All About Evie (ARC)

by Cathy Lamb

  “More cookies?” my mother snapped at me. She tossed cookies on my plate with anger, one at a time. I caught one before it flew off the table.

  “We will accept your apology,” Aunt Iris said, glowering.

  “I’m waiting, young woman.”

  “Please, Evie,” Aunt Camellia said, leveling me with a disapproving look. She rapped my knuckles again. Twice. Ouch!

  Ouch! “We need healing here.”

  I sighed. I apologized. I apologized to my mother and aunts for suggesting that they might sell pot to minors. Even Sundance seemed to be looking at me with a reprimanding eye, that traitor.

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  We did not further discuss the legality of their selling pot at all. To anyone.

  No, of course not.

  They did, however, grudgingly accept my apology.

  That night I put my feet up on my grandfather’s old wooden sea chest. I stared up at the model airplanes my father had made as a kid, then at my pink rose wallpaper that somehow always relaxes me. Sundance climbed on my lap and put his head on my shoulder. He was carrying his friend Lizard in his mouth.

  My aunts and my mother are growing and selling pot.

  They are all in their seventies. They have white hair. They lead Christmas sing-alongs in the town square. They include drunken sailor songs and insert words like Santa and Elves and Rudolph in certain places to make them more Christmassy. So even the young kids sing loudly with their parents about “Santa sluggin’ it down over yonder with his Irish lasses . . . Rudolph and the gang, why they had too much whiskey, one fell over the boat . . . Mrs. Claus, Mrs. Claus, let down your petticoats . . .”

  They drink too much sometimes and dance in public. They insist that everyone get a costume and walk in the Halloween parade.

  But I never thought I would say that sentence: My aunts and my mother are growing and selling pot.

  I never thought I would think it.

  Mars knocked down another stack of books. He meowed, I sighed. The yellow rose curtains fluttered.

  “Let’s go to bed,” I said. And three dogs, four cats, and a stuffed green lizard, and I trudged up the stairs.

  On Sunday I took Sundance, Butch, and Cassidy on a walk downtown. They love to go downtown. There are lots of other dogs on leashes with their owners, and they love to say hello and chat. I wanted to check in at the bookstore to make sure everything was going well, so I looped their leashes around a lamppost while I went in and they socialized.

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  After I determined that the bookstore, shockingly enough, was functioning fine and dandy without me, I bought a two-scoop chocolate fudge/peppermint ice-cream cone for its nutritional value. Ice cream is made of milk, and milk is one of the four food groups. The ice-cream parlor is owned by my friend Samson and his husband, Terri. Samson and I went to school together, and we used to play dress-up with my mom’s and aunts’

  clothes, so he always gives me an extra helping.

  “My sister and I heard you’re magic.”

  I peered down at two girls. One was brown haired, one curly strawberry blonde. The girls’ names were Kimberly and Kaitlyn, and they were eight and six years old. I was holding three leashes. My dogs were trying to make a run for it, so I had to hold on tight. In my other hand I was trying not to drop my healthy ice-cream lunch.

  “I’m not magic.” I was magical enough to know what they were talking about, though.

  “Yes, you are.” The older one, Kimberly, said it as if she knew better than me.

  “Yeah,” Kaitlyn said. “You’re like a magic witch.”

  “I’m not a witch, because I don’t have a black pointed hat.”

  Now, that threw the sisters for a second. Witches did have black pointed hats, everyone knew that.

  “Maybe you’re hiding your witch’s hat,” Kimberly said, eye-ing me carefully. “Your mom and your aunties always wear flowered hats. Do they have witches’ hats underneath their hats?”

  “No, they aren’t witches. Girls, think about it. I don’t ride on a broomstick. So I can’t be a witch.”

  The older one tapped her temple with her pointer finger as she thought. “Wait! I got it. You’re a modern witch. You new witches don’t do that old stuff anymore.”

  “You ride in your magic truck that flies at night. That one!”

  Kaitlyn pointed accusingly at my blue truck.

  “My truck is too heavy to get in the sky. Plus, it’s too old. It’s tired.”

  Their brows furrowed. This was getting confusing.

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  “Anyhow!” Kimberly said. “We want you to tell us if we’re going to get a doggie or not, so are we?”

  I was friends with their mother, Pammy. I had known Pammy since I was twelve and she moved to the island when her mother, an actress, had an affair with a married actor in Hollywood.

  The married actor’s wife, the daughter of a studio head, had her blacklisted, hence the move to the island to disappear and put the scandal behind her. She now owns the yarn shop.

  I have never met a more allergic person than Pammy. She is allergic to cats, dogs, dust, pollen, grasses, milk, and nuts. She is glucose intolerant.

  “No, you’re not going to get a dog.”

  “What?!” They were mad. Kimberly crossed her arms and frowned. Kaitlyn put her hands on her hips, leaned forward, and glared at me, her blonde curls almost covering her eyes.

  “You’re not going to get a dog,” I said. “But don’t tell anyone I looked into your future and saw no dog. It’s a secret.”

  “Never? No dog?” As if on cue, they both scrunched their noses at me.

  “Not when you’re children. I see you having dogs when you’re adults. Four each.” I didn’t see a darn thing, but it seemed to ap-pease them.

  “I’m mad!” Kimberly said with a huff.

  “I’m super mad!” Kaitlyn said with a puff.

  “I’m screaming mad!” Kimberly said, then laughed.

  Kaitlyn giggled. “That’s funny! Screaming mad!” Kaitlyn screamed. I covered my ears. Then I had to use my tongue to right the scoop of peppermint ice cream because it almost fell off. I could feel ice cream on my face and in my left eyelashes. I wiped both with my sleeves, my dogs prancing about.

  Their mother arrived, looking flustered.

  “Hi, Evie,” she said, giving me a hug.

  “Hi, Pammy.”

  She pulled away from the dogs. They appeared a little offended by her poor manners. I suddenly felt like eating microwave popcorn. Extra butter. That would be so good. Ice cream and buttery popcorn are perfect together. A lot of people don’t know that.

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  Pammy sneezed, then coughed. “I’m sorry. I’m allergic to dogs.”

  “I know, Pammy. I know.”

  We chatted for a while about everything, about nothing. I liked Pammy a lot.

  She sniffled, blew her nose. “Bye, Evie. You’re coming to Melissa’s shower, right? Saturday?”

  “Yes, we’ll be there.” Melissa was a classmate of ours. She had invited me, my mother, and my aunts to a bridal shower.

  She had promised “lots of wine. My new mother-in-law, the old jackhammer herself, will be there. I’ll need to be drunk. Get drunk with me.”

  The girls turned around to glare at me, but smiles broke through.

  Kimberly whispered, “I’m still mad about the doggy.”

  “Me too,” Kaitlyn said.

  I didn’t take offense. They were simply blaming the messen-ger who had denied them doggies.

  “I’ve had worse glares than that,” I said.

  They both started giggling.

  “But you are a witch,” Kimberly said. “I know that.”

  “A nice witch,” Kaitlyn said.

  Pammy, honking loudly, blew her nose.

  I was right about the dogs, that was for sure.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “How on earth can I be scaring you? I’
m simply trying to help you find books that are not violent. The books that you’ve always read are all gruesomely violent.” It was Monday, and the bookstore was full. Probably because I put a sign on the door about the Dark Chocolate Honeycomb cake we were selling, which is like eating heaven. “Be sweet! Come on in and eat!” I also had my tea specials up: Rose Hip and Passion Flower.

  “But I like reading about violence.”

  “You should open your mind to something new.” This woman!

  Geez!

  “Why?”

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  “So that you can learn about other people and their lives.

  You can read a memoir and see life through someone else. You can read a biography and learn about someone who changed the world. You can read fiction or fantasy or science fiction and be swept away to a whole new time and place.”

  “I don’t like being swept away.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I like to read about true life crimes.”

  “So I can’t show you any other books?” I was exasperated.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Evie. You can show me other books once you show me the new crime books you have in.”

  “I’m feeling frustrated,” I said to her.

  “Many crimes are committed when people have pent-up frustration and rage. They often hate themselves. Or they are so-ciopaths or psychopaths. That’s who I like to read about.”

  “And that’s what you want to continue to read? Forevermore? Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I’ve never met a bookstore owner like you. It’s strange. But I like it.”

  My hands flew up as in, “I give up.” “I’m not strange. Well, I’m not that strange.” Yes I am. But choosing a variety of books is important!

  “You talk to people in a scary way sometimes, telling them to read this or that.”

  “I don’t think you’re scared.”

  “I’m not. I just felt like saying that. I like being scared when I read.”

  I looked down at the customer. Beatrice Winters. She had white hair wrapped in a bun. She was a nun for twenty years.

  Then she fell in love with a priest. They left their orders, and they’ve been married for thirty years. She was a kindergarten teacher for twenty years after her nun years. She was about five feet tall.

  “Okay. Let’s go find you more blood and gore and violence.”

  “And no more admonitions or reprimands, young lady,” she reprimanded me. “I can read whatever I damn well please.”

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  “I know you can. I’m trying to broaden your literary horizons because you are so stubborn.”

  “The only thing I want to broaden is my ass. My husband says my ass is skinny like a plucked chicken’s.”

  She is petite. Mrs. Winters picked out three true crime books. I brought her a piece of Dulce de Leche cake with vanilla butter-cream and cut myself a slice, and we ate it together at a table overlooking the bay. We both commented on the whales in the distance, a tail here, a fountain of water there.

  She gave me a hug on the way out. “That was fun. I enjoy a civilized argument.” She turned away, then back. “And tell your mother and aunts that I am looking forward to visiting them at their greenhouse shortly.”

  I groaned. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Yes, you did, dear.”

  There has not been a time in my life when I did not love books.

  My parents were readers, too. We would sit, altogether, or my mom and Jules and me if my dad was deployed, and we would read. Often we would read in their bed. We would eat popcorn, or have a slice of pie, or we would all pile in and have Spaghetti and Books Night.

  Books were my escape. I loved the stories. But I had an ulterior motive for reading: Books blocked the premonitions out. I loved being taken away to new worlds, where premonitions did not exist. As a child, as a teenager, the anxiety and depression, and the fear and dread, were so hard to battle. But books at least gave me a respite.

  I read almost everything. Almost all genres. I read before I sleep. I read when I wake up. I read when I take a break at the bookstore. I read on Sunday afternoons. I read on Friday nights.

  I listen to audio books. My life is filled with words.

  I understand people who are addicted to books. I have found that many people use books to escape life. To battle one problem, one challenge or another. Books keep the tears at bay. They also bring on the laughs, the wonder, the education.

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  Yes, I love books. I love stories. Always have, always will.

  And I want other people to love books, too. Hence, I do get a teeny bit uptight with customers in my bookstore now and then. . . .

  I met Emily Medegna when I was eleven. My parents, Jules, and I had moved to San Orcanita Island and into Rose Bloom Cottage about two weeks prior.

  I remember a lot of hushed conversations in our Washington, DC, home right before we moved to the island. I remember my parents arguing, which they rarely did. The arguments, behind closed doors, always ended up with the two of them hugging, kissing, saying sorry, tears. There was a ringing tension in our house, though. Newspapers were put down when I walked in the room, the TV turned off when I got too close during the news.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked my mother. She kissed me, hugged me, and said, a little too brightly, “Nothing at all, sweetheart. Let’s go out for ice cream.”

  “Is something wrong?” I asked my father. He smiled, a tight smile, too tight, and said, “No, love, nothing at all. Hey. Do you want to go bowling this weekend?”

  “What were you and Daddy fighting about in the bedroom?”

  I asked my mother another day.

  “Oh, no, dear. We weren’t fighting. We were having a discussion.” She smiled, her voice too bright. “We were talking about Dad’s next move, what he wants to do with his career.”

  “What were you and Mom fighting about in the backyard?”

  I asked my father. His smile was too tight once again.

  “Nothing, honey. We were talking about . . . about . . . where we want to take you girls on vacation this year.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked both of them at another dinner when they wouldn’t talk. Our dinners were always noisy, chatty, filled with my dad’s humor and my mother’s laughter and Jules’s funny stories and my conversations about how I wanted another cat.

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  “Nothing, Evie,” my father said, then his voice broke a tiny bit. “We sure love you two.”

  “All is well,” my mother said. “You are the light of our lives, girls. Have we told you that, Jules and Evie?”

  But Jules had noticed, too, and we started listening at my parents’ bedroom door. We couldn’t understand most of the words, but we did understand the heated tone, the whispers, our mother crying, our father upset.

  “I don’t understand what they’re mad about,” Jules said.

  “Me either,” I said. “But I think Dad is crying.”

  “Yep. He is.” So she started crying, too. And I did. What could be so bad that our dad would cry? He never cried. He was in the military!

  But one day, after school, in November, our parents said to us, “Jules and Evie, we’re going to move.”

  “What?” we both said, shocked and angry, at the same time.

  “We’re moving,” my father said.

  “Why? Where?” we said.

  “We’re moving to San Orcanita Island,” my mother said.

  “But I don’t want to move,” I said. “I like my friends.

  Bjourna just got two puppies!”

  “And I like the house,” Jules said. “I like hearing the army jets and playing Army Lady!”

  “I’m sorry, girls,” my mother said. “I know you’ll miss the house and your friends, but we’re going to move.”

  We cried, we fussed, and then our parents started talking about the island, which we had visited at least once a year for
family vacations. Aunt Iris and Aunt Camille and their husband/current boyfriend would come to visit, too. All of us together.

  We loved the island. We loved running through Grandma Lucy’s intricate garden rooms, into the meadow, around our pond, and down to the beach where we could see the other islands and, sometimes, whales. We spied on coyotes and deer and raccoons, and we made dandelion crowns. We had even met some of the local kids during our vacations, and they’d come over to play.

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  Jules and I thought about it.

  “I’ll go if you get me a dog,” Jules said. “A fluffy dog. A big one. Big, big dog.”

  “I’ll go if you promise me I can have three cats,” I said. “Not one. Not two. Three kitties.”

  Well, that did it. Our parents nodded. Bring on the pets, shut down the whining about the move.

  We moved to the island within the week. Things at home were still tense between my parents, but the move seemed to lighten things some. I still saw them hiding newspapers. They would also turn off the TV quickly if Jules or I walked into the living room and the news was on, but we saw them holding hands again, which made Jules and I feel better.

  We sold or gave away our furniture before we moved, as Rose Bloom Cottage already had furniture. We didn’t have much stuff anyhow; military families know how to travel light.

  My grandfather was no longer at the cottage. He had fallen in love with a tourist named Yvonne with bright red hair. Yvonne was a teacher. He had moved to Arizona. We loved funny, friendly Yvonne.

  So Rose Bloom Cottage was ours to stay in.

  I met Emily my first day of school. I sat right by her in class.

  Emily had brown curls, blue eyes like cornflowers, and a huge smile with a dimple in her left cheek. I met her mom, Patsy, after school the first day. She had brown curls, blue eyes like cornflowers, and a huge smile, too. Emily was an only child to a single mother.

  Emily liked cats, and when she met Cupcake and Turtle and Sir Eats A Lot, she liked them, too. She liked our dog, Mr.

  Whale. My mother, as a self-trained floral designer, and Emily’s mother, who was a potter, were friends, too. Both artists, my mom simply worked with flowers.

  Then I had a premonition and I forgot about it and something terrible happened and I have never, ever forgiven myself.