Chapter Forty-Five
Everett
On Thursday afternoon, Mila texts that she has a surprise for me.
Everett: What is it?
Mila: Can I come over and show you?
Everett: Only if you’re prepared to stay the night.
Mila: Hahaha. I can stay a little while, but not the whole night.
Everett: Then don’t wear anything cute.
Mila: So not the strawberry skirt?
Everett: NOT THE STRAWBERRY SKIRT
When I see the beautifully detailed rendering of Mila’s vision for the healing gardens, my jaw drops. “Holy shit. It’s beautiful, Mila.”
“You like it?” Her smile is full of pride. “It’s obviously just a rough sketch, but I think it will get the point across.”
“A rough sketch? Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t believe you drew this in just two days. Did your mother take a vacation or something? Did you move into the garage?”
She laughs. “I put some serious boundaries around my working hours.”
“Good.”
“And, honestly, she hasn’t been talking to me much.”
“She’s punishing you for standing up for yourself,” I tell her. Then I frown. “Sorry. Not my place to say so.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re right. She doesn’t like it that I don’t just let her walk all over me anymore.” Mila places the drawing back inside the portfolio she used to transport it. “Any word from the Harts?”
“Yes. Tad’s assistant just got back to me today. We’re meeting on Tuesday, which is perfect because the town council meeting is Wednesday. I’d love to be able to present this plan with their backing.”
“Do you want to bring the art?”
I put my arms around her. “I want to bring the artist.”
She smiles, her arms coming around my neck. “You do?”
“Yes. Please come with me. This is our project, not just mine.”
Color explodes in her cheeks. “Really?”
“Really. I want your name on it, too. It’s about time Hart’s Landing remembers you for something other than that fire.”
She kisses me. “I love you, Everett McKean.”
“I love you too. This town is really a nice place to live, you know. Charming streets, friendly people, beautiful views, lots of history. You should consider making it your home.” I begin walking backward toward my bedroom. “Have I mentioned I’m the mayor?”
“Okay, I’m getting out of bed for real this time.” But she doesn’t even make it to the edge of the mattress before I grab her arm and pull her back on top of me.
“No.” I flip her over, pinning her down. “I never get enough of you.”
“You’re not playing fair.”
“It’s my rough edges.” I bite her shoulder. “And you’re the one who wore that skirt.”
Eventually, I let her up and watch from the mattress as she scoops up her clothes and gets dressed. She’s fixing her hair in the mirror over my dresser when she notices something on the top.
She picks it up and turns around. “You saved this?”
“What is it?”
“It’s that silly scribble I did of the cherry blossoms on the coffee shop napkin.”
“It’s a memento,” I correct.
She laughs. “It’s just a doodle.”
“But it’s your doodle.” I get out of bed, take the napkin from her, and place it back on the dresser as if it’s made of blown glass. “So I’m keeping it.”
She folds her arms over her chest and leans back against the dresser. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” I ask, tugging on a pair of sweatpants.
“Being so good to me. How am I supposed to make a rational decision about moving back here when you do things like this?” She gestures at the napkin.
I laugh as I pull a T-shirt over my head. “Maybe I don’t want you to make a rational decision. Maybe I just want you to follow your heart.”
“My heart has a terrible sense of direction,” she informs me. “It makes wrong turns. It ignores warning signs. It’s easily lost.”
“But it’s your heart.” I tip up her chin so she has to meet my eyes. “So I’m keeping it.”
Just before six, Merlin and I walk her out to the car. “I’m leaving pretty early tomorrow for Detroit.”
“Oh that’s right! Gabi’s move is this weekend.” She grins, jingling the keys in her hand. “When will you get back?”
“Probably late Saturday night.”
“Are you taking Merlin?”
“Nah. He’ll stay with my mom.” I smile as she scratches him behind the ears and his tail wags with joy. “What are you up to this weekend?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, I’m visiting Mrs. Frye’s advanced art class at the high school.
I might meet Yasmine for a drink tomorrow night.
Other than that, just work. I want to add a little more detail to the healing gardens poster and then maybe get it matted.
What time is the meeting with the Harts on Tuesday? ”
“Three p.m. at their house.”
“Ooh. I’ve never been to the Hart mansion.”
“I was there once. It’s old and dusty. But it does have art on the walls.”
She tilts her head. “Are they art collectors?”
I rack my brain, trying to remember what Mrs. Hart rambled on about while leading me down the hall to Tad’s office. “I think Tiffany might be into paintings?”
“Hmm. That could be useful to us. I’ll see what I can find out.” She puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me. “Have fun with Gabi. Say hi for me.”
“I will. I love you.”
That smile. I’ll never get tired of it. “I love you too.”
I arrive at Gabi’s apartment around noon on Friday, and we spend the entire day packing up her place and bickering.
We argue over whose playlist to listen to, who learned to ride a bike without training wheels first, which one of us would be more likely to win a survivalist reality show, who’s better at cornhole, and what toppings to order on the pizza for dinner.
(For the record, I am the superior cornhole player.)
But we manage to get the kitchen and living room pretty much done, although she has a ridiculous amount of shit. Around seven, we sit down at the kitchen table with pizza, paper plates, and a couple of beers.
“So, how’s it going with Mila?” Gabi asks.
“Good.”
“You’re still hanging out?”
“Yeah. As much as we can.”
“When does she go back to New York?”
“End of the month.” I tip up my beer. “But actually, I’m hoping she’ll move back.”
Gabi looks surprised. “Wow. I didn’t realize it was that serious.”
“It’s getting there. But don’t tell Mom I said that. She’ll overreact and start planning a wedding.” I finish off the crust of my first slice, and it makes me miss Mila.
Gabi is quiet for a minute, then asks, “How has Mom’s pain level been this week?”
“About the same. She’s struggling to get around, especially up and down those stairs.”
“When I was home, she kept mentioning her friend Theresa’s place at the new condo complex. Apparently it has a fitness center?”
“She’s mentioned that to me, too.”
“Can you get a membership without living there?”
“No idea.” I wipe my hands on a napkin and pick up my phone. “But I bet I can find out if I post a question on the Landing Pad.”
Gabi takes a bite of her pizza. “What’s that?”
“It’s the Gazette’s online community message board. It’s supposed to help residents find out what’s going on around town, see safety alerts, buy and sell things. But mostly it’s gossip and shit-talking.”
She laughs. “Let me see.” Taking my phone, she scrolls down the page. She bursts out laughing. “Someone’s drawing dicks on driveways?”
“Yeah.”
She turns the phone sideways and studies the art. “Interesting.” The scrolling continues while she takes another bite. “What on earth are Diner Detectives?”
“It’s some kind of true crime club in Hart’s Landing, and they’re looking into the bakery fire. They claim to have new evidence that might clear Mila’s name.”
Gabi stops chewing. “Huh?”
“They reached out to Mila and said they believe a third person might’ve been there that night.”
“What makes them think that?”
“Well, first they thought they had some kind of evidence that someone else was there—stuff some kid found in the alley before the fire started that night.” I finish my second slice and contemplate a third. “But it all belonged to Mila.”
“Do they think a third person started the fire?”
“Not necessarily. They just think there’s more to the story. Apparently, the kid also saw someone leaving the bakery through the back door that night, after Mila closed up but before the initial explosion.”
“Does he know who it was?”
“No. Didn’t get a good enough look.”
“Why does it even matter at this point? It’s not like anyone was hurt. The worst that happened was that we had to sell.”
“Mila was hurt,” I point out. “Maybe not physically, but her reputation suffered. And she feels a lot of guilt about the fire. To this day, people still say she’s responsible.”
Gabi’s eyes widen. “They do?”
“Oh yeah. She hates it.”
Gabi sets her half-eaten slice on her plate. “That sucks. I feel bad.”
“The lead detective”—I put the word in air quotes—“thinks proving someone else was there that night could clear her name. He’s trying to create buzz for a podcast. He posted asking for the third person to come forward.”
“Huh.” Gabi gets up from the table and dumps her paper plate in the trash.
“You’re done eating already?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t that hungry.”
“An hour ago, you said you were starving.”
“I’m dramatic, okay? I just want to get this done and go to bed.” She heads into the living room and starts loading books into boxes.
That night, I crash on Gabi’s couch. I send Mila a quick text to say good night, but she doesn’t answer right away, and I figure she’s out with Yasmine. Exhausted, I set my phone aside and close my eyes. I drift off in minutes.
“Everett.”
I hear my name whispered through the fog of heavy sleep. “Hm?”
“Everett.” It’s Gabi’s voice. She touches my shoulder.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I blink at her in the dark. “Are you okay? What time is it?”
“It’s just after two.” She sits on the couch at my feet. “I need to talk to you.”