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“It's called fucking, babe,” she says with a laugh.
“It's not. Not yet at least,” I protest.
“But you want to?” she presses. When she notices my hesitancy, she throws her hands up between us, palms facing me. “Hey, no judgment. If given the opportunity, I'd let all three of them park their shoes under my bed.”
Laughter peels out of me and I lean over. “Oh my god, you're too much. That's something straight out of Nana Jo's mouth.”
She's laughing with me, her eyes bright and sparkling with mirth. “I know. Abby and I say it around Mom and Dad all the time, just to watch their reactions. Dad always cringes, but we got Mom to start using it too. Now she trolls Dad when he's been watching football all day, a running commentary of all the football players she'd let park theircleatsunder her bed.” She slaps her knee to emphasize her mirth.
“I can't wait to see that. We should pull out some other Nana Jo sayings, try to revive them.”
“We totally should. What are some other good ones? Oh, I know: busy as a bee in a tar factory! I don't even understand what that's supposed to mean,” she crows through giggles.
“What about: I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers,” I say through my own snickers.
“Yes! She had a lot of them relating to men and or sex now that I think about it,” she says, looking at the ceiling and relaxing further. “God, I miss that woman.”
I look at the ceiling too and reach over and clasp her hand. “I know. I do too.”
“Are we going to talk about Nana Jo's little black book of secrets?” Her voice is low, devoid of the usual humor.
I squeeze her fingers, my heart speeding up at the mention of the notebook. “I don't really know what to make of it.”
The leather-bound notebook that fell out of the pillow last night was full of Nana Jo's elegant handwriting. Page after page of little observations and facts in varying degrees of incriminating and criminal. There were numbers, short ones that could be some kind of sequencing system. But also, long ones that I'm not convinced aren't monetary. Nana Jo is from the generation that grew up with parents not trusting the banks, so it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to learn she has nest eggs hidden all over her property.
But I sort of feel like that would've been addressed in the will. She wasn't likely to forget if she planted thousands of dollars in her yard.
“If I didn't recognize some places and gossip I've heard before, I would think she was keeping a journal for a long-standing TV show or something,” Cora murmurs.
“It's just so strange. I don't understand it or why she has it either. Has she ever mentioned it to your mom?”
Cora shakes her head. “Not that she ever told me, but I'll ask her again.”
I look around the room, trying to view it with a different lens, looking for hiding places. “She must have more around here.”
“Like what does it matter if someone sold Delilah her apple pie recipe if Nana Jo didn't write down who sold it?” Cora muses.
“I don't know. Maybe it's more about the fact that Delilah won the summer picnic awards on someone else's recipe?”
I flick my hair off my neck and we descend into silence, both of us undoubtedly contemplating this little surprise of information. I think about how I could verify it, or even if I wanted to.
I always loved a good mystery, but it's not like I can walk up to Delilah at the festival in a few weeks and flat-out ask her who she bought her infamous recipe from.
“I don't care, you know,” Cora says, breaking the silence after a few minutes. “About who you date. Or how many of them you date.” Her voice is uncharacteristically low, serious.
I tilt my head toward her. “Thank you. I'm afraid of catching feelings, to be honest. They're just so . . . I don't know. It sounds cliche to say perfect. Especially because I've barely known them, but . . .” I trail off, shrugging my shoulders again. “I don't know. There's a lot of potential there. It could be like the love story of my life, ya know?”
“An epic love story,” she says, nodding. “I love this journey for you.”
“An epic unconventional love story,” I murmur.
17
EVANGELINE
The sun beatsdown my back as I walk down Main Street toward the coffee shop. I needed to get out of the house for a little bit, and an iced chai latte sounds like the perfect pick-me-up.
The air conditioning rolls over me in a blissful wave when I enter the quaint store. It has a charming storefront, with large windows that let the natural light flood the space. The walls are painted a soft, bright yellow with a beachy decor aesthetic. Framed local artwork hangs on the walls, small little plaques with the artist's information and asking price underneath.
