Chapter 6
When I returned to the house, I was armed with four paper bags full of food, grumbling at the idea of staying here long enough to need a bicycle with a basket.
My punk image was already bruised enough by becoming a homeowner on an island full of rich white people.
I refused to set the bags down while detaching the keyring from my jeans.
Once inside, I set the bags on my hip and called out, “Hello?”
A strange sense of déjà vu came over me—but for a memory I didn’t have.
There was never a time in my life when I came home to someone eagerly waiting for me.
My parents were always busy and rarely home.
Then I didn’t have a permanent address for a good decade and change.
Before Jesse, living with Babs was the closest thing I had to stability in my twenties, and she kicked me out after I punched a hole in the wall. Fair enough.
Then Jesse and I got together and things were good, until they weren’t.
Even when Jesse still tolerated me, she was usually asleep when I got home from jamming with friends or watching someone else play.
If I came home when she was awake, she greeted me with clenched teeth. Why expect anything different now?
“What a lovely haircut!” Annabelle appeared suddenly at my elbow, making me jump.
I lost my grip on the shopping bags, sending one of them careening sideways before I managed to catch it. A carton of eggs spilled, breaking open and smashing several eggs on the entryway floor. Bright yellow and orange innards splattered across the tile.
Damn. Well, if I couldn’t eat them, maybe I’d use the shards to tell my future. Egg haruspicy ... Yeah, I was losing my mind.
My heart rate slowed when I saw Annabelle’s terribly cute, chagrined expression.
I said, “This is not going to work.”
She cocked her head to the side, looking down regretfully at the eggs. “What isn’t?”
“You. Appearing out of nowhere. Can you put a bell on or something? To let me know when you’re going to appear?”
Annabelle pouted, pushing her rosy lower lip out. “I’m not a cat, Gibson.”
An image of her pouting face with a collar around her neck popped into my head, and I banished the too-alluring thought.
“But I will try to be better about sudden appearances. I promise.”
“Thank you.”
“And in return ...” Now Annabelle bit her lip and wouldn’t meet my eyes. She was glancing at the open door, letting in humid summer air and a horde of bugs.
“What is it, Marley?”
“I’d appreciate your discretion about my ... continued inhabitation of the house.” Now Annabelle looked longingly at her library alcove, where she’d stacked a handful of novels on a side table next to her reading chair. I spied Jane Eyre and something by Oscar Wilde but didn’t recognize the rest.
“Sure,” I said. “Who am I going to tell? Your secret is safe with me.”
Until I sold the house. And even then, who would believe me anyway?
I gathered the rest of the groceries and set the bags down in the kitchen, then returned to the hall to clean up the eggs. A few unbroken ones remained, so at least I could have breakfast this week.
Before placing anything inside the ancient refrigerator, I wiped it down and made a note on my to-do list to hire a cleaner to do a deep clean.
The pantry shelves were disgusting, so after putting away the food, I wiped them down and put the ancient jars in a pile by the door.
I set an unopened bag of coffee and a box of tea on the counter next to the kettle.
When I plugged my phone into the outlet next to the stove, sparks flew out of it.
Unsurprised, I unplugged it and added, “get an electrician” to the list.
I sat down in Annabelle’s spot at the table, suddenly feeling exhausted.
Taking a deep breath in, I prepared myself to check my email but noticed the humid, almost fishy smell that plagued the house occasionally.
It was like the smell of fish—if the smell of fish was made pleasant, somehow.
Just then, Annabelle appeared in the chair opposite me, despite my request that she signal me beforehand.
“Would you like a snack?” she asked.
“Well . . .”
Without waiting for an answer, she headed into the somewhat clean kitchen and started opening cabinets. “I’ll make you something. It’s been ages since I cooked for anyone. Agatha had the strangest tastes, and once she was moved to the care home, all the goods she had just went stale.”
“Okay, but—”
A loud knocking on the front door made us both jump in surprise. I let out a breath and forced myself to relax. “Hold that thought.”
When I opened the door, the woman from the restaurant last night was standing outside, smiling brightly. She clutched a large handbag and was wearing a scarf around her head despite the heat. “Good to see you again, dear.”
“Okay,” I said.
I didn’t open the door wide enough for her to enter, but she pushed it open with her foot. Miranda entered the hallway and looked around with a placid smile. As if she was trying to put on a brave face about being in my house when she was the one who barged in.
“Oh good, all her things are still here.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t close the door behind her, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. My established policy of not yelling at senior citizens might have to change.
“The estate people wouldn’t let me in to take care of her things.” Miranda’s voice was shaky now. “Agatha had everything worked out ahead of time, but she could be so bullheaded about other people’s feelings.”
I had no idea what to say about that, but she seemed like she needed a moment, so I gestured her to a chair in the sitting room. She took a seat on one of the sitting room sofas. She glanced at the bloodstained one, but her expression didn’t change.
“Uh . . . Tea?”
“Love some,” she said, crinkling her eyes in a friendly way. It made her heavy mascara stand out among the many happy wrinkles around her eyes.
Feeling completely out of my depth, I made her a cup of tea and poured it into the only cup and saucer set I could find among a sea of mugs in the cabinet. Annabelle was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a novel and making tutting noises. I cleared my throat.
“Yes, dear?”
“You’re ... look, I don’t want to sound rude, but—”
Annabelle set the book aside and folded her hands. She looked amused.
“I just ... this lady showed up, and I can’t explain you to—”
“It’s quite all right, Gibson. I’ll make myself scarce.” She found a serving tray from one of the cupboards and put the tea I made on it. Then she vanished into thin air.
“Thank you?” I said to the empty kitchen.
I returned to the living room and set the tray on a low end table and handed Miranda the cup.
After a few moments of awkward silence, we fell into a conversation that became more enjoyable the longer it went on.
I served Miranda three cups of tea while she peppered me with tales of séances gone sideways.
I couldn’t put a finger on her age. Since she knew Agatha, she had to be fairly old, but she somehow seemed both older and younger than she appeared.
The conversation, of course, turned to the house and what I was going to do with it.
“First things first, I need an electrician. Or the house might burn down before I can sell it, anyway.” I frowned.
Checking things off my to-do list and getting closer to the payout that would let me leave this 1950s fever dream island was all well and good, but finding an electrician would mean making phone calls .
“I can help with that,” Miranda said. “I know just the man! He doesn’t have the most pleasant bedside manner, but he’s a pro and he’ll give you a fair price.”
“I guess that would be nice, but you don’t have to—”
“Of course I do, love.” She clapped her hands together, then brought out an iPhone that was so many generations old it was practically obsolete. “In fact, I’ll just call him now. He and I go ... way back.”
The way she said “way back” was so suggestive I blinked in surprise. Way to go, Miss Miranda.
She delicately pressed her fingers to the screen, angling them up to avoid scratching the phone with her fake nails. A man picked up after three rings, and she stood to pace the hall while they talked. I didn’t hide the fact that I was listening.
“Now, Pete, you turn down that television and give me a listen or there’ll be no leftover lutefisk for you come this Christmas.
” Miranda rolled her eyes and listened to a shouty tirade from the other end.
When the speaker’s voice faded, she gave him the address and said, “Very well. And you’ll be on your best behavior while you’re here.
You already know how much work this place needs. ”
Miranda hung up and turned back to me. “All set. He’ll be here tomorrow. Can’t have us burning down this lovely old house, now, can we?”
I stuttered, feeling completely overwhelmed that she’d simply taken this task off my plate for me. “You don’t need to help me. Why are you helping me?”
Miranda’s dangly green earrings lightly brushed one shoulder as she cocked her head to the side. She pursed her lips. Her teacup now had a bright pink lipstick stain on it. “Because you need it, dear,” she said gently.
I couldn’t reply. It was too much. All the words stuck in my throat before I could get them out. I wanted to yell at her and make her leave. I wanted to hug her. The mixture of feelings was too large for my body.
“Thank you,” I managed.
She smiled sweetly. We shared a moment of comfortable silence together in my great-aunt’s home. Then the grandfather clock chimed, and she seemed to awaken from a dream.
“Oh, my, look at the time.” Miranda helped me gather the teacups and bring them into the kitchen.
She knew where everything went already and insisted on washing the dishes as I watched.
Annabelle’s cup and book were still on the table where she’d left them.
I hoped Miranda wouldn’t notice the extra cup and saucer.