Supplies for Maria’s wedding planning business are strewn throughout the flat. My baking supplies overwhelm the kitchen and an adjacent area nearby. Confetti from the gift box Caleb and Holly sent has wafted all over the floor, couch, TV stand, and our white gateleg table. The Martha Stewart rave aesthetic is strong today.
I finally settle on a pile of mail sitting on my cheap Ikea coffee table with empty baguette sleeves and all the crumbs, forcing myself to sit and sift through the mess. A highly anticipated glossy cardstock peeks beneath what’s most likely a bill.Oh?Has my April postcard arrived already? Practically beaming, I pluck the cherished card out from the pile. Huh. It’s early. These usually come during the middle of the month.
They’re always the same—a candid picture of some weird place from my hometown, edited to look like a meme with the words “Greetings from Tallow, Massachusetts” worked into the picture. I snort at this month’s photo. It’s Rohr’s Diner, my favorite. Whoever took this nailed the vibe. The whole diner is blanketed in a gradient wash of orange, brown, and a coffee-stained beige. Halloween decorations grace the center of the tables, even though the specials board says it’s March. Snow falls outside the diner window. A patron directs their gaze toward it with a humorously steep pile of pancakes in front of them. A speech bubble over their head reads,The weather is wicked nice this time of the year, isn’t it? And their boothmate, blessed with an enormous burger, says,Perfect weather for an iced Dunks.
Snow place like homeis scrawled underneath.
I flip the postcard over to read the typed message accompanying the photo, a smile permanently fashioned on my face.
April News Report from Tallow, Massachusetts.
Deciding to grab life by the horns, Bonnie, the more adventurous of Mr. Shigle’s cows, went on the “lamb.” It took three cops in a high-steaks chase to get her back behind the fence.
The Maces bought a school bus and turned it into a chicken coop. Classes are going well. Six out of ten chickens surveyed agreed their favorite course is eggonomics. One chicken interviewed was eggspelled. And the other three stared at me with a beady gaze suggesting fowl play would soon be at hand. I fled the coop shortly after.
Nearing the end of tapping season. The following postcard will report the winner of the annual pancake and syrup competition.
Though it’s hard to beleaf anyone can stack up to Rohr’s.
We all miss you a waffle lot.
Sorry, that got sappy.
Yours affectionately,
—Completely mortified at that last pun but rather proud of the chicken ones.
My focus tightens, zeroing in on the postcard for clues, an errant reflection maybe,something. Five years and I still don’t have any leads on the sender’s identity. Whoever they are doesn’t want me to figure it out. I’ve called the Tallow Post Office, and they’ve said as much. I thought it was Eli, having received the first one after a long homesick cry, but he denies it—and he’s hardly a pun guy.
“The Imperial March” fromStar Warspricks my ears, and the screen on my phone illuminates, rattling my coffee table without warning. I ruffle through the empty baguette sleeves to find it.
What could she want?
Incoming: Caroline O’Shea—DO NOT ANSWER UNLESS YOU DESIRE PAIN.
My thumb hovers over the answering button. Whatever it is, I’ll have to talk to her at some point. It might as well be now.
Drawing a collecting breath, I lay back on the couch and bring my phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Oh! Hi, sweetheart.” My mother coughs, mid-sip of something. She probably anticipated going to voice mail.
My foot flicks in the air as I wait for her signature passive-aggressive tirade to commence.
She clears her throat. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No, no—just resting on the couch,” I say, studying the postcard and smiling.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Kelly said Liam told her you had an incident the other day. Said you practically fainted when you saw him.”
“Of course he did.”
“So darling, about the wedding—”
My jaw tightens. “Mm-hmm.”
“Are you done with your dramatics over the whole situation?”
Resting the postcard on my stomach, I inhale and attempt to keep my voice even. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean, Mother. A lady’s never the source of drama. You taught me that.”
