55. Chapter 55
Evie
Iwake Sunday morning with an ache lodged deep under my ribcage.
It isn’t pain exactly. When I roll onto my back and press a hand to my chest, there’s nothing there to explain why I feel so off.
By the time I sit up, the ache has become an insistent tug, urging me to get dressed and go somewhere even though I don’t know where.
Marmalade sits on the nightstand, his unblinking green eyes fixed on me.
“What?”
He gives me one accusatory meow, then jumps off the nightstand and disappears through the bedroom door.
When I walk over to the inn, Mom and Daisy have beaten me there.
My sister considers anything before eight a personal attack, while Mom can technically be conscious at six and spend ten minutes looking for the coffee pot she’s holding, so finding them both here before me stops me in the kitchen doorway.
My sister sits on the stool, her hands wrapped around a mug.
Mom’s claimed half the island and made it look like she’s been working there for hours despite accomplishing very little.
A carton of raspberries is open beside her; the blueberries are still sealed; a banana has migrated next to the toaster; and she’s halfway through cutting a melon.
“There she is,” Daisy says, lifting her coffee toward me. “The award winner herself.”
“Why are you here so early? It’s not even seven.”
“Exactly. I’d like recognition for my sacrifice.”
Mom looks up from the melon, then glances around the counter. “Have either of you seen my phone?”
I point toward the windowsill without breaking stride. “Next to the strawberries.”
She gives me a satisfied nod as though this proves the system works perfectly. “Good. I knew I put it somewhere sensible.”
Daisy snorts into her coffee.
I reach the island and lift the lid of the nearest box.
Warm butter, cinnamon, and baked fruit rise from inside.
There are enough croissants, Danish pastries, and muffins to feed twice the number of guests invited, which means Nora heard small celebration and decided four pastry boxes felt appropriately restrained.
“You went to Honeybee’s already?”
“Mom did,” Daisy says. “I was dragged from my bed against my will and brought here as unpaid labor.”
Mom points the knife vaguely in Daisy’s direction. “You volunteered.”
“At five forty in the morning?”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Fine, whatever, just let me sleep.’ That sounded like consent.”
I take the knife out of her hand before she starts gesturing with it again. “Please never explain consent that way to anyone.”
As we carry breakfast through to the dining room, the guests start waking up. The usual morning spread is set out, with The Honeybee’s pastry boxes left untouched in the kitchen for this afternoon.
Yesterday, I warned everyone about the celebration because I didn’t want anyone paying for a calm weekend only to discover half the town in the garden.
I’d promised the noise would stay reasonable, that the party would wrap up well before bedtime, and that they were more than welcome to join us and help themselves to the food later.
I expected polite tolerance. Instead, most of them seemed pleased by the idea.
Mrs. Halpern is the first at the table, already dressed for a hike while her husband trails behind her, fastening his watch.
“Congratulations again,” she says as I top up her cup. “We’ll probably stop by for a little while before dinner.”
“We have a reservation at the restaurant in town,” Mr. Halpern adds, pulling out a folded map. “But we’d love to come down and celebrate with you first.”
The warmth in his voice disarms me, and my smile comes easier than expected. “You’re very welcome to.”
Clara and Caden, a couple from Connecticut, linger at the table, discussing whether they should come back early from the lake for the party.
Matilda, who is checking out today, asks if Nora’s apple Danish is as good as everyone claims. Daisy launches into an unnecessarily detailed pastry ranking while I put yogurt, granola, fruit, and warm croissants out on the sideboard.
By the time the party gets underway, the garden is packed, forcing me to weave between people to get from the porch to the drinks table without clipping anyone with my shoulder.
The October sun is bright but gentle, warming the top of my head while the breeze keeps lifting the hem of my skirt and sending the smell of damp leaves, cider, and whatever Rick put in the smoker across the yard.
Most people have come prepared for Vermont weather anyway, jackets looped over chair backs, sleeves pushed up, scarves abandoned the second the sun came out.
Dry leaves scrape across the grass near the fence, and the fairy lights Daisy insisted on stringing overhead catch the sunlight whenever the wind moves them.
People crowd the food tables, shifting platters around as they help themselves while paper napkins lift at the corners in the breeze. Somebody’s moved the cider farther from the edge after Marmalade showed too much interest in the cinnamon sticks.
Maddie has claimed the drinks table. She’s wearing jeans, ankle boots, and a rust-colored sweater with the sleeves shoved to her elbows, her hair clipped back while she works through a row of bottles, sliced fruit, herbs, and little bowls of spices like she’s been hired for the occasion instead of inviting herself into the role.
Every few minutes she shoves a fresh glass into my hand and waits for judgment.
“Try this.”
I look down at the cocktail she’s offering me, pale gold with a thin apple slice floating against the side of the glass and cinnamon clinging to the rim. “How many more am I testing?”
“Until I’m satisfied.”
“You said that three drinks ago.”
“That was before I improved it.”
Maddie watches while I take a sip, her eyes narrowing with ridiculous concentration as though my face is about to reveal a laboratory result. The drink is crisp at first, then warmer underneath, with maple and spice settling at the back of my tongue. I swallow and pass it over.
“Well?”
“It’s good.”
She grins and snatches the glass from me. “Perfect. That’s going on the new menu at the bar.”
Maddie turns toward the bottles again, calling for Daisy to bring more ice without even checking whether she’s anywhere nearby.
She isn’t. My sister is across the lawn in a cream sweater and dark jeans, talking with Caroline while Rick crouches beside one of the folding tables with a wrench in his hand. I don’t know how he noticed the loose bolt, but he’s tightening it while Caroline stands over him frowning.
Peter is leaning against the porch railing with a beer in one hand, pretending not to slip Marmalade pieces of smoked salmon with the other. My cat, traitor that he is, sits at his feet looking deeply devoted.
Rebecca brushes past me carrying a plate piled high with quiche and roasted vegetables, and I step aside just as Lucas spots me from the edge of the crowd. He lifts his drink in a cheerful little toast.
I wave back and immediately regret it when he starts walking over.
Daisy intercepts him halfway, one hand landing on his arm while she says something that makes him turn toward the food table instead.
When she circles back, Lucas is happily examining the mini pies. “Nicely done.”
“I’m earning my keep.”
“You don’t work here.”
“Exactly. Imagine what you’d have to pay me.”
Maddie hooks two fingers through my sleeve and shoves another glass at me.
“No.”
“Yes. This one has pear syrup.”
“That’s not a compelling argument.”
“It has rosemary, too.” She lifts the glass closer.
I sigh and take it. I’m halfway through deciding whether I like it when Nora comes hurrying across the lawn with a camera bouncing against her chest and cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Her cheeks are pink from the cold air.
“Evie! There you are.”
“I’ve been here the entire time.”
“Yes, but now the light is good.” She takes my wrist. “Come stand by the sign.”
“The Foxglove sign?”
“What other one would I mean?”
“I don’t know. You arrived carrying a camera and urgency.”
Nora laughs and steers me toward the gate, dodging around a couple of guests from the inn who’ve joined the party. The sun has shifted lower, warming the front of the building and catching in the copper and gold leaves along the road.
“Why exactly are we doing this?”
“I’m putting together a community board. Local businesses supporting local businesses. Very hashtag-friendly.”
I let her position me and snap a dozen photos while I try to smile naturally and fail spectacularly.
“Perfect,” she declares, reviewing the screen. “You look like you’re about to throw up, but we’ll work with it.”
“Thanks, Nora.”
“Anytime!” She darts off, already showing the photos to my mom.
The party continues. People drift between the tables, refilling plates, laughing, pulling Marmalade onto laps and spoiling him with attention he pretends to hate but clearly loves.
The ache in my chest hasn’t faded with the day. If anything, the pull has grown more insistent, tightening whenever I stop moving and pay attention.
Once the sun starts dropping behind the trees, the garden changes with it.
The last clear gold of the afternoon deepens to amber across the lawn.
Jackets come back on as the temperature falls.
Mom wraps a blanket around her shoulders.
The fairy lights begin their intended job, glowing overhead while the tables blur at the edges beneath the deepening blue of the sky.
When guests start leaving, I’m relieved.
Maddie and Daisy stay behind helping me clean up. They’re in the kitchen washing plates while I pick up the last scattered blankets from the grass outside. The cooling air raises goosebumps along my bare arms as I bend for another one.
Thunder rolls, low and long, somewhere out past the tree line, and a thread of lightning stitches the darkening sky. The pull beneath my ribs tightens, stopping me halfway to the blanket.
“I’m sorry I missed the party,” says a voice behind me.
I don’t move as my heart gives one violent thud, then another, and every other sound in the garden falls away around that voice.
I know that voice.
I’ve heard it read magazine trivia aloud, mutter at recipes in my kitchen, and say my name in a way nobody else ever had.
I was certain I’d never hear it again.