To my surprise, she lunges, slightly off-balance, and grabs onto my sleeve. “I don’t think so, buster.”
“Buster?” I repeat, amused despite myself.
She ignores this, but that may be because she loses her balance slightly and stumbles into me. She smells like sun-warmed flowers and red wine, but the overwhelming nearness of her is undercut by my worry.How much of that bottle has she had?
“Why are you here?” she demands, glaring up at me. “Did you think you could just show up wearing glasses and kick me out in the middle of the night? Did you think it would stop me from making a scene?”
“It’s barely eight thirty,” I point out, steadying her with the arm she’s gripping. “And I’m not sure how my nearsightedness is relevant, but I didn’t come here to kick you out.”Not yet, I think grimly.
“Not yet,” she retorts like an echo of my guilty thoughts. Needlessly, I push my glasses up again, and her eyes clock the nervous movement. She swallows. “If you’re not here to evict me, then what do you want?”
I let go of her shoulder when I’m convinced she’s not going to fall over and clear my throat. “I wanted to talk. I have some news to share with you about my grandmother’s will.”
For a brief moment, her dark eyes lose their accusatory glare, and our gazes meet. I don’t think I’m the only one who stops breathing as the shared grief that tethered me to her at Nana’s funeral tugs tight. Then she shivers, and I want to kick myself for keeping her outside. When you live this close to the ocean, even a summer’s night can be cold. “You’re going to freeze out here,” I say. “I can wait if you want to get something warmer on or—”
She blinks, seeming to realize only now that she’s barefoot and pantsless. I half expect her to argue, but then she sighs. “Just comeinside,” she says in a defeated tone. She turns unsteadily away while maneuvering the wine bottle beneath her veil to take a swig.
Come inside? That… wasn’t part of the plan. Something acidic spreads unpleasantly in my chest. I haven’t been inside the cottage since I was a kid. But any second now, Gracie is going to turn and wonder why the hell I’m just standing here like I can’t get past a force field for idiots. I let out a difficult exhale.It’s just four walls and a roof, I tell myself firmly, before following her inside and shutting the door with all the stilted grace of a rusty wind-up toy. As I force myself to breathe slowly, I begin noticing things.
For one, the room doesn’t smell like dust and neglect but likeher. Warm honey and the last of the apple blossoms outside her windows. The room itself is tidy but lived in, with an alarming number of scattered romance novels, an incongruous collection of zombie-themed paraphernalia, and mismatched furniture that looks cast off from the estate. Against the living room window sits a desk, and beyond it are several plastic-wrapped bolts of fabric, a dress form, and stacked boxes.
My shoulders lower. Somehow, without doing any of the exercises my therapist has recommended, I feel my heart rate begin to slow on its own. This isn’t the same dark cottage I remember, crowded with ghostly, sheet-covered cabinets. It’s… a home.
My attention is caught when the music cuts off. I see Gracie drop her phone on the kitchenette counter before coming back toward the living room with her wine bottle still in tow. Her pouty lips are stained red from the wine, and the wedding veil she’s wearing is askew. It’s such a stark contrast from her meticulous appearance at Nana’s funeral, and I can’t help feeling like I’m to blame.
“I’m sorry to barge in on your…” I trail off as she passes by and flops onto the old, crushed velvet couch.
“Pity party?” she finishes for me. “Don’t worry, Big Red and I are happy to host as long as you don’t need anything.” She attempts to take another swig from what I assume is “Big Red” but forgets that her mouth is covered by a veil. At the press of sheer fabric between the bottle and her lips, she puts the wine between her knees andreaches up to unpin the veil. But clearly, this requires more coordination than she currently possesses.
“Goddamnit,” she whimpers, attempting to yank the veil from her tangled hair with no success. After a few more tries, her arms lose strength, and she drops them by her side before looking up at me. “Help?”
She looks about a minute from crying, and I automatically sit by her side, despite knowing thelastthing I need to be doing is removing an article of clothing from this woman.
“I think you’ve got it. Just pull that left pin, and—”
She turns toward me on the couch, and the white cotton of her shirt slides so high up her thighs that I can almost see—STOP LOOKING, I mentally bark at myself. Like asaint, I raise my eyes to hers, but their dark, liquid depths behind the veil are no safer. “Are you trying to make me beg?” she asks.
“No,” I blurt loudly, wishing I had a paper bag to breathe into. “Please don’t do that.”
She rolls her eyes as I reach up to untangle the veil. I keep my movements as clinical as I can, removing pins that have become stuck on the comb tucked deep into her hair. Once the veil’s loose, I don’t let my hands linger in the act of pulling it free, but it doesn’t matter. Watching the sheer white fabric slide away to reveal her chestnut waves and the pale expanse of her long neck still sends an almost painful bolt of longing through me.
“Here,” I say, tossing the veil at her like it’s stung me.
Her long lashes lift sleepily, and I notice her cheeks are flushed peony pink.It’s just from the wine, I tell myself. There’s no way she enjoyed—
“Thanks,” she says, mercifully tugging her shirt down her lap. “If you wanna do me one more favor, you could never ask, mention, or think about the veil… ever.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”Liar.
“Or Big Red.”
“Obviously.” I hesitate. “But can I ask if you’ve had any water lately?”
The way she squints as she tries to remember gives her away. Relieved to put some space between us, I go to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. While I’m at it, I open the cupboards to see if she has some crackers, but I’m confronted with nearly bare shelves. Maybe she eats out a lot? It seems unlikely, given Larkwood’s isolation from civilization.
I continue my search in the fridge, but like the cabinets, there isn’t much inside except some lunch meat and a quart of—I shudder—coffee milk. My concern is punctuated by another hiccup from the living room, but luckily, I find butter and a mostly finished bag of sandwich bread.
When I come back with a glass of water and buttered toast, she eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you suddenly so nice?”
