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ROWAN
“It’s Monday, May 23rd, ten-thirteen in the morning, and Lyndsey is going to kill me, so let this be a record that if I wash up dead somewhere, my sister did it.” I’m in my car with a to-go coffee in one hand, phone in the other. “I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have gone there, and I’m holding you personally responsible, Madame Therapist who is neverevergoing to see these recordings. You were the one who said I should “chase the happiness” or whatever it was you said, and that’s… all I was trying to do. Speaking with Summer was a nice feeling. I wanted to capture it and put it in a jar, to break open for a rainier day. And this morning, it was pouring down—not literally, it’s actually pretty warm. Oh my god, what happens to my tongue when I start talking, huh?
“What I’m trying to say is, my morning was shitty, and I wanted coffee and… I don’t know, some company, I guess. It was going well, too. I thought it was, anyway. Friendly. Casual.Insanelygood cake. The coffee is out of this world, too. Summer was right about that. I’m getting sidetracked—it’s the smell of this espresso, man. It’s like coming into a warm house on a cold day after a super crappy day, to find out that someone already ordered takeout and opened a bottle of wine, and there’s a bath running upstairs. Not that I have anyone to do that, but you get what I’m saying. The coffee is exceptional.
“Now, where was I? Right, the moment I screwed up. Basically, I spooked her. The cheek-kiss was way too much, or it might’ve been the Ben thing… God, listen to me. Like it’s some small, insignificant event—just a thing that’s been and gone. I would’ve bounced, too. Can’t blame her.” I take a sip of coffee, but it’s starting to taste a little bitter.
“Two years ago, Lyndsey briefed me before the gallery event. She was militant about me just darting in, taking Gracie, and heading out again. She warned me, on pain of death, not to say or do anything to set Summer off. Did I think I could just stomp around, now that two years have gone by? I mean, I don’t even askGracieabout Ben, or Lyndsey, for that matter. Then, I just go and blurt out some half-assed apology or… it wasn’t even an apology, just a dumb thing to say because I didn’t know what else to say. Like when people say, “sorry for your loss,” as if it even comes close to helping. I’m an idiot. This was all such a stupid idea, and it wouldn’t have happened if they’d just let me come back to the office already!
“See, I was bored and pissed off and trying to come up with some design ideas for some upcoming projects that I know they’re going to hand off to Frank or Lucy—projects that I was out of my mind excited about starting, by the way! Then I realized I’d just worked since dawn for no reason whatsoever. To stop me from launching my entire set-up across the room, I saw the time and figured… coffee. And, maybe, Summer.”
In my last face-to-face session, I was given some advice for when frustration and stress reared its head: search for the positivity, follow the good vibes. But either I’m out of practice or my brain is still wired to seek out the things that aren’t good for me.
“You told me to steer into the things that make me feel happy, even for a moment,” I continue. “I thought about my sister’s garden on Saturday evening, and the passion that’d been in Summer’s voice when she mentioned the Brass Whistle, and before I knew it, I was in my car, driving there, even though it’swayout of my way… at least until the company drops the restraining order between me and getting any actual work done. And sure, I might pretend that it was all about getting a really nice coffee, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping that Summer would be there.”
I groan and rest my forehead on the top of the steering wheel, giving my phone a good view of my messy hair. “I sound like a psycho. I’m not, by the way! I went because… I went because I wanted to talk to her again. I didn’t mean to upset her. Didn’t mean to step on her turf. When she mentioned the café, I… well, I didn’t think it was an invitation, but I thought it was a genuine recommendation. Now—and I know it’s weird—I feel like I just read through her diaries or something. Broke an unspoken rule. If there ever was an invitation, I bet it has been reneged.”
An explosion of laughter drags my head up. There’s a group of young women walking by the car, talking loudly, comfortable in each other’s company. I notice the lanyard that one of them is wearing and I can’t believe it. It’s either serendipity or a taunt from the universe. In embossed italics, the lanyard bears the words:The Chevalet Gallery.
Before I can stop myself, I’m winding down the window. “Excuse me?”
The girls stop and stare at me. They probably think I’m some creep and, right now, I feel like I should be thrown into that category for daring to intrude on Summer’s morning routine. The more I run it through my mind, the more I wonder what the heck I was thinking. All I had to do was go in, sit down until my coffee was ready, say nothing whatsoever about her dead husband, and then go on my way, leaving her to her day. In my defense, I’d aimed for sympathetic bystander, but subtlety has never been my forte.
“Do you need directions?” one of the girls asked. She’s the one wearing the lanyard.
“Do you work atThe Chevalet?” I hope with all my heart she doesn’t think I was deliberately staring in the general area of where the lanyard rests. I wasn’t. The gold glint of the lettering drew my eye.
The girl raises a suspicious eyebrow. “What’s it to you?”
“I know the owner,” I hurry to say, fumbling my words. “I was with her this morning, and she left this behind.”
I grab the purse from the passenger seat. That barista at the café had insisted on keeping hold of it, butI’dinsisted on taking it, explaining who I was. She’d heard a lot about Lyndsey, which was weirdly comforting, but she obviously hadn’t heard about me. That was weirdly disappointing, though I don’t know what else I was expecting. I’m pretty much a stranger to Summer, and her running out on me like that definitely hadn’t convinced her friend that I’d make a good messenger boy. Anyway, in the end, the baristadidlet me take the bag—I said I’d drop it by the gallery, and that’s why I’ve been in my car for the last fifteen minutes, going through every possible scenario for how to deliver the bag: drop it at reception, insist on waiting until I can hand it over personally, just hurl it through the door and hope for the best, or take it right back to the Brass Whistle with my tail between my legs.
“You know the owner? What’s her name?” The girl is obviously testing me, though why I’d hand over a random purse if itdidn’tbelong to Summer is beyond me.
“Summer DuCate,” I reply, as the espresso hits. I’m jittery, and I can see the wariness on the faces of the three girls.
At last, one approaches the window. “And you are?”
“Tell her it’s from Rowan. She’ll know which one… unless she knows a surprising amount of Rowans.” I flash a nervous grin and wave the purse a little. “And could you give her this, too?” I reach for the vintage-style cake box that carries the breakfast I have no intention of eating and have no idea why I bought. My stomach is too uneasy. “Tell her it’s an apology for making her rush hers. She’ll hopefully know what that means, too.”
I hand over the box, and the girl takes it, along with the purse. “How did you know I work at theChevalet?”
“Not too much of a mystery. It’s written on your lanyard.” I gesture vaguely in that direction. “You see, I’m in a hurry to get to the office, but I promised to drop it off on my way, so you came by at just the right time.”
A shine of excitement lights up the girl’s eyes, and as she says, “I’ll make sure she gets it,” she casts an oddly conspiratorial look back at the other two girls. One of them looks shocked, while the other one is clapping her fingers together in miniature applause, like she’s an audience member at a very restrained, very polite opera.
“Thanks.” I sit back, somewhat relieved, though my stomach is even more unsettled, like it knows something I don’t.
As the girls wander off, their voices getting louder instead of quieter, and with the window still open, I catch a giddy sentence that make my heart plummet and leap, all at once:“Ladies, we’d better watch the sky for pigs flying and check the weather report for snow in Hell—Summer finally got some!”
I glance at my phone, fully aware that it has documented the entire encounter, and whisper: “I think I’ve just made a bad situation much, much worse. And that, dear therapist, is where I’m going to leave this entry. If there isn’t another one, check the local area for shallow graves.”
7
SUMMER
Idon’t look like much of a boss, sitting on the low front steps of the gallery, shielding my eyes from the sun, wishing I had a pair of sunglasses. It’s going to be a gorgeous day, and I wonder if this is a sign, telling me to just play hooky and enjoy the blue skies and gentle heat, before summer sweeps in and melts us all. The Chevalet doesn’t open until eleven, and the girls don’t usually arrive until half-past-ten, so I could call them all and give them the day off. Either way, with no keys and a steady stream of straight-to-voicemails from Georgie, it doesn’t look like we’ll be opening until much later. At least, until I feel like it’s safe enough for me to scurry back to the Brass Whistle to pick up my purse.
