“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the kitchen table. I pull out a filter, line the coffeemaker with it, and scoop in several tablespoons of Folgers.
“Don’t you have any chicory coffee?” Chloe’s mother asks.
“Just the Folgers,” I tell her as I add water, push the start button, and grab three mugs from the cabinet. “This cake looks delicious,” I tell them.
“Oh, it is!” Chloe’s mother bubbles. “It has rosemary to ward off evil, cloves to help foster friendship—with our daughters, of course—huckleberry to help you remember your dreams, and just a pinch of cinnamon to help promote good taste, because, let’s face it, you’re in Carrefour now.”
“Okay . . . ,” I say slowly.
“Of course it’s nothing like the cakes your aunt bakes,” Peregrine’s mother adds. “We can’t wait to have her little bakery open! What’s she calling it?”
“Sandrine’s Bakeshop. After my mom.”
“How lovely. I remember your mama and your aunt baking up a storm when we were your age.” She gets a faraway look in her eye and adds, “We miss her so much, Eveny, we really do.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I pour three cups of coffee and ask if they want cream and sugar. They decline.
“So, Eveny,” Peregrine’s mother says a moment later as I hand steaming mugs to them. “All those years you were gone, did your aunt tell you much about Carrefour?”
I shake my head.
The women exchange looks. “I see,” Peregrine’s mother says. “So she hasn’t explained any of the . . . customs of the town or anything?”
“Customs?” I ask blankly.
“Oh, Annabelle, stop putting Eveny on the spot,” Chloe’s mother says quickly. She turns to me. “I think what Annabelle is wondering is whether you’d heard of the Mardi Gras Ball. It’s coming up in about a month you know.”
“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. My aunt and I didn’t spend a lot of time talking about this place. I think it reminded her of my mom.”
“Your aunt never was a big fan of Carrefour,” Chloe’s mother says with a sigh. “But we’ll change that yet, right Eveny?” She claps her hands in a way that reminds me of a preschool teacher trying to coax a child into singing along.
“Sure,” I say. I glance down at my computer. “Listen, while I have you here, do you know the website for the local paper?”
“The local paper?” Peregrine’s mother asks.
“Yeah. I was trying to read more about what happened to Glory Jones.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?” she asks.
“Well, I met her the night she died, actually.”
Chloe’s mother goes suddenly pale, and Peregrine’s mother freezes. “Did you?” she asks.
“She just didn’t seem suicidal to me,” I continue. “I thought maybe if I read about what happened, it might make more sense. But I can’t seem to find anything about it on the internet.”
Peregrine’s mother takes a second to recover before speaking. “Of course not. We’re not on the internet, dear.”
“What’s not on the internet? The whole town?” When she nods, I add, “But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“We like our seclusion from the world, Eveny,” Chloe’s mother says. “It’s one of the wonderful things about living in Carrefour. We don’t air our dirty laundry. We don’t get unwanted visitors. Everyone knows everyone, and nothing bad ever happens.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “What about Glory dying? What about my mother dying?”
“Those were both very unfortunate incidents,” Peregrine’s mother says, looking out the window.
“Try your cake, sugar,” Chloe’s mother urges.
I clear my throat and take a bite, even though I’m not hungry. “Delicious,” I say politely. And actually, it is—it tastes a bit like the lemon cake they served in the Polish deli below our apartment in Brooklyn, but with a spicy, herbal twist.
“Really, Eveny, there’s no reason to go looking into poor Glory’s death,” Peregrine’s mother says after I’ve taken a second bite. “It’s a tragedy, but it’s all very straightforward.”
But the more they brush off my questions, the more I’m convinced they’re hiding something. “My friend Drew said there was a rumor about something satanic going on.”
Both women laugh. “Satanic?” Peregrine’s mother asks. “That’s a new one.”
“In any case, enough talk about death!” Chloe’s mother says brightly. “Let’s talk about you! I understand you’re interested in botany?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I always have been. I was in charge of our community garden back in Brooklyn, and I worked for about a year and a half for a wedding florist.”
“Your mother would have been so proud,” Chloe’s mother says. “She was very passionate about flowers and herbs.” She glances at Peregrine’s mother and adds, “We all are. Annabelle, me, our daughters . . . I think you’ll find that this is a wonderful place to live if you’re interested in gardening.”
“Great,” I say, forcing a smile. I can’t exactly imagine their supermodel daughters in muddy jeans and canvas gloves, digging in the dirt. “Must be nice to have good weather year-round.”
The mothers eat their cake and drink their coffee quickly as they chatter about all the social gatherings I can get involved with now that I’m back. Apparently, I just haven’t lived until I’ve attended the annual Mardi Gras Ball.
“You are so lucky, Eveny,” Peregrine’s mother says as she finishes the last of her coffee cake. “It’s the social event of the year. It’ll be a wonderful welcome home for you!”
“Thanks for the coffee, sugar,” Chloe’s mom says. She stands up and brings her mug and plate to the sink.
Peregrine’s mom hands her dishes to me. “We’re sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”
“You must promise us, Eveny, that you’ll spend some time with our daughters,” Chloe’s mom says. “They’re ever so delighted that you’re back, and they can’t wait to get to know you.”
I want to tell her that based on the way Peregrine and Chloe were looking me up and down at the funeral like I was yesterday’s garbage, I’m not expecting a call from them anytime soon.
“Sure, I’d love to hang out,” I say, forcing a smile as I walk them to the door.
“Make sure you eat that cake, now!” Chloe’s mother says brightly. They both air-kiss me on their way out, and a moment later, they’re vanishing down my long driveway in a sleek silver Bentley coupe.
Later that afternoon, I’m wobbling down Main Street on a 1970s cruiser that Boniface found for me in the storage shed. Its red paint is chipped in places, and I’ve managed to convince myself that the rust stains and loud rattling noise aren’t all that obvious until people start to turn and stare at me. I’m relieved when I spot my aunt’s bakery, which now has a purple sign above the front door that says Sandrine’s Bakeshop.
“Aunt Bea?” I call out as I head inside, where the air is soft with cinnamon and chocolate. She’s painted the walls pale pink and decorated them with a dozen ornate French-style mirrors in various shapes and sizes. As I step up to the polished silver counter and the big glass case, I think how proud my mom would have been to have her name on a place like this.
“Eveny? That you?” I hear my aunt’s voice from the back, and a moment later she emerges wearing a flour-streaked blue apron over jeans.
“Aunt Bea, the bakery’s beautiful!” I tell her. “I can’t believe you put this together in a week.”
“I hoped you’d like it.” She smiles at me. “Want to try one of my chocolate lavender cupcakes? I have some cooling.”
“Maybe later. I just had some lemon herb cake.”
She looks confused. “Where did that come from?”
“Peregrine’s and Chloe’s mothers dropped by to welcome us to town.”
I expect her to be pleased, but instead her face darkens. “What did they say?”
“That their daughters are positiv
ely thrilled to have me back.” I roll my eyes. “Doubtful.”
“I suspect you’ll have more in common with them than you imagine,” she says. “Now, would you mind helping me frost some cupcakes? I want to take them home for Boniface to thank him for all his hard work.”
She brings me a tray of unfrosted cakes and a pastry bag, setting them on a table in front of the bakery window. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
I spend the next few minutes piping caramel cream onto little pillows of chocolate. As I work, my head is swirling with a thousand questions about my mom, prompted by my brief visit with her two best friends. I’ve Googled her before, hoping to find some information about her death, but not even an obituary popped up. Just like with Glory.
“Hey, Aunt Bea?” I ask when I’m finished, setting the tray of frosted cupcakes on the counter in the back. “Does Carrefour have a newspaper?”
“Sure, it’s a weekly one. Why?”
“I’m trying to understand what happened with Glory Jones. I don’t get what would make someone who seemed so happy kill herself.”
She studies me briefly before saying, “Try the library. Mrs. Potter, who runs the place, prides herself on keeping perfect town records. Or at least she used to when I was growing up here.” She walks me to the door and points down the street. “It’s just past the theater, on the left side.”
“Thanks,” I say, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“I know you’re going to look up your mom’s death as well,” she says. “Just don’t read too much into it. Things in this town are never quite what they appear.”
She heads back inside without explaining more. I’m still puzzling over her words as I make my way up Main Street toward the library.
“Can I help you, dear?” asks the old woman behind the front desk as I walk in.
“Do you keep archives from the local paper here?”
She peers at me over her glasses. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you from the Périphérie?”
I’m not sure what that has to do with newspaper archives, but I reply politely, “No, ma’am. I live on the other side of the cemetery. I just moved back to town.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re Sandrine Cheval’s daughter, aren’t you?” she breathes. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You knew my mom?”
“Honey, everyone knew your mom.” She seems to gather her composure as she gestures for me to follow her. “How nice to see you back in Carrefour.”
She leads me down a hallway to a small room, explaining as we go that it’s a bit old-fashioned but that they still keep the archives on microfiche. “I find that the tried and true way is often the best way,” she says confidently. “Now, what can I help you find?”
“Actually, I was wondering whether I could see this week’s paper. And”—I pause, a little embarrassed—“if you have the paper from the week my mom died, I’d like to read that too.”
“You don’t want to go reading something like that, honey.”
“But I do,” I say, not sure why I’m explaining myself to a stranger. “So if you could bring me the articles, that would be great.”
She purses her lips and leaves, returning less than a minute later with three slides.
“Here’s this week’s paper, which I just put on microfiche yesterday, and the . . . older ones. You just move them under the glass there,” she says, gesturing to a microscope-like device on a desk, “and they’ll show up on the screen.” I thank her and she walks out, muttering to herself as she shuts the door behind her. I use the knob on the side of the machine to focus the lens and begin reading the article from the front page of the most recent Carrefour Weekly Chronicle, titled “Local Girl Stabs Self.”
According to the paper, Glory was a well-liked, straight-A student who lived in Carrefour her whole life. Her mom is quoted as saying, “There was absolutely no indication that something like this could happen.” Peregrine and Chloe are both quoted too, with Peregrine describing Glory as, “a true, trustworthy friend,” and Chloe saying—apparently through sobs, according to the reporter—that she’ll always blame herself for not protecting her friend.
Protecting her? Seems like a bizarre way to talk about a suicide.
Glory’s body, the paper says, was found in a wooded area along Cyprès Avenue on the north side of town by a possum hunter from the Périphérie who was trolling the woods before dawn. The police were called right away, but it was too late. The medical examiner estimated the time of death between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. the night before.
Just a few hours after I’d met her.
“It’s definitely a suicide, although the manner of death was highly unusual,” the chief of police, Randall Sangerman, told the paper. “No prints on the body or on the knife, except for her own. Our department sends its deepest sympathies to her parents.”
I search the rest of the newspaper, but there’s nothing else about Glory, nothing that puts me any closer to understanding why she’d take her own life.
Confused, I pull out the slide and insert the first one from fourteen years ago, the one from the day after my mother’s death. I take a steadying breath, adjust the viewfinder, and begin to read.
Sandrine Cheval, 28, died when her car slammed into a tree along the bayou on Route 786, on the outskirts of the Périphérie, near the town wall. “Death occurred when a shard from the windshield sliced open the carotid artery in her neck,” the medical examiner told the reporter. “Ms. Cheval likely died almost instantaneously.” The newspaper promises more information in its next issue.
I sit back, the breath knocked out of me. I’ve never heard the detail about her neck being cut open. It makes me profoundly sad, and I sit there for a moment wondering what could have been going through her mind in those final seconds before she died so horrifically.
I clear my throat before loading and focusing the next slide. The front-page headline screams, “Carrefour Mom’s Death Ruled a Suicide.” The police chief at the time told the paper, “Based on the lack of brake marks on the road, the speed at which she was traveling, the fact that Ms. Cheval had to have turned the wheel very sharply at the last minute, and the lack of any intoxicants in her system, we’ve concluded that Ms. Cheval’s death wasn’t an accident but rather a self-inflicted incident.” The article concludes by saying that Sandrine Cheval is survived by a younger sister, Beatrice, and a daughter, Eveny, age three.
I look at the screen for a long time through eyes blurred with tears. I’ve heard bits and pieces about my mother’s car crash from Aunt Bea, but it never seems to add up. Seeing it in black and white makes it even more confusing. My mother was happy and loving, with a whole life in front of her. Why would someone like that deliberately drive her car into a tree?
I switch the screen off, and stand up. It’s irrational to search for answers that don’t exist.
I shake my head, grab the microfiche slides, and walk out to the librarian’s desk.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks.
“Not exactly,” I tell her. “But thanks for your help.” Her eyes look sad, and I can feel her watching me as I walk out the front door.
I’m in a fog, puzzling over the new details of my mom’s death, as I head back out onto Main Street. I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t notice the guy rounding the corner of the library building until I run straight into him.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaim. “I wasn’t looking. . . .” I’m about to ask if he’s okay, but my breath catches as I look up and realize that the solid, muscular chest I’ve just collided with belongs to the guy from the cemetery, the guy with the blue eyes. Caleb Shaw.
“It was my fault too.” He reaches out with both hands to steady me. “You okay?”
His voice is deep and warm, just like I imagined it would be. I blush as I look down and realize the hairs on my arms are all standing on end. “Uh-huh,” I finally say.
He looks unco
nvinced. “You sure?”
“Uh-huh,” I manage to repeat. Brilliant conversational skills, Eveny.
He stares at me for a minute, and at the same time we both realize that his hands are still on my arms, holding me upright. He pulls away like he’s been burned. “Well, I’m just headed into the library to check out a few books,” he says.
“Yeah, reading’s cool,” I mumble. I immediately want to smack myself. Reading’s cool?
I can see a smile tugging at the corner of his perfect mouth. “Sure,” he says.
“Cool,” I manage to say very uncoolly.
“Right. So see you later then?”
“Later,” I squeak.
He gives me a long, searching look and then vanishes through the library door.
I stand there frozen in place for a moment before shaking myself out of it.
“Reading’s cool?” I say aloud. “Who says that?”
I can feel my cheeks flaming in embarrassment the whole way home.
6
“I don’t even know if it’s a date,” I tell Meredith on Sunday evening as I put makeup on in the bathroom mirror. I’m wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt, my old leather jacket, and a pair of skinny jeans, which I’m hoping are appropriate for the crawfish boil Drew’s taking me to tonight. At Meredith’s insistence, I’ve swapped my Converse for a pair of cowboy boots.
“But you said this Drew guy’s cute?” she prompts. I have her on speakerphone, and the way her voice fills my room, as if she’s right here with me, makes me miss my old life in New York so much it hurts.
“Very,” I tell her. I put the tube of mascara down and concentrate on dusting some blush on my cheeks.
“So do you like him?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “The thing is, there’s this other guy. . . .”
Meredith is silent as I tell her about Caleb and the way our eyes met across the cemetery on Thursday. I refrain from telling her about our spectacularly dorky encounter Friday outside the library.
The Dolls Page 4