20 Birdie
BIRDIE
Jasper leads me inside Prescott House. I think this room must be a later addition to the original structure.
It’s a large utility room with a laundry unit stacked in the corner.
Clothes tumble softly in the dryer. A reclaimed wooden counter frames a deep farmhouse-style sink.
Across the ceiling, hooks are placed evenly along the exposed beams. All manner of flowers and herbs hang from each hook in bundles, all in the process of drying.
The scents are a heavenly mix of herbal, floral, and spiced.
I crane my neck back, taking it all in. “Whoa. Do you use all these in the bath products?”
“Some,” he replies. “Others are for tea.”
The floorboards creak under his feet as he leads me through a double doorway framed with antique French doors that open into a spacious eat-in kitchen. He clicks on the pendant lights that hang over the island.
It looks like this has all been renovated recently.
The shaker cabinets are a soft cream with a mix of black hardware.
A modern copper hood frames the large stovetop.
A dozen fresh baked cookies rest on a cooling rack to the left of the double oven.
Beyond the long kitchen island, there’s a rectangular table set with eight chairs. The wood is dark, polished to shine.
“Jasper, is that you?” a voice calls from somewhere deep in the house.
“Kitchen,” he shouts. Moving over to the fridge, he opens the door and rummages around. The only sound is the soft clink of bottles. Then there’s a hiss as he cracks off a cap. Turning, he offers me a beer.
With a tired sigh, I step in closer and take it. “Thanks.”
He cracks one open for himself and takes a deep swig. “Figured we earned it.” He tosses the caps into the sink just as a frail old woman bustles into the room.
“Oh, Jasper! Oh, my lamb. I only just saw your messages.” Hortense Hastings hurries over to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. I stay out of the way, leaning one hip against the counter. “Are you all right?” Her hands move over him, brushing his shoulders, cupping his cheeks. “Are you hurt, dear?”
“I’m fine,” he assures her, pulling her hands down from his face.
“What happened? Was it a—”
“Hort, this is Birdie Rhodes,” he says over her.
With a gasp, she turns around. Now I can get a better look at her.
A pair of round, oversize tortoiseshell glasses dramatically magnify her eyes.
Her grey hair is set in curlers, hidden beneath a colorful silk scarf.
Her lavender floral house coat hangs open, trimmed in faux fur at the collar and sleeves.
Beneath the house coat she wears a pink silk pajama set covered in gamboling cats chasing balls of yarn.
She’s fabulous.
Smiling, I step forward and offer out a hand. “Hello. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Her magnified eyes blink comically behind her glasses. “Oh, sweet goddess. Birdie? The whole island is talking about you, dear.” She takes my hand in both of hers, giving it a vigorous shake. “You’re our new shop girl.”
“I am.”
She glances between us. “And you saved him from an attack? What happened?”
I tense, glancing over her head at Jasper. We never discussed how much she already knows . . . or how much he wants me to conceal. If it were me with the pushy family, I’d want them to know as little as possible about any sudden brush with death. Otherwise, I’d never hear the end of it. “Umm . . .”
“It was a mugger, Hort,” he says for me.
Her head swivels between us, mouth agape. “A mugger?”
“Yeah, some punk kid wearing a hoodie and biker gloves. Jumped me while I was taking out the trash.” He looks to me. “Right?”
Hortie looks at me too, eyes wide, still clinging to my hand.
I offer her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, it was scary there for a minute. But Pickles and I ran the guy off.”
“A mugger you say? On Main Street? What is the world coming to?” Reaching out with her free hand, Hortense pats my cheek.
“Well, you must be so tired. Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.” She leads me around the large island and over to the table.
“You sit down right here, and I’ll make you some tea.
It’ll calm the nerves and help you sleep.
” She grabs the strap of my duffel, shifting it off my shoulder. “Jasper, come get this bag.”
He takes my bag, tossing it on the island as he mutters, “I was the one attacked, but sure, make her tea.”
“Your tea will have to wait. You have calls to make first.”
He sighs. “It’s late, Hort.”
“Tosh with that! If there’s a masked mugger on the loose, you need to activate the Main Street phone tree pronto. Let everyone know to lock their doors.”
“I’m not gonna go waking up the whole damn island over a mugger. It’ll be the Great Raccoon Caper all over again.”
I glance curiously between them. “What’s the Great Raccoon Caper?”
She pulls out a chair and pushes down on my shoulders, practically forcing me to sit.
“Oh, a family of raccoons got inside the rafters of one of the Main Street buildings a few years ago. Vandalized the candy shop, the movie theater, and the hardware store before they were all caught. Everyone thought it was violence spreading over from the mainland. I’ve never lived through such a fraught July in all my years. ”
I look quickly to Jasper. It takes everything in me not to burst out laughing. “But you survived?”
He glares at me. “Barely.”
Hortie bustles between us, grabbing Jasper by the arms, and steers him towards the back door. “Go make your calls, darling. You leave Birdie here with me. If you go quick, there’ll still be some cookies left by the time you’re done.”
He lets himself be pushed. “This is unnecessary.”
“If my opinion means anything, I agree with her,” I call after them. “I told you to call the police right after it happened!”
“You see?” Hortie gives him another push. “And leave those dirty old boots by the door when you come back in. You weren’t raised in a barn.”
“This is my house,” he bellows. “I’ll wear my boots if I damn well please!”
Hortie turns to me. “Do you like green tea, dear? Naturally decaffeinated. And good for reading—”
“No.” Jasper slams his bottle of beer down on the counter. “Don’t even think about it, you old bat. You know how I feel about tasseomancy.”
She laughs in his face. “As if I give a fig for your opinion about anything.”
I glance between them. “What’s tasseomancy?”
Hortie smiles indulgently. “Divination, dear. The sacred art of reading tea leaves. And as Jasper knows very well, tasseomancy has been practiced on this island for almost four hundred years. Just because he prefers the cards, doesn’t mean we ladies can’t have a quick peek into the cup and see what our futures hold, hmm? ”
He rounds on me, pointing with a rigid finger. “Birdie, I forbid you to let her read your tea leaves. Do you understand? Call it our fifth rule.”
I lean away, brows arched high. “You forbid me?”
That muscle in his jaw twitches as his eyes flash with stormy violence. This intensity is a major turn-on when I’m grinding on his lap but right now it’s just irritating. Jasper Prescott doesn’t own me. Setting aside my beer, I turn to Hortie and smile. “A tea reading sounds fun.”
She claps her hands together. “Wonderful! I’ll start the water boiling.” Rummaging under a cabinet, she emerges holding a cute little teapot.
Jasper leaves the room, muttering under his breath. In moments, I hear the back door slam. I wince. I’m sure he’ll find a way to make me pay for that later.
“Don’t mind him, dear.” Hortie clicks on the burner at the stove.
“He may grumble and groan like an angry grizzly, but inside he’s soft as a teddy bear.
” I don’t know what I possibly give away with the expression on my face because she’s quickly shuffling over, patting the back of my hand.
“Oh, but don’t worry. Our Jasper is a Scorpio sun, Aries moon.
I have no doubt he’ll bring the same intensity to the bedroom that he does to your little arguments. ”
I slowly pull my hand away. “You’re not actually related to him, right?”
She laughs, moving around the island to fetch a tea tray and some cups and saucers.
“Heavens, no. I’m a Hastings, dear. We Hastings came over with the Prescotts to settle this island back in the 1620s.
But I’ve known Jasper all his life. I moved in here when our sweet Gracie got pregnant.
Esther was in no state to help her baby raise a baby, you understand. ”
All of a sudden, the dots connect. Hastings!
I knew there was a reason the name felt so familiar.
I was just so distracted with everything else happening tonight.
Sybil Hastings was one of the women killed in the witch hunt, along with Be-Good Prescott.
Hortense all but just admitted she’s a direct descendant too.
I wonder how she feels about Howe’s new excavation project?
I settle into my chair, not wanting to turn our conversation to such matters quite yet. “Grace was Phoebe’s mom, right?”
Hortense sighs with sadness. “Yes. And a kinder creature never lived. Our Gracie died five years ago now.”
“Ovarian cancer, right? Phoebe told me. It happened before we met.”
She carries the tea things over to the table on her laden tray. “Our Phoebe is such a good girl. Jasper said you go to university together? Are you also studying botany?”
“No, history.” I shuffle a few things aside to make room for the tray.
“Oh-ho, a historian, eh?” She rattles the tray down, rubbing at her arthritic wrists. “You know, they’d erase us if they could, Birdie. Wipe us clean off the slate. We can’t let them win.”
“Who?”
“The big them,” she cries. “Men, the government, the fat cats who always think they run this world. History is told by the victors, Birdie. But it’s remembered best by the survivors.
I can see that you’re a good girl too. You’ll look for the truth of what happened, not just the story they want us to hear.
Truth, Birdie—it’s all that matters in the end. ”