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The butterfly that had been drifting around had a herky-jerky way of flying, almost like it was drunk. It dipped and rose repeatedly before finally landing on my forearm. There, its wings opened and closed slowly, the whooshing sound nearly blocking out all other noises. “Are butterflies a sign of good luck, too?”
Sadness shadowed the gold flecks in his eyes. “I’ve never heard of a butterfly as a symbol of good luck, but who knows? In these parts, most believe they represent life—more specifically, life after death. Anyone else around here would tell you that when a butterfly chooses to land on you like that, it’s a visit from someone in your life who’s passed on.”
I swallowed hard, thinking about the butterfly stamp on the letter and how the ethereal whooshing of the monarch’s wings suddenly sounded like a heartbeat.
Was this butterfly…Alex?
A rush of emotion came over me, and I struggled with whether I wanted to blow the butterfly off my sleeve or hold it close.
“Anyone else would say that, but not you? You don’t believe it?”
“I’m not sure what I believe in anymore.”
The strain in his voice, the mournfulness, came through loud and clear, sharing a painful ending to a story but none of the early chapters. Using my fingertip, I lifted the docile butterfly toward him. “I’m more than happy to share the experience.”
Confusion flickered in his eyes as he turned away to untie Norman’s leash. Then he picked up the empty whipped cream dish from the ground and tossed it in a nearby trash can. “I don’t think it works that way, but thanks. It’s real nice of you. But if monarchs are lucky, you hit the jackpot by coming here—there are plenty floating around these days. In a month or so, the whole town will be full of them, the sky nearly orange as they migrate south for the winter. The town celebrates by holding Butterfly Fest in late October. It’s a big to-do around here.”
The thought of witnessing the migration filled me with a joy I hadn’t felt in a good, long while. But if I wanted to stick around to see it, I needed a job. I checked the time: 8:58. I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. “I need to get going. It was nice meeting the two of you.”
The curious look was back in his eyes as he nodded. “Welcome to Driftwood, Ava. Maybe we’ll see you around.”
As they walked away, I carried the butterfly to a waist-high planter pot overflowing with flowers and gently placed the monarch on a pink petal. Its wings opened, closed. Again, it sounded to my ears like the beat of a heart.
No. It couldn’t possibly be Alex. That was impossible. It was just a butterfly.
But between it and the letter… it had me wondering about the impossible.
As the church’s bell started tolling the hour, I hurried toward the coffee shop’s door, a line from the letter going round and round in my head.
Be yourself and it’ll all be okay.
I wanted to believe it would all be okay. Wanted it desperately.
But how could it be, when I couldn’t change the fact thatbeing myselfwas what had led to Alexander’s death?
CHAPTER 2MAGGIE
“He’s losing his dang mind. Maybe even lost it already. Wandered straight off along with the stuff that’s missing from his house.”
“Desmond’s mind is fine, Maggie,” Carmella Brasil said, looking across the counter at me as I filled a cup with ice and then reached for the milk. “Eccentric, perhaps, but fine. The items in his house had simply been misplaced—didn’t he tell you he’d found them?”
He had, but I thought the admission proved, rather than discredited, my point about my father’s wayward mind. He’d be seventy in a couple of years. Wasn’t that too young for memory issues? It felt too young, but that might be because he rarely acted his age.
Desmond “Dez” Brightwell often behaved like a teenager, and more often than not, I parented him, rather than the other way around. It hadn’t helped any that he and my son, Noah, had been best buddies, two peas in a pod, partners in all sorts of mischief until Noah had flown the coop for college last year, which had been an exciting time for him and a hellish one for me.Empty nestwas such a sweet term for having your heart ripped out and relocated to another state.
“Though I admit,eccentricmay be putting it mildly,” Carmella said with a smile, faint lines crinkling the corners of her eyes.
At sixty-four, Carmella was va-va-voom gorgeous, curvy, and glamorous. She was the longtime owner of Driftwood Realty and had aged spectacularly well, for which she gave credit to working hard, eating right, and her Latina heritage. Her usual order was an iced dirty chai latte, a drink that wasn’t even onthe sparse menu. But sometimes exceptions were made here at Magpie’s.
As I added chai syrup into the cup, the bells on the door chimed. I glanced over, ever hopeful that it would be my mama who walked inside. But it wasn’t. She hadn’t walked through that door in twenty-seven years.
I smiled at the newcomer. “Morning, Redmond. I’ll be right with you.”
My gaze drifted to Estrelle Cormier, who sat at her favorite table near the picture window. The sequins on her black gown glinted as she watched me closely. I was surprised she hadn’t yet weighed in on the conversation about my father. Estrelle was a meddler by nature.
I gave her a smile and glanced around. The coffee shop was fairly quiet at the moment, which was a good thing since I was currently the only one working this morning. Beyond Carmella, Estrelle, and now Redmond, Mrs. Pollard sat at the back of the shop near the floor-to-ceiling blackboard.
“Take your time, Maggie,” Redmond said. He leaned in close to the bakery showcase, squinting at the pastries that had been dropped off earlier by Donovan Quinlan from the Beach Mouse Bakery.
