49. Chapter 49
Evie
Mom lives in lower Brindlewood, where the road begins its long slope toward the river.
Her cottage appears around the bend in a wash of faded green paint and white trim that has needed repainting for at least three summers.
Mom keeps insisting she likes it “weathered,” which is a generous interpretation of peeling.
The front garden has surrendered to itself. Wildflowers have escaped the beds and tangled through the weeds, spilling over the stone. Terracotta pots crowd the porch steps, some bursting with herbs and trailing vines, others holding the brittle remains of plants.
I climb the steps and try the handle. Of course it’s unlocked.
Warmth rolls over me first, followed by garlic and rosemary.
The downstairs opens around me in the same cluttered arrangement it’s had since I was a kid, one room loosely divided by furniture.
Facing the fireplace, the sofa sits slightly crooked on the rug, while the dining table has drifted too close to the kitchen again.
Books teeter in uneven stacks beside the armchair, and three abandoned mugs of tea occupy different sections of the counter.
Some places make you straighten your spine as soon as you walk in. Mom’s house has always done the opposite. It asks very little of anyone except that they find somewhere to sit.
A candle flickers on the windowsill beside an unopened stack of mail, alarmingly close to the envelopes. I move it to the middle of the table.
“You’re here!” Mom appears with a wooden spoon in hand, flour dusting the side of her neck. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a loose clip, with several strands escaping around her face.
She barely has time to put the spoon down before I’m in her arms. I hadn’t meant to hug her like this, but the moment she folds me against the soft cotton of her blouse, whatever was keeping me upright in the car gives another dangerous little slip.
When I pull back, Mom studies me, lingering on the skin beneath my eyes before taking in the rest of me with the scrutiny only a mother can get away with.
I’d checked my reflection twice before leaving the car, cleared the mascara smudged beneath my lashes, and pressed cold fingers to my swollen eyelids until I looked almost presentable. Apparently, I can’t fool her.
“I thought you’d be later. The chicken’s not cooperating and nothing’s done.”
“Shocking.”
“I blame the oven.” She gestures vaguely, her gaze drifting past my shoulder toward the door. “Where’s Milo?”
My fingers find the hem of my sweater and worry at the wool while I stare at a small nick in the kitchen counter.
“He stayed back at the inn.”
“Ah.”
Mom knows me too well to fill the silence. I can practically feel the question she chooses not to ask, and I’m grateful because I don’t know what I’d say if she did.
“Well.” Her voice is gentler when she turns toward the kitchen. “Come sit. Daisy’s already started without you.”
I follow her. My sister perches sideways on one of the dining chairs by the window.
She’s already found the bread Mom left cooling on the counter and is tearing pieces from it with her fingers, scattering crumbs across the front of her jeans.
A loose wave of hair keeps slipping over her shoulder every time she leans forward, and she blows it away without ever pausing the steady demolition of the loaf.
“Hey!” She waves at me with a piece of crust, looking past me. “I thought Milo would be with you.”
I cross to the sink and wash my hands. “He couldn’t make it tonight.”
“Oh.” The bread lowers an inch. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” I reach for the towel hanging from the oven door and dry off, then smooth it flat, aligning both corners before I let go. “Just busy.”
“With what?”
“Daisy.” Mom’s voice floats over from the stove, where she’s leaning over a roasting pan, poking suspiciously at the chicken. “Let your sister breathe for five seconds before the interrogation starts.”
“I’m only asking.” Daisy’s chestnut eyes have none of Mom’s restraint in them. “Can’t a sister show some interest?”
“You can. Quietly.”
She makes a face.
I move toward the stove. “What can I do?”
“Check the potatoes?” Mom hands me the oven mitts. “I can’t tell if they’re golden or just depressing.”
I crouch down and peer through the glass. The potatoes are approaching bronze, their edges crisped dark. “They’re done.”
“Oh, good!”
Mom yanks open the door, and heat hits my cheeks. I pull the tray free and set it on the stovetop with a sharp clatter that makes Daisy glance over.
She stands, brushing crumbs from her cardigan. “So, is Milo coming by tomorrow? I found a book on local folklore he was asking about.”
My hands still. “I don’t think he’ll be around.”
“Really?” Daisy moves closer, leaning against the counter beside me. “But he was so excited about it.”
I reach for the serving spoon, giving the potatoes far more attention than they deserve. “He’s busy.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know, Daisy.”
“That’s weird.” Her voice loses its lightness. “You guys have been inseparable for weeks.”
“Things change.”
“Evie.” She tilts her head. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
I set the spoon down before I bend it in my grip and finally turn. Her expression has shifted from playful curiosity to genuine concern.
“Girls.” Mom’s voice cuts across the kitchen, carrying enough warning to make both of us glance over. “Evie, can you set the table?”
I grab plates from the cupboard, grateful for the excuse to move. Daisy follows me into the dining area.
“Did something happen between you two?”
“No.” I set the plates down, arranging them in perfect alignment.
She reaches for the silverware drawer, pulling out forks and knives. “You said he was busy, then you said you didn’t know what he was doing, and now you won’t even look at me. So, no, I don’t really believe nothing happened.”
“Can we please not do this right now?”
Daisy rounds the table with a fistful of silverware. “I’m trying to work out why you walked in here looking like you cried all the way here.”
“I don’t want to explain it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my life, Daisy, and I get to decide what I share.”
“And I’m your sister.” She drops a fork beside Mom’s plate. “I’m not asking because I want gossip. A week ago, you couldn’t get through a conversation without mentioning Milo, and now you avoid talking about him.”
“Maybe take the hint.”
“You know, you do that a lot.”
I glance up. “Do what?”
“Make people feel intrusive for noticing you’re upset.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is. You shut down, then act annoyed when anyone gets close enough to ask about it.”
The accusation hits too close to the truth. “Maybe because I don’t want an audience every time my life goes to shit.”
Daisy flinches, but she doesn’t back off. “I’m your sister, Evie.”
“What exactly do you want from me?” My patience thins.
“The truth would be nice.”
I laugh once, without humor. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
“Then tell me.”
“Drop it.”
Daisy stares at me for a second, hurt flashing across her face before frustration overtakes it. “Fine. But don’t stand there pretending everything’s normal when it clearly isn’t.”
I turn back to the table. “I never said it was.”
“No, you just do that thing where you keep moving until everyone gets tired of trying.”
My hand stills around the napkin I’m folding.
She sees it and presses on. “You’ve been different since Milo showed up. Not in some ridiculous he-fixed-your-life way. You were just . . . less clenched all the time.”
“He’s leaving, okay? So stop asking me about him.”
Daisy blinks. “Is he dumping you?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“He has to go back, and that’s that.”
Her frustration spikes. “This makes no sense. That man turned your whole cottage into a spa for you because he wanted to take care of you. People like that don’t leave.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Stop saying that!” she snaps. “You always hide behind it’s complicated instead of being honest about what you’re feeling.”
“Because my feelings are none of your business!”
“They are when you’re clearly miserable and trying to pretend you’re not!”
“Daisy.”
“No, seriously. He was perfect for you.” She hesitates, but only briefly. “Either something terrible happened that you won’t tell me about, or you sabotaged it. And based on how you’re acting right now, I’m guessing it’s the second one.”
I stare at her. “Wow.”
“Evie, that’s not—”
“No, go ahead. Apparently you’ve figured me out.”
Daisy exhales hard through her nose. “You want me to pretend I haven’t watched you do this for years? The second something matters enough to hurt you, you pull everything inward. You stop asking for help and decide you’ll deal with it yourself.”
The truth in it is what makes me angry.
“It’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“That’s enough. Daisy, you pushed too hard.” Mom appears beside the table, carrying the roasting pan. “And Evie, your sister is nosy enough to qualify for government surveillance, but she loves you.”
A miserable little laugh escapes me.
“You’re both going to hug each other and apologize.” She looks at each of us. “Then we’re going to have a nice dinner and be slightly less dysfunctional for two hours.”
Daisy moves first, approaching cautiously and leaving me room to refuse. I let her wrap her arms around me. Her cheek presses against my shoulder, familiar and warm, and whatever fight was keeping my spine straight gives out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
My eyes close. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
When we pull apart, her mascara is smudged and mine’s probably worse. Mom takes a single look at both of us, nods as though the matter has been settled to her satisfaction, and shoves the bowl of potatoes into Daisy’s hands.
“Excellent. Now dig in before it gets cold.”
Mom launches into a story about the bookstore’s new inventory software that Jerry installed last week and that has since made everyone’s life objectively worse.