twenty-six
“You don’t have to talk to anybody,” Naomi said, low. “I’ll handle the door.”
Greta nodded against her dog. She had her fingers buried so deep in Atlas’s coat that her knuckles ached, and she couldn’t make them let go. He didn’t seem to mind. He stayed there, breathing slow and steady under her hands, his warmth seeping into her palms, into her arms, into the cold hollow place in her chest that had been there since the creek.
Alice was dead.
Alice… was… dead.
Alice. Was. Dead.
No matter how many ways she turned those three words over in her head, they wouldn’t make sense. She’d known. She’d known for years, probably. Some part of her had known since the second year, when the tips dried up, and the detective stopped returning her calls, and the flyers on the telephone poles started to fade. She’d known, and she’d kept moving anyway, because moving was the only thing she’d ever been any good at.
Naomi sat on the floor beside her, back against the couch, and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “You want me tosend everybody home, I send everybody home. You want them in here, I let them in. Your call. Every time.”
“Don’t send them home. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Okay.”
When the first knock came, Naomi squeezed Greta’s arm once and got up. She crossed to the door in her socks — she’d kicked her boots off at some point, Greta hadn’t seen when — and opened it just wide enough to talk.
“Hey.” Nessie’s voice was quiet on the porch. “I brought a bunch of stuff from the diner. Soup, bread, lemon bars. I’ll just put it in the kitchen.”
“Come in.” Naomi stepped back. “She’s in the living room.”
Nessie came through with a casserole dish and two shopping bags full of food and crossed straight to the kitchen. A cabinet opened. A plate met the counter with a small ceramic sound.
Naomi was back on the floor before Nessie made it out of the kitchen, sliding into the same spot, her arm finding the same place across Greta’s shoulders.
Nessie came around the couch and lowered herself to the floor, cross-legged, close enough that her knee brushed Greta’s hip. She rested a hand on the small of Greta’s back. Warm. Solid.
Greta’s throat closed up. She really did have the best of friends.
But there was really only one person she wanted right now.
“Is Bear back yet?”
Naomi moved her thumb once across Greta’s shoulder. “Not yet. He went across the street to check on Logan. Wanted to put eyes on him after everything tonight.”
Greta nodded into Atlas’s fur. She hadn’t realized she’d been listening for his boots until Naomi said his name.
“He won’t be long,” Naomi added.
“Okay.”
Another knock came a few minutes later. Two sets of boots on the porch this time.
Naomi stood again. “I’ll get it.”
Maggie came in first with her arms full of folded quilts — three of them, stacked to her chin, the top one a pale gray cable knit Greta recognized from the back of the couch at Maggie and Anson’s cabin. A box of tissues balanced on top. Mariah followed, the fresh green scent of the flower shop on her clothes, holding a small planter full of tiny white flowers.
Maggie set the quilts on the back of the armchair, unfolded a soft cream wool one, and brought it over. She crouched and draped it across Greta’s shoulders over the blanket already there, tucking it down around her hips, around the curve of Atlas’s back, all the way to the floor.
“I’m not going to fuss at you.” Maggie kept her hands on Greta’s shoulders for a second longer, gentle, then pulled back. “I just want you warm. You went into the water tonight, and nobody’s told me you got dry properly.”
“Oh, Greta.” Mariah’s South Carolina accent came out thicker than usual as she crouched in front of her. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to bring. Nessie had food, Maggie had the blankets, and I stood in the shop for ten minutes wondering what flower could possibly make any of this better. And then I realized nothing would, but then…” She held out the flower pot. “This is Sweet Alyssum. It’s a little flower used for filler, but I thought — sometimes it’s called Sweet Alice, so I thought you’d like it.”
Greta looked at the small pot in Mariah’s hands. The flowers were tiny, white, clustered together like stars. She stared at them, and hot tears flooded her eyes. She thought about Alice at sixteen, ironing a patch onto a jacket she’d never take off again, and the crack in her chest spread wider and wider until something gave way entirely.
