“Judge-and-Jury has entered the chat,” I say. “Thirty seconds? That might be a new record, Rach.”
“This is a serious situation, and you have theaudacity?—”
“To enjoy an adult beverage or three during my exhausting post-breakup twelve-hour travel day after which neither of my sisters showed up at the airport? Sisters who both live in Manhattan, and could’ve easily swung by on their way to the Hollow? Thanks for that, by the way.”
Rachel folds her arms across her chest. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
“You said it was important! Our spawn-mother just died!”
“My MBA graduation was important, but you had no problem skipping that. And the fundraiser for Kate’s new art studio, not to mention?—”
“I live on the other side of the country!”
“And whose choice was that? You know, Lizzy, you love to blame?—”
“You have a boyfriend?” Kate asks, Chief Executive Subject-Changer.
“Hada boyfriend. Now I just have a headache.” I press my fingertips to my temples and sigh. My beautiful buzz has evaporated, along with the warm fuzzies from Kate’s hug. Suddenly I’m reminded of all the reasons we all stopped talking in the first place.
The fallout from The Incident hovers like a storm cloud waiting to burst—on me, anyway. Rachel and Kate apparently patched things up. No idea when that happened. My invite to the love-fest must’ve been lost in the mail.
Critical error number two: thinking, for even one second, that time heals all wounds.
“Coming here was a mistake,” I mutter.
Rachel huffs and tosses her auburn hair. “This isn’t a hostage situation. You’re free to go. Kate and I already decided about the?—”
“Who wants tea? I know I do!” Kate flashes her trademark can’t-we-all-just-get-along grin and grabs the kettle off thestove, but Rachel’s aggressively RBF-ing me and I’m just standing here like a dried-up leaf blown in on the wind, waiting for someone to sweep my ass back out.
I’m about to take Rachel’s advice and beeline for the door when the phone trills in my pocket—Brendan’s ringtone. Like Pavlov’s dog, I reach for it on command, but…no.
I shove him into voicemail. Nothing good is waiting for me on the other end of that call.
Nothing good is waiting for me anywhere.
I glance around the kitchen again. My mother’s kitchen. I don’t know why I expected it to be different—barren, perhaps. Steel appliances and plain white countertops, as cold and blank as the space in my heart she left behind. But this place is homey and lived-in, a cozy blend of blond wood countertops, deep olive-painted walls, and white glass-front cupboards. A potholder dangling on the oven handle, stained with spaghetti sauce. A flourishing herb garden in the window well over the sink. On the fridge, a magnet decorated with a bouquet of flowers and hearts that reads, “Love is the real magic.”
Says the woman who abandoned three daughters.
What a crock of shit.
A dark sigh escapes. Critical error or not, I’m stuck here. Broke, unemployed, nowhere to go. Until we wrap up the estate stuff and cash out, what choice do I have?
“The ex?” Kate asks gently, and I nod, powering off my phone. With a soft smile, she says, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Multiple confessions gather on the tip of my tongue—the cheating and the breakup, my nonexistent job prospects, Hello Fucking Kitty, the all-too-brief joy over the credit card theft and dildo thing—but before I can voice a single pathetic one, the back door bangs open so hard, I’m half convinced the ol’ hatchet-wielding werewolf has shown up after all.
Sadly, the figure standing on the threshold is no monster. Just a woman, weaponless, mid-fifties, iron gray hair piled into a messy bun that adds about four inches of height to an otherwise small stature. A pair of green-framed glasses perches on her nose, magnifying her clear blue eyes.
“Sisters Bonnivarde,” she says dramatically. “You’ve all arrived. Good.” She presses a hand to her heart and bows, silver bangles tinkling on her wrist. “Helena Whitestone. Lovely to see you again, though I’m certain you don’t remember me. We’ll catch up as we go.” She barrels inside, marching past us and straight into the dining room. A series of clinks and clangs follows, like a table being set. “Come now, girls. We’ve got lots of ground to cover, and—goodness, why is it so dreadfully dark in this house? A little light, if you don’t mind?”
This last missive is directed at no one in particular, so no one responds. And by no one, I mean no human person. The house, though… Several lamps blink to life, along with the little light over the stovetop and another that illuminates the back patio.
It’s Kate who regains her senses first, breaking whatever spell held our brains captive while Helena Whitestone bippety-boppety-booed her way into our childhood home.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” she calls out, and we all tumble into the dining room. “Can I help you with?—”
The rest of the question dies.
