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My stomach twists like it did when I spotted my ex kissing her old boyfriend.
The spot of color is a bright-red ring on Ashley’s finger. The same ring Maeve wore the other night alongside my mother’s ring.
Either everyone’s in a giving mood, or Maeve has a way of getting what she wants.
After another round of unsuccessful interviews for the manager’s position and an awkward check-in of a single-night guest under an obviously fake name—S.R.Chard should stick to banking rather than adultery, though it’s none of my business—I input into Waze the address I googled. Within an hour I’m entering the yoga studio as the class lets out. Ashley is the last to exit the room, bringing with her the smell of eucalyptus and sweaty feet. She does a double take when she sees me.
“Hey. Ashley, right? We met the other night at Maeve’s.”
Ashley’s eyes widen, and she looks around to see if anyone’s overheard. The yoga students are on the other side of the reception area, slipping into shoes and chatting about where they’re going for dinner.
Hope’s teasing “stalker” accusation comes to mind. I should have thought through how it would look to show up here—without even the pretext of taking a class.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, voice clipped.
“Is there some rule against socializing away from the lake?” In my head, the words sounded casual. Out loud, they’re a creepy smile away from a restraining order.
She scowls. “No, but some people like to talk more than they should.” She glances at the students stuffing yoga mats into tote bags with designer labels. “I’d rather not let my personal activities impact my business.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to see how you were doing. The other night was pretty intense.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s ... good. I’m glad to hear that,” I say and lick my lips. My mouth is so dry it feels like rubbing sandpaper over a nail file.
The yoga students call out their thanks as they file out the door. She plasters on a smile as she waves. Once the door’s closed, the smile fades. She reaches for a mason jar. The liquid inside is lilac colored. Twigs and shredded leaves thicken the mixture. “Was there something else you needed?”
“Yes. No. I mean ...” I run a hand through my hair. At the bonfire, Ashley was easy to talk to and gracious. This suspicious and irritable Ashley is setting fire to the mental script I prepared during the drive over.
She sips and makes a face.
“What are you drinking?”
She shudders. “Maeve gave it to me. It’s supposed to help with my anxiety. Since Chloe ... you know ... I have trouble sleeping.”
“Does it work?” Bailey had been drinking a tea, too—for creativity. Another coincidence from a woman who is made up of coincidences and conundrums.
Ashley turns her back to me and straightens a display of yoga mats and towels. “No, but Maeve said to give it time. She has teas for everything.”
“How long have you been going to Maeve?”
“Hmm, maybe two months? Maybe longer. Why?”
“Just curious.” Framed photos of Ashley and Vicky with various friends hang on the wall behind Ashley. In one photo, Ashley, Vicky, and another couple wear matchingILOVEARIZONAshirts. “You mentioned friends in Tucson. What did they tell you about Maeve?”
Ashley’s towel folding falters. “Honestly, not much. They just said we needed to meet her. That she could help with grief.” She begins folding again. “At first, I really just wanted to see her tree.”
“Tree? Like a bonsai tree or a houseplant?” I can almost hear Darren’s eyes roll. Despite growing up around trees, I know little about them. The outdoors was Darren’s first love.
“No. Like a real tree. The one in front of her house that’s carved up with all the names. She carries it with her everywhere she goes.”
“That’s—”
“Impossible. I know. But you saw it there, didn’t you?”
I saw a tree carved with names. High schoolers with a blade and too much time on their hands. Or Maeve and a long night spent re-creating a tree she carved up in Tucson. People have done crazier things.
“What about ...” I bite my lip. Magic trees didn’t put Ashley’s ring on Maeve’s finger. “Did you pay Maeve or ...”
