Even if home is the nicest place in the world, it’s hard not to imagine something else—if only the closest city.
“I headed to college that first fall. Boston. Didn’t suit me, though.”
“Boston didn’t?” I ask.
“College,” he admits. “I stayed on the East Coast for a while. Lived in New York. I moved to Seattle last year. Feels good to be back in the West.” He takes a sip, eyes on mine the whole time.
“So, what are you doing here now? At your parents’.”
“I do freelance graphic design. I’m helping them rebrand the store. It’s easier to do from here, since there’s a lot to go through. I’ve only been back a couple weeks.” Rory tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, placing a hand lightly on my knee. “But you… you doin’ okay?”
I gulp, aware of how high his fingers are slipping above my knee. I breathe to respond but am interrupted by the sound of clanging pots and ’70s rock music blasting from the kitchen. Mara walks out.
“You’re here!” she chirps. “Join us in the dining room. Emmett’s almost ready to plate.”
Rory withdraws his hand, guiding me to the table.
Small talk is rarely appealing, especially days into your mother’s death. Answering the repetitive, sad questions is as awkward as asking them. Emmett, Rory’s older, slightly more muscular doppelgänger, sits diagonal from me, battering off questions. “Do they know how it happened?” “What about the house?” “What do you do in Seattle?” “Would you ever move into your mother’s place?” “Where in Seattle do you live, then?”
He means well, I know. Our families were always close, and the Holloways continued to see Mom frequently after I moved out. These people watched me grow up. Understandably, they have questions.
I answer politely, eyes constantly snagging on Rory across the table—who eats his vodka bucatini with a rough patience. Like the questions are making him as tense as they are me.
Emmett says, “God, I wish we had seen Alice go out in the storm. Mara and I would have gone down there, you know?”
Rory speaks up. “Dad, I think Imogen deserves a night off, don’t you agree?” He winks at me apologetically.
“Honey, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” Emmett assures me. “We’re surprised is all.”
“I know. It’s okay.” I nod, swallowing kale salad. “It’s a big elephant, isn’t it?”
“But Rory’s right,” Mara says. “Let’s talk about something positive. This is a happy space.”
“It’s totally fine,” I repeat, twisting a piece of pasta off my stoneware plate.
The lighting is dim from the chandelier, the warm wooden ceiling creating a yellow glow around the room. I want to comment on how cozy their home still is, but Emmett speaks first.
“Have you seen Harry since you’ve been back?”
I hear a minor commotion under the table. When I see Emmett’s expression drop, I realize Mara must have kicked him. I can’t imagine why—as though that name is sensitive. On the contrary, I don’t know anyone named Harry.
“What was that about?” Rory pokes, joining me in confusion.
“Enough of the questions,” Mara announces nonchalantly. She clears her throat. “Have you met the new neighbors yet? The Wickers?
Well, they’ve been here for months, so I guess they’re not quitenew. But they moved into the Turners’ house,” she explains. “Someone else bought it from the Turners’ kids last year, and now this new family is renting it. I don’t think your mom ever got them to open the door to meet her. They can be reclusive. But the son actually—”
“Mom,” Rory interrupts her rambling with a small smile. “You’re still asking questions.”
“No, I haven’t met them,” I tell her.
I remember wondering about the Turners when I drove past yesterday. Their house sits behind a patch of trees diagonal from the Holloways’ home, next to a small, wooded area. It’s a modest house, without a lake view.
“Why don’t you tell Imogen about your work for the store,” Mara suggests to Rory, desperately trying to pass the figurative talking stick. She pours more wine into everyone’s glasses.
Rory dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin. “They want to go modern. Get away from the old hippie vibes,” he explains, running his tongue across his back teeth.
“Aw,” I mutter. “I kind of like the old hippie vibes.”
