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“No regrets,” I say, and Hope flashes me a private smile.
“That’s good to hear. You do know what they say about regret, don’t you?” Maeve asks. “It’s a poison.”
“I hate that expression, actually,” I say, feeling the words tumble out of my mouth too fast. “Regret isn’t really a poison. Poison kills you. Maybe makes you suffer a few hours, but eventually, it runs its course. It kills you. Or it doesn’t. Regret is something worse. Regret won’t kill or run its course. It’ll just corrode you from the inside out forever.”
Regret creeps into your system when your fight-or-flight response is going haywire, when the words coming out of your mouth are not words you would ever say.
Poison is a death sentence. Regret is a life sentence.
I glance toward Hope, whose expression shutters, a curtain clamping down on light.
“Hmm, that’s one way to look at it.” Maeve purses her lips. Shadows shade the hollows of her cheeks, giving her face a predatory harshness.
Maeve stands to stir one of the pots simmering on the stove. Bubbles on the surface of the liquid pop, and a floral aroma winds through the cottage. “Hope, will you give me a hand?”
“That smells like apple,” Hope says, taking the spoon from Maeve’s hand.
“You’re right. Apple and a hint of cranberry. For love and healing.”
Something low tugs in my belly. Too many lines blurred the moment I arrived at Maeve’s and found Hope already here. Hope looked at me funny, the way she had the first time we ran into each other here, and then smiled and invited me in.
“It’s for our little patient,” Maeve says.
“He looks fatter and bluer than yesterday.” The cloudiness in Hope’s expression disappears.
“Isn’t turning bluer usually a bad sign in a patient?”
Hope laughs. My heart adds a patter to its rhythm.
“For a human patient, yes. Not for the bluebird Maeve has been nursing back to help,” she says. “I named him Icarus ... though I expect a happier ending for this little guy.”
“Don’t give me all the credit,” Maeve chimes in. “You’ve been instrumental in caring for the bird—and the garden. Honestly, without Hope here, I don’t know what I’d do. She’s really something special.”
Maeve’s pale eyes hold mine, and an entirely new rhythm takes over my heart. The slow way she speaks, the smoothness of her movements, all of it makes me uneasy. It’s like she’s always planning her next move, which means I can’t let my guard down around her.
Color flushes Hope’s cheeks. “Speaking of, I only have a few hours until I start my shift. I didn’t come to chat, and Will didn’t come to hang out with me. I’ll get started on the eastern half of the garden.”
Maeve delivers instructions on which flowers need water, which need a special plant food she prepared, and which need to be pruned back. All the flowers have exotic-sounding names that I almost believe are made up.
Hope leaves with a shy wave in my direction, as if we haven’t accidentally spent nearly every day together since we met. Or maybe because we’ve accidentally spent nearly every day together.
Maeve puts a lid on the simmering brew and comes to sit beside me. “What can I do for you, Will?”
“I heard, um ... Hope told me, and I saw Bailey ...” I clear my throat, not quite sure why I’m suddenly tongue tied.
Maybe because I’m not sure what I’m doing here anymore. At first, I just wanted to meet the woman who was responsible for my mother’s uncharacteristic behavior. I didn’t like what I saw, but so what? Exposing Maeve as a fraud—if that’s even my goal—isn’t going to make the Inn run better and probably won’t convince my mom to come back.
“My brother is suffering from addiction. It’s ruining his life. I was wondering if you had any remedy for that.”
“Oh,” Maeve says, her forehead creasing as she sits back heavily in her chair. “That must be heartbreaking for you. It’s always difficult to witness the ones we love hurt themselves.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens.
“Is that truly why you came to me?” Maeve narrows her eyes, revealing a sliver of color like a cat’s. Or a snake’s.
Over Maeve’s shoulder, a pale-blue butterfly flutters above a rosebud. Its wings pause, as if it’s listening. The image is eerily similar to the butterfly inked onto Maeve’s bicep.
The lump in my throat makes my “yes” come out as a croak.
