Page 170 of Just One Little Bargain

Warmth rolls over me first, followed by garlic and rosemary. The downstairs opens around me in the same cluttered arrangement it’s had since I was a kid, one room loosely divided by furniture. Facing the fireplace, the sofa sits slightly crooked on the rug, while the dining table has drifted too close to the kitchen again. Books teeter in uneven stacks beside the armchair, and three abandoned mugs of tea occupy different sections of the counter.

Some places make you straighten your spine as soon as you walk in. Mom’s house has always done the opposite. It asks very little of anyone except that they find somewhere to sit.

A candle flickers on the windowsill beside an unopened stack of mail, alarmingly close to the envelopes. I move it to the middle of the table.

“You’re here!” Mom appears with a wooden spoon in hand, flour dusting the side of her neck. Her chestnut hair is pulled back in a loose clip, with several strands escaping around her face.

She barely has time to put the spoon down before I’m in her arms. I hadn’t meant to hug her like this, but the moment she folds me against the soft cotton of her blouse, whatever was keeping me upright in the car gives another dangerous little slip.

When I pull back, Mom studies me, lingering on the skin beneath my eyes before taking in the rest of me with the scrutiny only a mother can get away with. I’d checked my reflection twice before leaving the car, cleared the mascara smudged beneath my lashes, and pressed cold fingers to my swollen eyelids until I looked almost presentable. Apparently, I can’t fool her.

“I thought you’d be later. The chicken’s not cooperating and nothing’s done.”

“Shocking.”

“I blame the oven.” She gestures vaguely, her gaze drifting past my shoulder toward the door. “Where’s Milo?”

My fingers find the hem of my sweater and worry at the wool while I stare at a small nick in the kitchen counter.

“He stayed back at the inn.”

“Ah.”

Mom knows me too well to fill the silence. I can practically feel the question she chooses not to ask, and I’m grateful because I don’t know what I’d say if she did.

“Well.” Her voice is gentler when she turns toward the kitchen. “Come sit. Daisy’s already started without you.”

I follow her. My sister perches sideways on one of the dining chairs by the window. She’s already found the bread Mom left cooling on the counter and is tearing pieces from it with her fingers, scattering crumbs across the front of her jeans. A loose wave of hair keeps slipping over her shoulder every time she leans forward, and she blows it away without ever pausing the steady demolition of the loaf.

“Hey!” She waves at me with a piece of crust, looking past me. “I thought Milo would be with you.”

I cross to the sink and wash my hands. “He couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Oh.” The bread lowers an inch. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.” I reach for the towel hanging from the oven door and dry off, then smooth it flat, aligning both corners before I let go. “Just busy.”

“With what?”

“Daisy.” Mom’s voice floats over from the stove, where she’s leaning over a roasting pan, poking suspiciously at the chicken. “Let your sister breathe for five seconds before the interrogation starts.”

“I’m only asking.” Daisy’s chestnut eyes have none of Mom’s restraint in them. “Can’t a sister show some interest?”

“You can. Quietly.”

She makes a face.

I move toward the stove. “What can I do?”

“Check the potatoes?” Mom hands me the oven mitts. “I can’t tell if they’re golden or just depressing.”

I crouch down and peer through the glass. The potatoes are approaching bronze, their edges crisped dark. “They’re done.”

“Oh, good!”

Mom yanks open the door, and heat hits my cheeks. I pull the tray free and set it on the stovetop with a sharp clatter that makes Daisy glance over.

She stands, brushing crumbs from her cardigan. “So, is Milo coming by tomorrow? I found a book on local folklore he was asking about.”