Chapter 1 #3
“That’s not even an answer to what I asked you, and who even runs into someone’s arms?
” I don’t give her time to answer. “And I’m not talking to you about my sex life.
” I give her a plastic smile. “Plus, I do have fun.” She’s on my heels as I mindlessly tidy the shelves.
“Jonathan and I went to a wine tasting last weekend and there were new cheeses from a Virginia dairy farm.” When I realize my story proves her point, I add, “And there was an acoustic singer we booked for our wedding.”
“How wild.” Her voice drips with sarcasm at the mention of my fiancé and pending nuptials. “Bet that perfect man made you floss after you were done.”
“He is perfect, thank you very much, and we did have a wild time.” Jonathan is a lot of great things, including a dentist, a wonderful man, and completely pragmatic, but wild is not one of them—which I appreciate. “We didn’t even brush our teeth that night.”
That is a flat-out lie—Jonathan would never. Ever.
She rolls her eyes, but before either of us can drag the argument out, the door’s bell chimes through the air.
Bennie barrels in with her contagious seven-year-old grin and freckle-smattered cheeks. The sight of her defuses the situation instantly.
“Gypsy!” Bennie calls my mom’s zany title first with a big smile on her face.
“There’s my stickybeak,” my mom coos, making Bennie giggle at her hard-earned nickname from being the nosiest person we both know. “Tell me what you snooped out today.”
Bennie beams. “Mrs. Wilcox thinks her husband has a girlfriend.” My jaw drops but my mother is all ears as Bennie launches into the story she overheard while “waiting” outside the teachers’ lounge to ask a question.
Her nosiness knows no bounds. I’ve talked to her about it, but it’s like the kid was born to be a PI; she won’t quit.
My daughter shifts her hug to me, her skin ruddy and covered in a layer of sweat. “Hi, Mom.”
“You’re sticky, Bee,” I say with a laugh and bop on the oversized white bow around her ponytail.
She looks exactly like her father with big brown eyes and dirty-blond hair.
I don’t let myself think of Nash often, but at the unexpected times his ghost finds me, it’s hard for me to breathe through the anger and sadness.
Hard for me to think straight until I shove the thought away.
She drops her backpack on the old planks of the wood floor.
“Hot out.” She shoves a stack of mail and school papers in my hand. To my mom: “You forgot to get the mail again, Gypsy.”
“Did I?” My mom swats a dismissive hand through the air. “Guess it’s good for you. We all know how much you like to read it before us.”
She and my mom exchange a conspiratory look, but my mom’s not wrong. She used to be religious about greeting the mailman, now I think she likes leaving it for Bennie because she’s been skipping it more and more.
“School good?” I ask her.
“Yep.” Bennie grins. “One more week until summer break.”
“Summer break can wait,” Mom chimes in. “I got a new treasure. A crystal ball.”
Mentally, I flip her off, but Bennie, that backstabber, squeals with delight.
Mom shuffles behind the counter to reveal the purple velvet bag and its contents. Bennie’s face lights up at the sight of it.
I don’t miss the victorious look my mother gives me. The fact that we’re both still alive after so many years working together should be studied for science.
“Did you see this, Mom?” Bennie makes a fish face that’s distorted in the ball’s reflection. “Is it real?”
“Of course it’s real.” My mom looks like this is the most absurd question she’s ever been asked. “It belonged to Jeane Dixon.”
Bennie is somehow even more enamored by this news.
My mom vanishes down an aisle, returning with two scarves she ties into turbans on their heads, pulling her hair back just enough I see the faded scar on her forehead from the night my dad died.
He had his heart attack while he was driving them out to dinner, hitting a telephone pole and dying instantly.
After being checked from head to toe, my mom walked away with a few follow-up checkups and a single scratch.
“I see ice cream in my future,” Bennie says, waving her hands slowly over the crystal ball. It’s hard not to laugh. “And going to a school where I don’t have to wear this stupid skirt.”
“Hey!” I swat her plaid-fabric-covered bottom. “That skirt costs a lot of money, Bennie Francine.”
She opens one eye to give me a look. No matter how many times I remind her I’m paying a small fortune for her to go to the best school in the area, it’s the skirt it comes down to.
Following Bennie’s lead, my mom closes her eyes and waves her hands around the ball, voice lowering to a whisper. “I see your mom going on an adventure and—wait—is that a smile?”
“Ha. Ha,” I say dryly.
“Oh? And what’s this?” Her hands still but her eyebrows raise above her closed eyes like she’s just made a grand discovery. “She’s going to fall in love.”
Bennie giggles. “Maybe with my dad.”
At this, my mom’s eyes fly open and she and I exchange a wide-eyed look. I’ve done the best I can handling such a delicate topic with Bennie. But this . . . this is unexpected. Even my mother is shocked.
“You know that can’t happen, right, Bee?” I ask softly. “You know that, right?”
She shrugs, looking at me like that’s just my opinion. Like the man is not, in fact, dead.
“And I’m marrying Jonathan,” I add.
My mom rolls her eyes. “How could we forget?”
I don’t know what it is about Jonathan—he’s a great man—but for the two years we’ve been together, he’s never been great enough for her.
Good news for me: I don’t care what she thinks.
He’s the nicest man I’ve ever known and more stable than an old oak.
Everything I had in my family growing up, he and I will give to Bennie.
I wiggle my finger donning a large diamond toward my mother and give her a saccharine smile. “With effort, I’m sure.”
She makes a disagreeing sound then winces slightly, giving her temple a two-fingered massage.
“You drink water today?” No matter how many reusable water bottles I buy her or where I put them, they never seem to get used enough because she keeps getting headaches.
“Stop trying to drown me,” she snaps, her scowl turning to a smile as she gives her full attention to Bennie and the ball.
As she begins predicting that the water of Fontain will turn to wine, I retreat down the short hall to my office. I settle behind my desk and shuffle through the mail and school papers as the computer wakes up.
May always brings a hectic schedule at the school. Last week was field day and a barbecue, which Old Vines donated the food for, and this week is filled with end-of-year tests, parties, and about a million pieces of paperwork in preparation for next year.
I reluctantly open a piece of mail first, the invoice for the roof.
So long, twenty grand. The finance-induced anxiety begins to petrify my muscles, compounded by the first envelope from the school: next year’s tuition schedule for Fontain Academy.
I open it with one eye closed to soften the blow; it doesn’t work.
Prices are going up by another grand. “Greedy bastards,” I mutter, opening the next one. Bennie’s report card. All A’s.
I smile at the paper. She’s so damn smart.
The next items are school assignments. A math worksheet. A paragraph about what she wants to do all summer.
The last paper is a watercolor art project I linger on. It’s a tree, the big cotton-candy kind that kids love to draw, filled in with muddled shades of green. Written in crayon are names—family names. It’s a family tree.
My name. My sisters. My parents. Her cousins.
But it’s what’s written on the branch that veers off from mine that pokes my heart like a thousand needles: Nash Fletcher.
I’ve told her as much as I can about him—his shirts, his harmonica, his obsession with Ben Franklin—but even after all these years of him being gone, seeing his name in her handwriting stings more than I expect.
I slip it to the back of the stack, moving to an envelope with my name scribbled across it. The paper inside contains the school’s formal letterhead.
Ms. Conway,
Thank you for your ongoing support of our school activities and to Old Vines for sponsoring the first grade end of year barbecue.
Unfortunately, your check was unable to be cashed due to insufficient funds.
Please contact your financial institution to rectify and we will happily accept a new check at your earliest convenience.
Not possible.
I reread it. Once. Twice. My pulse thumps at the roots of my teeth and where my fingertips make contact with the paper.
Not. Possible.
At the computer, I struggle to type in the bank’s website and our account information, entering the incorrect password—twice.
This can’t be right.
Business hasn’t been great, but it hasn’t been that not great. I’m fastidious with inventory. The register. I just checked the balance a week ago: There was $42,356 and change in there. Other than the unexpected arrival of the crystal ball, every purchase has been prudent.
Oh, God—how much does a crystal ball cost?
Then I see it.
Account balance: $0.
I let out an audible no as my stomach drops to the floor.
Everything else in the whole world goes blurry except that zero. In a split second I try to convince myself of a million different ways that zero means something else. Something bigger. Something with more zeros and other numbers mixed in.
Leaning toward the screen, I click frantically to get to the transaction report, my chest so tight I might die.
“Mom!” I shout, the word hurting my throat. “Mom! Get in here!”
I don’t have to scroll far to see four withdrawals—all in the last week—which wiped out the account. Every cent, gone.
My mom steps into the office, already talking. “I forgot to tell you, I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at four thirty. Just a che—”
At my wide eyes, hers narrow.
I turn the computer to face her, ready for her to be as shocked as I am.
Only it’s not shock on her face. It’s recognition.
“Oh, that.” She bats an unpanicked hand through the air. “That’s nothing to worry about.”