Page 158 of Just One Little Bargain

And then she’s gone. I’m left standing in the kitchen with a mouth full of things she won’t let me say.

Words aren’t going to reach her. Not while she can end every conversation before I’ve managed to get past the first sentence. I won’t leave with this silence lodged between us and spend eternity wondering whether one better idea might have changed our last days.

By the time the door settles shut, I’m done waiting for the right words. I’m going to find another way to get through to her.

***

The inn has a landline behind the front desk, a chunky beige relic with a coiled cord long enough to lasso a horse. I’ve been dying to use it since I arrived.

I dial the number on the leaflet and tuck the receiver against my shoulder. The cord snags beneath my elbow. I untangle myself and wait.

“Brindlewood Visitor Center, this is Daisy.”

“It’s Milo.”

“Milo?” A pause. “Oh my god, did you finally get a phone? It’s genuinely unhinged that you don’t have one, do you know that? A grown man walking around in the twenty-first century with no cell. I’ve been telling Evie for weeks it’s a red flag. Not a real one, more of a fun little warning sign, but still. And you never even explained why. Every time someone asks, you just do that little smile and change the subject. Which, by the way, adorable, but also deeply suspicious.”

“No. No phone.” I glance down the hall, where Evie is deep in conversation with a man from the Sunrise Room about the best trail through the forest. “I’m using the landline.”

“Disappointing, but okay.” Then her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is this a distress call? Has Evie got you rearranging the linen closet by thread count again? Because I love my sister, but when she’s in one of her moods, I don’t get involved. That’s a solo mission. Last time I attempted to encourage her to open up, she came over, reorganized my entire kitchen, and left a note about my expired spices instead of talking.”

“Daisy.”

“I’m just saying, if this is you finally cracking, I support you, but I can’t personally intervene. It’s a boundary.”

“It’s not that.” Evie’s laugh carries along the corridor. She’s wrapping up, which means she’ll be at the front desk for a map any second. “This is serious. I need your help, and I’ve got a narrow window.”

“Okay, fine. I was bored anyway, and now you’ve made me emotionally invested in whatever disaster this is. Go on.”

“I want to do something for Evie tonight. Big enough to get her to talk to me.” I glance toward the hallway, and the cord winds around my forearm when I turn back. “What would make her happy that she’d never think to ask for?”

“Oh, we are doing a grand gesture.” A keyboard starts clacking somewhere on her end. “Okay. First thought. There’s a place two towns over that does hot-air balloon rides at sunset; I’m pulling up the site right now. Nothing says I’m serious like drifting into the clouds together.”

“She’d hate every second of it. You’d be putting the single most controlling person in Brindlewood into a wicker basket with no steering wheel or a way down.”

The clacking stops. “Fine. Scrap the balloon.” A mouse clicks twice. “What about that axe-throwing place by the highway? Hear me out. Very cathartic. You put a photo of whatever’s stressing her out on the target and she just hurls a hatchet at it. Bad review of the inn. The historical society. You, for using the wrong spray on the good rug.”

“I don’t think handing Evie a weapon while she’s upset with me is the romantic gesture you believe it is.”

“It’s very hot.”

“My actual concern is that she would throw it at me.”

“Okay, no projectiles. Noted.” Something crackles against the receiver, followed by a deliberate crunch. “Concert, then. There’s a band tonight at The Rusty Nail. Imagine it: a dark room, loud music, barely any space between the two of you. Add a little dancing, and—”

“She hates crowds. And noise.” I peer down the hall again. “Daisy, everything you’re describing is Evie’s personal idea of a nightmare.”

“Well, I don’t know what else to suggest.” She huffs. “You could always just do the basic thing. Chocolates. Flowers. A card that says something dumb. Sweet enough, but hardly the kind of gesture that makes someone believe in love again.”

“No. Sorry. I just . . . don’t want to give her something anyone could’ve chosen. It has to be special. Is there anything she used to love doing?”

The line goes quiet.

“When we were kids,” Daisy mumbles through a full mouth, and the crinkling of the bag stops. “We used to turn the bathroom into a spa whenever Mom worked late. Evie would steal the cucumber ends from the salad drawer, and I’d mix yogurt with whatever looked expensive in the pantry. Honey, cinnamon, once a truly catastrophic amount of lemon juice.” A laugh slips through the receiver. “We made robes out of towels and painted each other’s nails on the closed toilet lid. She always chose the same pale pink, then sat there while I read beauty tips from old magazines. That was the only time I ever saw her forget she was supposed to be in charge.”

“That’s it!”

“What, a questionable yogurt mask?”