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She answers me with an eyebrow raise.
“When you were with Maeve, was my mother there?”
“Oh yeah. She was always there. She held my hand when Maeve spoke to my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother went to Maeve too?”
Bailey laughs. The sound reveals notes of the young and impressionable girl behind the pink hair and big-city aspirations. “No, she died three years ago.”
At the horrified look on my face, Bailey winces. “Sorry, that must have sounded crazy. Or callous.” She pulls a face. “Maeve’s kind of like a medium, but she doesn’t call herself that. She’s just ... like ... this messenger for our lost loved ones. It’s strange. Have you met her yet? She’s staying on the lake, at the Ahava Cottage.”
I shake my head. I never believed the stories people told about that cottage, but I’ve always been unnerved by it. Something just feels off about that place, like if you stay too long or look too closely, you’ll see the pieces don’t quite fit.
“You should. Especially if you want a sign from your dad. She really connected with him, and I know it meant a lot to your mom.”
The scabbed edges of an old wound prickle. “My dad?”
“Oh yeah. Maeve felt his energy all the time. He was so into the idea of your mom taking a trip somewhere exotic.” Bailey assesses me with an artist’s scrutiny. “You should go see her. I bet she’d like to meet you.”
“I don’t really believe in all that messages-from-the-beyond stuff.”
“You will ... after you go.”
9
HOPE
After my first full shift back at the hospital, all I want is mint–chocolate chip ice cream—and Kingsette is out. Both the 7-Eleven, which created a loud but short-lived uproar when it appeared in town, and the ice cream truck always parked in Kingsette Park are sold out. My last hope was the Kingsette Mart, which is owned by the Jones family and is second only to the Friendly Bean in volume of gossip exchanged. That hope is dashed after a quick scan of the freezer section.
What kind of town runs out of mint–chocolate chip ice cream?
Not for the first time, I wish Kingsette had more ... of everything.
“With all the hullabaloo about the bicentennial, which I’m sure you’ve heard we’re sponsoring, we’ve gotten so behind on ordering things. I’ll make sure we order more in the next shipment.” Mrs.Jones emerges from behind the snack foods and blocks my path out of the freezer section. She blinks up at me from behind thick lenses, her dark eyes magnified.
“You don’t have to do that for me,” I say, eyeing the space to her right.
As if she read my mind, her hands come to her hips, her elbows blocking me from escape. Cold air from the freezer at my back makes the skin on my arms prickle.
Mrs.Jones tilts her head. “I remember how often you and Brandon came in here for mint–chocolate chip ice cream.” Her hand flutters up to her heart. “I don’t know how you manage it, Hope. I really don’t.”
My nerves are too frayed from the last forty-eight hours to respond with anything other than murmurs about one day at a time and the power of community. Mrs.Jones seems satisfied, and I step forward, expecting to be released. Instead, her stance widens.
“How’s your mother?” Mrs.Jones’s nostrils flare with the simmering heat of a thirty-year-old rivalry between her and my mother. “I haven’t seen her car at your sister’s in over a month.”
“She’s ...” I debate the best way to phrase the truth—that after she was publicly snubbed by Annette Martina at Selena’s wedding, she refuses to set foot in Kingsette. That’s she’s tired of apologizing for being happier after her divorce. It’s why she didn’t come to Logan’s wedding, even though he promised her a table far from the Martinas.
The door chime announces the arrival of a new customer, and Mrs.Jones steps to the side to see who’s entered. I slip into the space she’s ceded and navigate toward the door without looking up. No eye contact means no chance of another awkward encounter—or at least less of a chance.
“I thought I told you I’d prefer you didn’t shop here. It’s making my customers uncomfortable.” Mrs.Jones’s voice takes on an unfamiliar edge.
It’s enough to make me glance up to see who’s on the receiving end of her harshness.
Maeve.
“I just came here to drop off the tea we talked about the other night,” Maeve says. Her smooth voice has the same calm cadence it did the day I met her in the woods. It’s as soothing as it is hypnotizing.
She produces a mason jar from her tote bag. It’s a deep-purple color. Flower petals and twigs float near the top. “Add boiling water, and let it sit overnight. Drink half of this tomorrow and the other half in three days.”
