Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  She couldn’t look away from me today. And I sure as hell couldn’t stop looking at her, try though I might.

  Cesar shrugs, his expression knowing. “You should just tell her the truth.”

  I wash down a bite with a gulp of Canebrake, shaking my head. “Mami and Ronni’s mom are close. If I tell her Ronni slept with that fuckwad boss of hers, it won’t go over well. You know my mother.”

  He snorts. “Uh, yeah.” Cesar takes a pull from his beer before leaning forward and pointing the neck of the bottle at me in accusation. “Every time we got in trouble in high school, she fussed at me. Even if it was your idea.”

  I grin in spite of myself. “What can I say? Neither of her boys can do any wrong.”

  “Please,” he insists, holding up a hand. “I’m eating.”

  I smother my laugh with the last bite of my patacon. Damn, that’s good.

  Cesar narrows his eyes at me. “But why would you care? I mean, Ronni’s the one who cheated. You’d never pull shit like that. Unlike when we were kids, this time,” he holds up a finger to single out the incident, “you didn’t do anything wrong. What’s wrong with people knowing that?”

  I wince. “What’s wrong with people knowing my shit? My mom? Her mom? Your mom? Every Chicano in town?”

  Cesar’s look is dry as sand. “For the record, my mom also thinks you can do no wrong.”

  I grasp onto this. Anything to change the subject. “I’ve always admired Delores’s wisdom.”

  Cesar’s wadded up napkin hits me in the face. He gives me the evil eye while I laugh, and to make sure the subject is dead, I poke at his soft spots.

  “So, how was your date?”

  He scoffs. “It wasn’t a date, and you know it.”

  I nod. “Only because you haven’t grown the balls to ask her out yet.”

  Cesar has been ass over eyeballs crazy about one of his clients for a good three months. She owns a sandwich shop near the university, and he stops in for lunch to check on her every Tuesday and Friday.

  His eyes cut to his empty plate. Cesar pretends to be absorbed in the task of picking up crumbs with the tip of his finger. “Masie is a client. You know that’s forbidden fruit.”

  Fruit that smells like strawberries and summer...

  “Tell me about it.” The words, heavy with meaning, are out before I know it.

  Cesar’s head snaps up, his eyes alert. “Say what?”

  I shake my head too quickly, and my best friend gives me the side eye. I take a casual sip of beer.

  “You got a desperate housewife who needs a stud finder?”

  Canebrake almost comes out my nose. I splutter and cough while he laughs. “Dios mío, Cesar,” I rasp, fighting for breath.

  Cesar shakes his head. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  Chapter Six

  MILLIE

  “So that wall,” Harry says, pointing to the one that separates the kitchen and formal dining room but keeping his eyes on the plans, “would be gone, right?”

  “Yes.” I nod, but he’s not looking at me. “And that’s an island where the wall is now, and there would be a breakfast nook at the bay window.” I tap on these details in the design, the last one so sweet and irresistible, I want to become a two-dimensional version of myself and curl up on its cushioned window seat. It would be like getting the coveted booth at your favorite restaurant instead of one of the square tables adrift in the middle of the room.

  “Mom would have loved that breakfast nook,” Mattie says wistfully. She’s standing behind Emmett, peering down at the plans from over his head, her hands on his shoulders. I’m glad she’s touching him, bracing him. I’m trying to gage all of their reactions, but I can’t study all three of them at once.

  When my eyes flit to Emmett, he’s running his fingers over the tile samples on the project board, and I see his nose wrinkled in confusion. “What’s a nook?”

  Harry shrugs. “It’s like a hideaway.”

  Emmett’s eyes round. “In the kitchen?” He sounds so mystified, I know he’s picturing something out of a story book, like a secret passageway or a trap door.

  “It’s not hidden,” I explain. “It’s just a place that is sort of tucked aside.”

  His gaze turns accusing and he aims it at Harry. “Then why did you say hideaway if you can’t even hide in it?”

  Harry rolls his eyes. “I said hideaway because that’s like the definition. Look…” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and drums the screen with his thumbs. “Nook: a corner or recess, especially one offering seclusion or security.”

  As one, we look back at the drawing of the little alcove. Seclusion or security. A little safe place for the four of us to gather. It looks so cozy. I can picture us there on Saturday mornings. Playing Spontaneous on Sunday nights. Tucked in right where Mom wanted us to be.

  My throat closes on the thought, but I bite the tip of my tongue until the threat of tears passes. I don’t want my feelings to influence my brothers and sister.

  But if I hadn’t already made up my mind, it’s made up now. I want this remodel. And it’s not just because this is the kitchen Mom wanted. Yes, I want to see it through for her.

  But I also want it for us.

  I want its cozy, welcoming embrace. I want the morning light as it will shine in from the bay window and fill the kitchen. I want to sit at the nook’s table with a book and wait for Emmett’s bus. I usually only have about fifteen minutes between the time I get home with Mattie and the time when his bus shows up, but that’s now how I want to spend those minutes. And for this to be the spot where I sit with him to do his homework, listening to the sound of Mattie practicing piano.

  “And we can afford this?” Harry asks, still scrutinizing the plans. I smile at my brother’s caution, his concern for our financial welfare.

  “We can. It was already earmarked in one of the savings accounts,” I explain. “I just didn’t know what it was for before now.”

  In the beginning, the paperwork had been staggering. Accounts, policies, portfolios, fund statements. In my old life, I’d only had a checking account that Mom and Dad bankrolled. I was still in vet school, and they put money in my debit account every month so I could cover rent, utilities, groceries, and spending money. That’s all I’d ever had to worry about.

  Mom and Dad’s lawyer and their financial planner both met with me after the memorial to help me make sense of everything, but even with their help, I was overwhelmed. My Uncle Gill, Mom’s oldest brother and a CPA, came in for a weekend about a month later, and he helped me set up a Mint account so I could see everything in one place. We put as many bills as we could on automatic draft, and we created a schedule so that the rolling balance from the life insurance payout would stay in a money market account and only make a deposit into our expense account once a month.

  By and large, that means I don’t have to think about the details all the time. Quarterly updates are good enough. But last night, after Luc Valencia’s visit—and after the grocery run, the homework rodeo, and a dinner of homemade chili and cornbread—I sat in the living room while the kids watched Milo Murphy’s Law on the Disney Channel and went through the various savings accounts again.

  Sure enough, one of them was labeled KIT RM BGT. I hadn’t given it any thought before, but now that I’ve seen the plans and the bid, I think this probably stands for “kitchen remodel budget.” I certainly can’t fathom what else it might stand for, and, after all, I know from talking to Mom that she was planning for this.

  “Honestly,” I tell him because I don’t want him or the other two to worry. “Even if they hadn’t set money aside for it, we could still afford it.”

  Harry’s eyes meet mine, and he nods. “Then I say we do it.” He casts his eyes around the kitchen. “The way I see it, this room has been needing an update since we moved in.”

  I hold my breath. If Harry’s for it, my money is on Emmett being on board too. I look at Mattie. She’s biting her lip.

&n
bsp; “We don’t have to make any decisions right now,” I say, hoping to reassure her. “If we decide to do this, it’s going to be pretty disruptive. I don’t want anyone to feel like they were rushed into making a choice they didn’t really want.”

  Mattie still looks worried. “How long will it take?”

  I’ve poured over the plans, but I don’t know for sure. Three months? Six? I don’t want to scare anyone with the worst-case scenario, but I don’t want to mislead them either.

  “It’ll take months,” I say, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “I just don’t know how many.” Harry’s expression is neutral. Mattie frowns a little, considering. Emmett looks impressed.

  “Months?” he asks, eyes bugging. “Like until summer?”

  Surely, it won’t take that long. Will it? “I think it’ll be done before summer’s here, Em.”

  His face screws up in confusion. “Will we still be able to eat in here? And make food?”

  My gut tightens. This is the reality. “Well, for some of it, yes, and for other parts, no.”

  They’re all watching me. This is something, too, I’ve had to get used to. So many times over the last five months, it’s been just like this. The three of them staring up at me, looking to me for the answers. Watching me for a clue on how to behave, what to do, where to go.

  Sometimes I want to look back at them and shout, What the hell are you doing?! You shouldn’t be looking to me? What do I know?

  But then who would they look to? There’s no one I can turn to for all the answers, and that’s an awful feeling. They’re too young to feel that way. So I keep my mouth shut. I have to pretend I know what I’m doing long enough for them to grow up and realize no one knows what they’re doing.

  “I’ve given this some thought,” I explain. “We’ll be able to keep using the fridge and microwave even if we have to move them, so we can always make cereal, sandwiches, and frozen meals. But we’ll be eating a lot of takeout.”

  And just like that, all three of them relax.

  I narrow my eyes at my siblings. “What? Is that a good thing?”

  Harry and Mattie attempt twin deadpan looks in a way that make their twinness unmistakable. But Emmett grins outright.

  “We like the nights when we have takeout,” he says innocently.

  “Emmett,” Mattie hisses, glowering at him.

  I put my hands on my hips. “What does that mean? The nights we have takeout?” I pin each with a glare. “As opposed to the nights I cook?”

  No one speaks, but Harry and Mattie both give Emmett gimlet-eyed stares, as though daring him to open his mouth. My little brother may be young, but he’s not dumb. He ducks his chin, making himself look like he’s five instead of eight, and shakes his head.

  “Well?”

  I’m not the best cook in the world. I get that. But I’m not horrible. Am I?

  The twins exchange a glance, and by some tacit agreement I can’t decipher, Mattie is elected spokesperson.

  “Millie, we love it…” Mattie swallows visibly, and I know for certain she’s in the middle of a lie. “when you cook.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “What’s your favorite? The best thing I make?”

  The twins’ eyes lock again, looks of caution and warning pass between them.

  “Your pancakes are really good,” Emmett says, head bobbing with enthusiasm. I don’t need a polygraph to know he’s speaking the truth.

  “Pancakes.”

  Missing the flatness of my tone, he nods, delight sparking in his blue eyes. “I could eat ‘em every day.”

  I raise a brow. “Thank you for that, Emmett,” I say dryly. “But Bisquick really gets the credit for pancakes. I just add water to the Shake ‘N Pour bottle.”

  Without turning his face from me, his gaze flick up to the twins, a sure sign he’s realizing he should have kept quiet. His lower lip buds as he looks at the floor.

  “You make really good sandwiches too,” he says so low it’s hard to hear him. But we do hear him, and the twins seem to ripple with unspent laughter. I gust a sigh.

  Pancakes and sandwiches.

  “So I’m a lousy cook,” I say, aiming this at the fourteen-year-olds. “Thanks for telling me.”

  Mattie’s jaw drops and Harry puts up his hands in defense. They speak at once.

  “You’re not a lousy cook—”

  “We didn’t say—”

  But it’s Emmett who steps up and hugs me around the middle. “You’re doing your best, Millie,” he says. “We know.”

  I hug him back and try not to feel like a total loser. I have been doing my best. Trying to make the dishes Mom used to make. Her roast, rice, and gravy. Her lemon chicken. Her shepherd’s pie.

  Except I don’t have any of her recipes. She never wrote any of them down, and, dammit to hell, I never asked her to. I didn’t even bother to try to make a home-cooked meal when I lived in my apartment during vet school. Between classes, cases, and studying, there wasn’t time, and if I really had a craving for something of hers, I just asked Mom to make it and came home for the weekend.

  Most nights, if I didn’t get something at the caf, I made a salad, or a grilled cheese sandwich, or an omelet. Or I got takeout. Not exactly the stuff of culinary school.

  So I’ve been trying to recreate her recipes. I’ll look them up online and pick ones I think have her same general ingredients, and then I just tweak as I go, trying to steer the flavor toward what I remember of hers.

  But I guess I’ve been steering us off a cliff.

  “Maybe if we redo the kitchen, I could use that time to take a cooking class,” I muse aloud. Harry and Mattie’s expressions freeze, but Emmett, still hugging me, has his back to them, and he nods so hard, I think he’ll give himself whiplash.

  Harry rubs his chin with the pad of his thumb where he thinks he’s starting to grow a beard. “It’s not a bad idea,” he says with a noncommittal shrug.

  I look at Mattie. Her lips are pressed together to hide her smile, but I can tell she likes the idea. “Sis, what do you think?”

  She gives a little head tilt. “If that’s something you want to do, go for it.”

  I’d love them even if they were total turds. But I adore them for not wanting to hurt my feelings. I wish I could hug all three of them, but Mattie and Harry just stiffen when I try. I get it. It’s not me. It’s the age. And maybe it’s because that was Mom’s job, too.

  To hug us every day.

  But Emmett still needs hugs. He craves them. So I squeeze him tight enough to be squeezing all three.

  And then it hits me. The kitchen. They’re all on board. At least I think they are.

  “So you… So we’re going to do this? Remodel the kitchen?” I ask, checking each of the faces I love above all others.

  “Yes,” Mattie says.

  “Yep,” Harry adds.

  Emmett smiles up at me. “It’ll be fun.”

  I snort. “It’ll be fun for about five minutes, and then it’ll be a pain in the butt,” I say. They’re all smiling now, so I smile back. “But I think we’ll be happy with it once it’s done.”

  None of them looks the least bit hesitant. That’s probably because they don’t really get what we’re signing up for, but then again, do I even know? Yet, for reasons I don’t really understand, I want this too. This project. This chance to make something new.

  “Okay. I’ll call the contractor tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  LUC

  I pull up to the Lambert’s house. It’s Thursday, five minutes before noon, and not one member of my crew is here. No cars. No trucks. No Hector.

  “Sonofabitch.”

  If no one’s here, it means Hector, the site manager, left for an early lunch. And the rest of them followed.

  No question about it. This is Hector’s third strike. Yeah, everybody knocks off early for lunch now and then. But not two days after the boss gets on them for not being where they need to be.
/>   I have to fire him. It won’t be the first time I’ve done it, but it will be the first time it’s my call. And firing people—firing anyone—sucks ass.

  “Shit.” This is so not in my Daily Three. Not Finances. Not Motivation. Not Fitness.

  I grab my phone from the cup holder, and I’m about to search for Hector’s number when it rings. It’s a 337 number I don’t recognize.

  “Luc Valencia,” I answer.

  “We’re ready.”

  My abs twitch. That voice. I shouldn’t know it, but I do. It’s her.

  “Miss Delacr—”

  “It’s Millie,” she says in a rush. “Please, call me Millie.” She sounds nervous. Maybe a little keyed up. I can hear her breath.

  For a second, I go still, listening to the sound. And then I swallow and return to sanity.

  “You’ve decided?”

  “Yes,” she says, excitement clear in the word. “We’re ready. The four of us are agreed.”

  I smile, imagining that. Her and three kids talking it out. A unanimous decision, if what she told me was true.

  And I’d bet payroll it is.

  “Good to hear,” I say, ignoring just how glad I am she called. She’s a client. Just another client. “We can get started Monday if that works for you.”

  Silence.

  “Monday?”

  I frown. “Yeah. Is that too soon?” I listen, but there’s nothing. Not even breath. Is she holding it?

  Breathe, I want to tell her.

  “N-no… it’s not too soon.” She says this, but something’s off.

  “Is Monday a problem?”

  “No… It’s just I—” She pauses, and this time I do hear her breathing. I lean back against the headrest, listening.

  An insistent voice in my head speaks up, She’s a client. We don’t listen to clients breathing.

  I open my eyes. When did I close them?

  “What is it?” I prompt, peering through the windshield, checking to make sure none of my guys have shown up on site.