. I go to make a coffee, and I can see him over there grinding the beans. I try to read in the sunroom, and there he is, asking me for help with a song lyric. I cook, and I keep wanting to set aside an extra portion for him. I still sleep on the left side of the bed, even though I could choose any bit of it now. I bring in the mail, and there’s a letter with his name on it that could go unopened for ever.
This house has decades of memories, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to relive them every day without breaking. ’
I bit back a sob.
Here I was fretting about boys and jobs, when poor Rosie was trying to grieve the love of her life. I was focused on something that hadn’t even happened yet, and she was mourning decades of love and companionship.
Tears brimming, I wrapped my arms around her, trying to be the strong one for once – instead of the one who always needed to be comforted or guided.
‘I’m so sorry, Rosie,’ I said, and the words were so heavy.
‘We’ve all been so selfish this whole time.
Of course you’re hurting. Charlie was so special.
What you had was so special.’ I hesitated, thinking about what Keiko had said last night about how easy it was to run from something.
I had to say it before I talked myself out of it.
‘But are you sure that selling the Pink House is what you really want?’
Rosie took a seat on one of the floral outdoor sectionals, drawing her knees up to her chest.
‘I don’t know, hon. I just know that it hurts to be here.
And seeing all this tension between everyone – and all the strange things going on with our magic – I can’t help but wonder if the house is holding on to some bad energy.
Perhaps it needs a new owner. Someone who can bring something fresh and hopeful to the place.
Who can get the gardens back into shape.
’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never had such difficulties with my roses.
Or even the hydrangeas. Or my baking! I can’t really have used baking soda instead of baking powder, could I? ’
My mind was whirling.
‘Please don’t tell the boys,’ said Rosie earnestly. ‘I haven’t made a decision about whether to list it yet, and I don’t want to upset them unnecessarily. I know this place holds a lot of memories for them as well.’
‘Noah’s art studio,’ I said, nodding. ‘And Finn’s music room.’
Rosie blanched. ‘Finn’s music room?’
Oh shit. I’d clearly crossed a line.
‘Charlie’s,’ I amended. ‘Finn’s just claimed it, I guess.’
Rosie was silent for a moment. ‘You’re right. I can’t fault him for listening to Charlie’s record collection. It’s world-class. He was a record-bin-digger extraordinaire. And Finn’s playing is coming along. Well, sort of. You know Finn.’
Her smile was loving, but a touch rueful.
I understood: Finn wasn’t the type to follow a traditional path, and that must be a struggle sometimes for a parent.
Even for a free spirit like Rosie. She’d been worried after the whole Sunflower Maze debacle, which wasn’t like her.
I suspected that perhaps that wasn’t the first time in recent months that he’d made some less-than-ideal choices.
‘He’s trying to finish Charlie’s guitar, too,’ I added, suddenly feeling the need to defend Finn. Sweet, wild Finn, who might be a big kid – and to a frustrating degree sometimes – but who wasn’t a lost cause by any means. ‘The starburst one that was on the workshop table.’
‘Charlie’s heart guitar,’ said Rosie quietly. ‘It was meant to be a gift from him to us. It was imbued with all the musical magic he could manage. Or would have been.’
‘Maybe Finn will finish it. I know he’s trying.’
Rosie used her magic to sweep a dusting of ocean salt from the couch she was sitting on. ‘I’m sure he’ll do his best.’
I nodded, casting my gaze over the place that had been my home for the late-summer months for decades. The place I knew, and loved, so well. ‘I can’t imagine not spending Summerween here. With you. With everyone.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I just want everyone to have the happiness they deserve. And that includes this house. Because while I know a house isn’t a person, it’s still a living, breathing thing.’
‘Spoken like Shirley Jackson,’ I said, aiming for a touch of levity.
‘Well, the Pink House is definitely the spiritual opposite of Hill House. Anyway, I promise I’d let you know if we were all at imminent risk of being sucked into the scariest book ever written,’ said Rosie.
She ran her fingers through her curls, the way she did when she was thinking.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I could just rent a different Summerween beach house until life feels settled again.
Or a cute sunny place in Palm Springs. Trade the whisperwinds for the Santa Anas. ’
‘Imagine the gossip those winds carry,’ I teased.
‘It must be how all the Hollywood trade papers get wind of news so fast.’ She reached over to squeeze my hand.
‘Thanks for letting me talk about this, Molly. I’ve been so afraid to say something.
I love our Summerween get-togethers, and I know how much you all look forward to them.
I really don’t want this to be our last one.
But I also need to figure out what’s right for me. I hope you understand.’
‘I do,’ I said, my voice so small it barely escaped my lungs.
I couldn’t picture a For sale sign in the front yard or someone else’s furniture in the sunroom.
A stranger ripping out Rosie’s flowers and replacing them with boring hedges, or turning Noah’s studio into a tool shed.
Someone else sitting outside and watching movies on the projector screen or hauling up Summerween decorations from the basement.
I couldn’t imagine anyone else loving the Pink House the way we did.
‘I’d better get going,’ said Rosie with a glance at her watch.
‘I have pickleball down at the beach club, and they can’t get by without their star player.
’ She grinned, and it seemed sincere – even if she couldn’t entirely mask the sadness in her eyes.
‘Their star player, Soraya, whom I’m going to pick up in the golf cart on my way over. ’
‘Wait, Rosie.’ I touched my fingers lightly to her arm.
‘I know I’m the worst person to help someone make a decision, but if it were up to me, I wouldn’t sell the Pink House.
I’d keep it for ever and ever. I’d pass it down through the generations for as long as I could until the rising sea levels eventually took it out. ’
Rosie chuckled. ‘I think that’s the most decisive I’ve heard you be about anything that wasn’t dessert seconds.’
She ruffled my hair, then went inside to gather her pickleball gear. Or perhaps to cry, because that’s what I felt like I wanted to do.
After a few beats, I hurried after her, bypassing Tiff, who was pouring herself a coffee in the kitchen. Ignoring her offer to make me a cup, I raced to my bedroom and dove under the covers, trying to hide every little part of me from the world.
The soft duvet blocked out most of the day’s light, but not the four lead weights that promptly landed on my belly.
‘Oof,’ I said, before realizing that the lead weights belonged to my favourite resident feline. Cleo always knew when someone was feeling poorly, and had an excellent home remedy: the squish leap, followed by a solid round of biscuit-making on your stomach.
I let Cleo under the covers, stroking her soft fur as she settled in to begin her biscuit-kneading.
‘Hey, sweet girl,’ I said. ‘I guess you heard about Rosie’s plans, huh.’
Cleo meowed softly, as though to say, Yes, I have, and I’m as distraught as you.
I tried to think how old Cleo was. She’d celebrated so many Summerweens with us, which meant she’d been there for so many of our best – and worst – moments.
She’d woken us meowing on the many, many mornings we’d desperately tried to sleep in after spending the night drinking on the beach.
She’d sunbathed with us out on the comfortable lawn furniture, relaxing under the gentle Summerween sun as the days passed and we had nothing but full bellies and delightful conversation to show for it.
She’d definitely looked on judgementally as we’d climbed through windows late at night after sneaking out for midnight swimming sessions under the full moon.
Things had been so much easier then. Yes, we’d had school stress and job stress and romance stress.
But we’d all existed together in a balance where things just worked.
And now look at how things were going. Noah spent most of his days hiding in the studio.
Finn was becoming increasingly erratic. Mom was stressed about her new client.
Tiff was struggling with Damien. And I, well … I was a disaster.
No wonder Rosie was thinking about selling.
We couldn’t lose the Pink House. I couldn’t lose the Pink House.
But it wasn’t up to me. The only thing I could do was help Rosie see that life at the Pink House could be good again.
Not the same, of course – it could never be the same without Charlie – but still good.
Perhaps, if we could make the house a place of love and positivity once more, she’d change her mind about wanting to sell, about this Summerween being our last one.
Because the thought of that made my heart ache even more than the thought of having to choose between Noah and Finn.
Josephine’s ring smarted on my finger, and I realized that I didn’t have much time. Because just one moonstone remained undamaged – and given all the wayward magic we’d been experiencing, I didn’t want to find out what happened when they all went dark.