Chapter 2
SOPHIE
So I texted, What’s your address again?
I’m still at the corner of Love and U.
Yeah, he’d become the kind of person who texted me cringey love messages. Fortunately, I’d always been the kind of person who found them adorable. Yet as I walked the ten blocks home from work, I wondered if Nicholas wanted to have a Serious Talk. What if this was bad news?
I would’ve made myself sick about that, but c’mon. You don’t break up with someone after telling them you live on the corner of Love and U. Not after six glorious months together.
Things were different now. I was different now …
though I still hadn’t sold the play I’d written based on the murders.
Well, loosely based on the murders. In my play, James “Dead Rick” Dedrick and Gregory Ybarra are both killed in a community of cottages in Santa Barbara.
That much was true. Yet somehow I’d neglected to mention that we’d framed Lily-Ann’s ex for the killings because he’d assaulted her.
And I definitely hadn’t pointed any fingers at the real culprits, as both were my beloved neighbors.
Anyway, I’d sent copies to contests and production companies but never heard back.
I did, however, get a better job. When the New Vic Theatre’s director of development moved to Serbia, I took her position.
My parents were thrilled. There was a quiet dignity in planned giving that they could brag to their friends about: Oh Sophie? She’s working in development.
And to be fair, raising funds for a professional theatre company was a serious job. Well, except for the pay, which was more tragicomic.
Still, some things hadn’t changed, such as my ability to worry needlessly. So when I reached the Marigold Cottages, I bustled up the stairs from the sidewalk, ignored my cottage, and crossed the full length of the courtyard to Nicholas’s bigger, better cottage at the far end of the property.
He swept the door open, kissed me perfunctorily, then ushered me to the comfy chair in his living room, where he poured me a glass of sparkling Martinelli’s and presented me with a plate of mini-cupcakes.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
“Pick a cupcake,” he said. “Any cupcake.”
“Tell me the flavors.”
He pointed to each one in turn. “Red velvet, strawberry, bananas Foster, and tiramisu.”
“Ooh, yum,” I said, and reached for the bananas Foster.
He shifted the plate away. “Not that one!”
“You said pick any cupcake!”
“Yeah, and you were supposed to pick tiramisu. It’s your favorite.”
I snorted and picked the tiramisu. “Happy now?”
“Very. Except, uh … just nibble. Don’t down the whole thing.”
For the record, I was not in the habit of shoving an entire cupcake into my face hole, even a small one. Still, I did as instructed until my lips closed on something metallic. A moment later, I spat a tiny brass key onto my palm.
Then Nicholas said, “Sophie Gilman, I am stupid for you. Will you move in with me?”
Also, for the record, Nicholas used to act cold and aloof around me.
Around everyone, but mostly me. He was the least-friendly person at the Cottages.
He’d been a little intimidating, to tell the truth.
He’d put on a front that was cooler than the rest of us.
And because he and Mrs. B had history, it took forever to drag him into the Murder Collective.
But now? Now he was stupidly in love with me and wanted me to share his apartment.
I said yes, energetically. By which I mean we had the kind of sex that required a bananas Foster mini-cupcake afterward.
I FLOATED THROUGH the next few weeks, spinning dreams of cozy dinners, sleepy mornings, and paying half as much rent.
Still, one tiny part of me worried: What if we broke up?
We wouldn’t stay friends. We loved each other too much to downgrade to friendship.
We’d never speak again. That was just the way we were.
Not like Lily-Ann and her ex-husband, Piotr, who’d stayed in touch until he tried to kill her.
I pushed those thoughts aside, knowing that negativity got me nowhere. I’d learned that the hard way, after losing too much of myself to the creep who’d stalked me. But that was the past, and I was ready for a bright new future.
I focused on work, organizing my donor lists and honing my pitches.
And learning from the Givemore Girls, a chat group of women who raised funds for local nonprofits.
We networked about donors, venues, and vendors.
And we invited each other to events, because you never knew if one rich old couple might support the symphony in addition to the pet shelter.
In fact, I’d already connected a retired oral surgeon with a group that harvested backyard fruit trees for soup kitchens.
That had been my biggest triumph so far, but I hadn’t made a penny for the New Vic. Still, Mrs. B was thrilled that I’d helped deliver fresh oranges to people in need, so I took the win.
My friend Angela, who’d invited me to the Givemore Girls, kept the chat alive with her accomplishments at Bright California, an after-school STEAM program. Well, that and trite motivational quotes from her mentor: “My goal is to live my life in such a way that when I die they’ll say, she cared.”
I probably needed a mentor, only I didn’t know any rich women except for Lily-Ann, and she’d suck at motivational phrases. The thought made me laugh. She’d say things like, When I die, check Excel for my instructions, and You are loading your dishwasher wrong.
I adored Lily-Ann. She was the only person who could say, That color isn’t flattering, and I knew without any doubt that she meant it with love. She was practical, loyal, brilliant, and terribly honest. I was going to miss living next door to her, even though I was only moving across the courtyard.
So I focused on worrying about the new tenant in my old apartment. Would they fit in with the rest of us? I wanted to rely on Mrs. B’s taste, but she’d collected such a strange cast of characters that I’d written a play about us. Who would she find next?