11 Joey
Joey
Sophie comes skittering up the gravel road just as Joey’s about to knock.
She’s thrown back to days in the past when they would all show up at Quinn’s together, pillows bunched under their arms, ready for a sleepover or for hours jumping on the trampoline in the backyard.
Quinn’s house—or, just Barbara’s house now—is quiet.
Dew-damp flower beds line the front path, and a bird feeder hums furiously as tiny wings vie for space.
“Morning,” says Sophie. She’s wearing a very rumpled pale blue peasant top and a bright, sleep-creased smile.
Something about the smile feels put-on. Joey is sure that Sophie is still turning over what she said about the whisper in the woods.
She seems to be deciding how to be with her without immediately referring her to psychiatric care.
Barbara Winter greets them at the front door with a look of unfettered delight. “Oh my days,” she says, after she hugs Joey and sees Sophie standing behind her. “Look how beautiful… Come in, come in.”
Joey’s been here a few times over the years.
She and Barbara discussed business around the same kitchen table where she used to serve them blackberry pancakes on Sunday mornings.
Before, Barbara was so full of energy, so bubbly, always making the girls laugh.
She was always everything to everyone. A city councilwoman, present at every PTA meeting, volunteering for events at the school, and running the town’s annual lights parade in December, plus she owned Aspect Coffee, which, in its heyday, doubled as a kind of community center.
A sparkle of a woman. But after Quinn died, especially by the time Barbara was ready to get rid of the coffee shop, her eyes had sunk into tired skin, her hair had thinned.
She quit almost everything, and now it’s just the baking.
All the time. Today, she wears her hair in a bob, her natural curls completely gray.
Despite it all, Barbara still has a bit of her old spirit.
Maybe it’s the long gold earrings hanging from her ears in the shape of snakes with tiny black stones for eyes.
The house smells of cinnamon and bread. The kitchen walls are a ruby wallpaper decorated with sketched pomegranate halves. A brass kettle billows steam. A crystal suncatcher dangling in the window refracts light around the room.
Joey is surprised to see Gael here. He is busy setting out small plates and napkins, seeming right at home.
“Buns are almost ready, madam,” he tells them with a napkin draped over his forearm, as if he is a butler.
Behind him, Barbara grins, proud. Sophie laughs, and Joey wonders why Gael is here but not Elena.
He offers them a choice of tea or coffee.
Joey takes a coffee.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Sophie says, opting for tea.
To Barbara, she says, “It’s so cozy in here.
I’ve missed this.” The kitchen is warm, and the counter is speckled with flour.
A window is cracked so they can hear the birds, who seem thrilled that the sun is shining.
Barbara slides a tray of homemade lemon curd and freshly whipped butter onto the table.
“Barbara is teaching me to bake,” says Gael. He looks like he’s never seen a spread like this in his life, and she is struck with how much he looks like Elena. The same thick black hair, the same deep brown eyes. And yet he has an easygoing, jovial personality she doesn’t recognize.
Joey notices too, his use of Barbara’s first name.
They’ve all called her that ever since Joey made the mistake of calling her Mrs. Winter one morning when they were kids.
“Oh, use my first name, honey,” she said.
“It was a gift from my mother.” She was not one of those first-name moms who tried to get in on the gossip or put in her two cents about who she thought was cute at school.
That was more Joey’s mom. Barbara was a mother hen, a collector of friends and the busiest woman alive.
Someone who would wrap you in a hug and listen, no questions asked, but who would also then spearhead antibullying training at school on your behalf.
Joey feels her molars grinding. Of course she would compare her own mother to Barbara, even though she has no delusions that hers was so maternal. Joey’s mom seemed so young, sometimes more like a sister than a mother, all the way up to the end. But god, Joey loved her.
From somewhere in the house, Elena emerges.
Her hair is styled in beach waves that look effortless but likely required at least twenty minutes in front of the mirror.
Joey notices the wet smell of shampoo wafting down from upstairs, the two extra pairs of shoes by the front door, and the white cross-body bag hanging on a hook, and she feels an instant twinge of irritation.
“I didn’t realize you were staying here,” she says.
The words are out before she can check them.
“Oh, awkward. Sorry.” Elena makes a little oopsie face to show that Joey’s comment has made her mildly uncomfortable. “Now you know, I guess.” She grabs a coffee mug from a rack beneath the cabinets.
“I was more than happy to open my home up to Elena and Gael,” Barbara says over Joey’s shoulder, “just as I would be more than happy to do it for either of you.” She wipes her hands and pats Joey on the arm as if to say, “and that is that.”
“Of course, we know that,” says Sophie.
But Joey feels bruised. She knows Elena probably stayed in touch with Barbara on Barbara’s insistence and that she has no right to be jealous.
Maybe she wishes things had been different between them, that they could have banded together after Quinn died, not scattered.
Joey lets herself picture Quinn here now, sitting across from her, telling her not to let Elena get under her skin, laughing as she dips a finger into the curd and then licks it clean.
“Good,” Barbara chirps. “Chelsea buns will be ready in five minutes.”
“Bless you.” Sophie gives Barbara a look of such gratitude, it looks like she might be considering staying forever. Elena pours herself some coffee. The smell fills the room, and the moment seems to pass. Imaginary Quinn disappears.
“So Gael says he’s been taking pictures around town,” Barbara says, patting him on the shoulder.
“He’s pretty good,” Elena says, and Joey detects a small glint of pride in her eye. “But he is completely obsessed.”
“I am,” he says as he swallows down some orange juice. Then he grabs a camera from the counter and holds it up to his face, pointing it directly at them. A few speedy clicks, before they even have time to smile, and then he examines his work.
They settle into the silence. Morning sunlight floats around the oven-warmed room.
Maybe it’s the way they all seem so at ease right now, in this familiar kitchen, or maybe it’s the soft jazz playing on the speaker or the smell of something baking.
It’s at odds with the restlessness inside Joey, with the reminder that the trees wanted her to know something about Quinn.
“Barbara, can I ask you something?” Joey’s interruption is louder than she intends it to be. Everyone looks at her.
Barbara is alerted by the change in energy. She flips a kitchen towel over her shoulder and tilts her head to the side in concern. “Everything okay?”
Back in the day, when Joey asked the questions no one wanted to hear, she was not taken seriously.
And rightly so. She was a nervous kid whose ideas about corroboration and timelines and alibis came from watching NCIS.
But despite being the subject of town gossip, just asking the questions gave her a strange buzz, like one piece of an interrogation might lead somewhere.
It never did, of course. But right now, she feels an ounce of that old buzz again.
“How much do you believe Tom’s alibi?” The words spill out of her.
There’s a palpable silence after the word alibi. And with it, the kitchen’s cottagey warmth chills slightly. Barbara frowns. Gael looks up from his camera. Sophie and Elena both take longer than normal sips.
Fifteen years ago, Joey spoke to Tom Winter while he sat at the bar in the Strike.
Her obstinate glare dared the bartender—still Ken, even back then—to kick her out.
He didn’t, even though he knew she was underage.
She didn’t order anything, and she didn’t make small talk.
She just watched Quinn’s dad tap his ring against his glass over and over again while she asked him where he had been the night of her death.
He didn’t make a single sound except for the clinking of metal on glass, and her only thought at the time was, You’re divorced.
Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?
Barbara slides into a seat and looks Joey in the eye. “If you’re asking whether I believe he was at poker the night Quinn died, then, yes, I do. He is a lot of things, but a good liar is not one of them.”
“Joey, his friends vouched for him,” Sophie adds quietly.
Barbara squints. “Why do I think that’s not the answer you were looking for?”
Joey shrugs, deciding how to respond. It’s not the answer she wanted, but what does she want? She can’t go into detail about Quinn’s words in the woods. Not with Barbara. But she can’t pretend everything’s fine either.
“You weren’t living with him at the time, so how can you be sure?”