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“Good morning,” she says, and even though I know she is there, even though I heard her come in and I am expecting it, I still flinch. She bids me a good morning like she means it. But I hear the disparity. There’s a softness to her voice that so neatly contains its rough edges.
After I’ve placed the coffee mug back in its rightful spot in the cupboard, I turn to face her, resting the small of my back against the counter. It aches like the rest of me. “Morning.”
A lump forms in my throat, almost against my will. She looks out of place in this kitchen, at our table. I can’t recall the last time we had a guest in this part of the house. It’s reserved for family and, on occasion, staff. Julia, too, of course. She is practically family.
Ashley Parker tilts her head and studies me with concern. “Everything okay?” She doesn’t tell me I look like shit, but she doesn’t have to. Her expression does it for her.
“Perfectly fine,” I manage to reply when what I want to offer is the truth. She shouldn’t be here. We don’t just let anyone in. Some parts of Magnolia House are just for family. And whatever she is, she’s not that.
Instead, what comes out sounds like “Coffee” with a quirked brow and a question mark on the end. Mama taught me nothing if not to be polite.
It’s too warm out already to feel in the mood for hot coffee, but I woke up groggy and I wanted the comfort of the heat, so I put on a pot.
“I’d love some,” she says, rising to her feet. She motions toward the coffeepot. “But I can get it. Just point me toward the cups.”
She’s already made her way to the cabinet, already reaching for the mug before I manage to stretch words from my brain to my mouth. I hold my breath as her fingers brush the mug I’ve just replaced. Daddy’s mug. She takes it and sets it on the counter like it’s nothing.
“Not this one,” I say, snatching it off the counter, placing it back where it belongs. I pull another mug and hold it out to her. “These are for guests.”
She gives me the onceover and moves in to take it. Her face remains neutral, and I hate her a bit for that. “You know what?” I pull my hand back and walk over to the coffeepot. “Here,” I say, filling the cup. “Let me.”
She sits slowly, smoothing her dress out, crossing her legs at the ankle. She’s going to fit right in around here, and I hate her for that, too.
A gust of wind blows through the curtains, sending them flying forward, and I’m thankful for the chance to look away. From the corner of my eye, I watch as she stares out at the street. Tourists are already riding bikes, many in search of breakfast, and the early birds have already begun lugging their things down to the beach. “I don’t remember it being this lovely.”
I set the coffee in front of her. “Careful, it’s hot.”
As she wraps her hands around the cup, I take the opportunity to really look at her. She can’t be a day over twenty-five, at least a full decade younger than Davis, who is a few years behind me. Her platinum blonde hair is swept up into a loose chignon, and her face is mostly perfect and bare, save for a touch of light eyeliner on her lids. A hint of mascara accentuates her pale blue eyes. She looks flawless, which isn’t that hard when you’re twenty-five, and I wonder what time she got up to look this put together, or if she always wakes up this way.
“You must get up early,” she remarks. “In order to manage all of this.”
“Usually, yes.” I don’t know what to say or how to move, not even in my own home. I am not one for small talk, and her eyes make me feel like a housefly that has just been pinned to a wall. Sometimes I don’t sleep at all, but I don’t tell her this. With fourteen guest rooms, complimentary breakfast, a wine cellar, a library and full-service concierge, there’s always something to do.
“I can’t imagine how you do it. Dave
y has only told me bits here and there—” She presses her lips to her mug. “But I get the sense it takes a lot to run this place. It’s so elegant.”
“It’s old.”
“Stunning is what it is. They don’t make houses like this anymore.” She reaches for the newspaper and slides it from one side of the table to the other. “And I have to say…I’m kind of surprised. In a good way. Davey didn’t tell me you were this pretty.”
You should have seen me a few years ago. “Speaking of—how is my brother this morning?”
She sucks in a deep breath and forces it out. “He’s pretty sore. At least he’s up. You know him—nothing keeps him down for long.”
But do you know him? I start to ask her this, and a million other things, but then I think better of it. “And you, are you feeling better?”
“Oh, much.” She folds forward, resting her elbows on the table. “I slept like a baby.”
There’s a thumping sound above our heads, and then a bigger racket. It sounds like someone dragging a heavy chair across the floor.
“I think Davey was right. I just needed to be near the ocean. I mean…yeah, the guest house is old, and the walls are paper thin, but I love the vibe. It’s soooo cozy… I may never leave.”
“You’ve visited Jester Falls before?”
“Me?” Her left hand touches her chest. “No.”
“Huh.” I shift from one foot to the other. “I thought you just said you didn’t remember it being this lovely.”
