Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Julian
I stop short at the edge of the pebble-stone walkway and get a full picture of what I’m about to walk into.
My shoulders are tense, and I have a knot in my stomach about what Birdie Crowne knows about my father.
A part of me has been fighting off jealousy even more than curiosity that someone, other than me, would have known more about a man I considered my best friend.
I swallow down all the emotions—if I was good at anything, it was stifling those down and focusing on the present.
I’ve never in my entire life thought about attending a garden club.
Up until this afternoon, I hadn’t even realized it was actually a thing that people did.
When Birdie suggested to Wyn that I come tonight, I had expected something more along the lines of a barbecue in the garden. I was terribly mistaken.
JULIAN
Where are you, Crowne?
WYN
All the way back. I’m talking tea leaves with Birdie and one of her girls
Through the pergola archway that’s wrapped in green vines and small twinkling lights is one very long table, low to the ground, and peppered around it are at least a dozen women perched on oversize floor pillows.
Taking in all of them at once is intimidating, but individually, they’re all engrossed in conversation, eating from the ornate displays of food that runs the length of the table, and laughing together.
Dark green arborvitaes serve as a barrier between whatever happens outside and the things that happen inside.
Warm yellow string lights are for vibes rather than efficiency as the sun still takes its time setting this time of year.
The lights continue from the edges of the space to being tightly wrapped around the trunks of willow trees, swooping across and over the long table, gathering where a chandelier hangs from a thick branch of the massive oak in the farthest corner.
But it’s the plush array of roses and oversize pots of thick herbs that make the outdoor space feel cozy.
Wildflowers sprinkled between have muted blooms like they’re holding out a bit longer, regardless of it being the end of summer.
The colors and shapes remind me of the flowers that are tattooed along the center of Wyn’s back.
The garden itself is as much the host as the matriarch of the Crowne family as she sits behind sheer, billowing curtains surrounding the small pergola archway in a chair that looks more like a dais than a well-cushioned patio lounger.
And to her right is the woman whom I am so easily and intensely falling for.
She sees me approach and gets up, moving through the curtain and coming out as I get closer.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
My body responds to her simply knowing I’d see her, never mind once I do. All the different smiles I’ve clocked have made me realize that this one is one of my favorites—I didn’t know how powerful it would feel to be seen by another person and for their reaction to feel the way hers does.
As I pass by the table of women, I hear someone say, “That’s the one Wyn brought back from wherever she was.”
Another whispers loud enough for me to hear, “I wouldn’t mind dying and coming back with a souvenir like that.”
I look right at them, letting them know I heard every word. Not a single one can keep eye contact when I do. I’m not surprised.
Cora Billings sits at the end of the table, smiling into her glass of wine as she wiggles her fingers at me.
Next to her is the owner of Moonie’s, who’s deep in conversation with two other women dressed in barely-there attire that drapes along their arms and chests.
It doesn’t feel like a small town that gossips about the Crownes like Wyn painted.
It feels like friendship over a meal, or at the very least, a pause on responsibility for some camaraderie.
When I reach the end of the table, Wyn stands up, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me.
Her tongue slides against mine with not an ounce of hesitation or care of who’s watching.
Kissing her is the easy part; it’s stopping that seems to be the piece we both struggle with.
Her fingers glide into the hair at the nape of my neck as I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her up off the ground.
Whistles and hoots from the table pull our attention.
We both smile against each other’s lips and look down toward the crowd.
It’s not my idea of a good time, being the center of attention anywhere, but there’s something about claiming Wyn in front of a crowd that feels really fucking good.
She pulls me down the length of the garden and back to where she had been sitting, where, on the other side, Birdie sits, sipping on something bright green while smoking.
“It’s about time you found yourself here, Mr. Colton,” Birdie says. The way that could be taken in so many ways isn’t lost on me. I want to know what she does about my father.
“Birdie, I think you can call him Julian by now,” Wyn says as she sits on the bottom half of the lounger with her grandmother.
I take the velvet red chair opposite them, which clearly was set up for her tarot readings. A deck is placed in the center of the table with a satin pink cloth draped over it.
“I’ve been wanting to talk with you,” I say, glancing at Wyn before I add, “I found something of my father’s.
” I shake my head. “I need to understand who he was to you.” Swallowing past a lump in my throat, I look down at the rocks and crystals spread out around the table at the center between us.
“I’ve spent the last three years trying to come to terms with the fact that my best friend isn’t alive any longer.
And then I come here and find out there was a whole part of him I didn’t know about. ”
“I’ll stop you right there.” Birdie holds up her hand.
She looks regal in her chair, as if she’s wiser and stronger than the rest of those around her.
She’s dressed like the seventies were her favorite decade, wearing her usual flowing dress with a sheer blue shawl over her shoulders.
Apart, each Crowne woman is beautiful, but when you start to put them in the same space and pick out the features that are the same, they each become more breathtaking.
With Birdie and Wyn, it’s their eyes. Both deep and bright shades of green, with thick lashes and the same cheekbones.
“You knew him better than anyone, even I know that.”
The only thing I know for certain is that I’ve been missing something.
I glance at Wyn first, who gives me a reassuring smile and a tiny nod, and then back at Birdie. “Were you and my father ever more than just business acquaintances?” The picture of them together, him staying here for longer than what would’ve been usual, makes it seem like that was the case.
Birdie unfolds the cloth at the center of the table. “Cut the deck, Mr. Colton.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to answer my question first. I can see Wyn out of the corner of my eye, observing but not interjecting.
“Fine.” Birdie exhales. “You’re stubborn like him.” Grabbing the deck, she starts to shuffle it as she says, “Yes, we were . . . more.”
“Birdie,” Wyn says quietly. She didn’t know either.
I already assumed, but hearing it out loud has me bracing for more. I bite down on my molars, trying to keep my emotions in check for this. Dad, why wouldn’t you have told me any of this?
She puts the deck down in front of me and looks at it, waiting for me to do as she asked and cut it. The chatter behind us around the table kept pace—plenty of their own conversations happening to focus too hard on what we’re discussing.
I glance at Wyn, whose attention is on me already.
There isn’t anything I’ll ask or likely hear that I wouldn’t end up telling her, so I cut the deck and ask my next question.
“How long had that been going on?” The reality is that Birdie might be Wyn’s grandmother, but she’s close to my father’s age, give or take a few years.
“Almost as long as you’ve been alive, Julian,” she says, draping the silk cloth over the cards, and then holding out her hands, palms up.
The detail feels like a gut punch. Like I’ve been too selfish for never knowing this. I feel guilty for not asking him the question he’d always ask me: Is there someone worth mentioning?
“Let me see your hands, please. You’re too closed off for cards tonight, and I need some assistance here,” she rushes out.
What else could I do other than what she asks. I wanted the truth, so I put my hands on the table, palms up. It doesn’t matter if I believe in any of this—she does, and I want to hear what she has to say.
“Wyn always enjoyed reading palms,” she says, glancing at Wyn.
“I taught each of the girls a little part of all this. You can call them gifts, beliefs, rituals. You can believe or not believe in it.” She runs her pointer along the deepest and longest line of my left palm.
“But for me, they allow a sense of grounding. A better presentation of a choice I can make.” Her eyes meet mine for a moment, moving her fingers along the lines of my right hand next.
She exhales, and then gets up, moving to the bar cart that holds jugs of water with lemon slices and herbs floating inside, along with bottles of liquor and plenty of crystal glasses. Wyn pops off a stopper on a round glass bottle and pours out what looks like two whiskeys neat.
“Seems like you’re at a bit of a crossroads right here.
I wonder if you even realize the impact your decisions might have if you choose one way versus another,” Birdie says.
“I know there’s something that will shake you.
” She looks to Wyn, and then back to me.
“And how you choose to handle it is the crossroads.”