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“So judgy of you, Oc-to-ber,” she playfully emphasizes the syllables. Of course she approached this man. She’d approach just about anyone who she didn’t recognize.
“Anyone who comes within an inch of you, I’ll gladly judge.” No one fucks with my sister.
“I love you too,” Babette smiles, one that fades after a few seconds. “He’s not sticking around…it was just one conversation. That’s all.”
I know that’s all she wanted.
“Baby Brambilla,” I muse while I work on the cookies, “the girl who can befriend just about anyone. It’s your gift.”
“And yet, I’ve been cursed.”
I hate that banter, yet I always fall into it with Babette.
She sniffs the air again and practically salivates. “I missed this.” And she reaches again.
I swat her hand with an oven mitt. “They’re not done yet. I have to powder them.”
Babette narrows her eyes at me. “I thought you said they weren’t for me.”
“They aren’t,” I refute. “But you’re my sister, so I will allow you to have one.”
Her lips lift slowly. “These are for Zoey, aren’t they?”
My stomach nosedives and color drains from my face. “What?” I croak.
“They are!” Babette points at me with too much glee. “I knew it.”
My face sets to stone. “You are wrong. Zoey’s in Chicago. Why would I be making her cookies?”
Babette’s eyes grow. “Whoa. Wait, you really haven’t heard?” She puts her hands on my forearms. “You’re going to need to sit down, OB.” My tenderhearted sister literally guides me around the kitchen island and to the cushioned barstool.
I should feel bad I’m lying.
But I don’t.
Babette takes a step back and inhales deeply, preparing herself for dropping the news. “Naya heard from Ilsa who heard from Sebo that Zoey is back. Apparently, Frank saw her through the window of The Drunk Pelican.”
At least, I know Amelia didn’t betray me when I told her to keep Zoey’s arrival to herself. Not that there was any question about that. Amelia would rather throw herself off a cliff than do me wrong. She’s a rare kind of friend, and I’m not certain I deserve her.
“Frank isn’t very credible,” I remind Babette. “He sells mushrooms to the tourists. It was only a matter of time until he started eating his own product.”
“He didn’t hallucinate Zoey Durand,” Babette says strongly. “I promise, October. I don’t want you to get hurt or blindsided when you see her. And it’s going to happen.”
You’re too late.
I nod slowly. “Okay. Thanks for the warning, Baby.”
She lets out a deep exhale, and I finish sifting powdered sugar over the cookies. Dusting the fried dough with expert focus. It’ll be the first thing Zoey probably has eaten since she’s returned, and they have to be perfect.
“Fuckfuckfuck.” Babette’s sudden alarm pops my focused bubble.
She paces around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My gloves.” She panics, slamming more drawers. Wafting her hands like her skin is crawling. “I can’t find them. I swear I left them on the kitchen chair. “Oh God, fuck. OB.”
Immediately, I abandon the powdered sugar on the counter and dash away to the laundry room. We live with Aunt Effie in the house our parent’s left behind. Left us, really. It’s three-stories with a rustic attic and lakeside charm. Quaint and clean and feminine.
Not even Aunt Effie’s boyfriend is allowed inside.
“Not while you girls are here. This is our home,” she’d say.
She’s been dating the town’s only lawyer. He’s like bland, weak coffee. Something I’d rather spit out. But I’m not the one “involved” with him.
Easily enough, I find a pair of black velvet gloves deserted on a hanger to dry. I snatch them quickly and return to the kitchen. “Babette.”
She sees them in my hand. “Oh thank God.”
I pass them to her and watch as she rolls the fabric all the way up to her elbow. My heart twists.
The most extroverted person I know…hates to be touched.
When I carried my sister out of the smoldering, burning library, she was ten. Flames licked the roof, the walls. She had passed out behind a bookshelf.
I’d never felt something so blistering hot. Never been choked so cruelly by smoke. The smoke…God, there was so much smoke.
I was only twelve. Taller than my sister. Stronger.
It was a miracle neither of us had more than a few second-degree burns.
But the fire still haunted Babette. Weeks, months, years afterwards, she would flinch from hugs, recoil at handshakes. Shy from most touch. I’m not sure what aspect of the fire affected her this way. Why she seemed to retreat physically from people.
She just said, “I can’t handle it. I don’t want it. Isn’t that enough?”
And then came her eighteenth birthday party. Hug after hug after hug. Kisses on the cheek from grandparents and aunts and uncles. All wishing her a happy birthday. She finally just broke down. I wiped her tears in the freezer of Fisherman’s Wharf while the rest of our family ate her birthday cake in the dining room.
