Pen draws in her lips. “I didn’t think of that.”
The sound of size four flip-flops slap through the dining room. Maisy pinwheels into the foyer, brown hair flying behind her. “I can help. I’m a good helper.”
I look down at my daughter. We didn’t brush her hair today. What kind of stylist lets her own child run around with tangled hair?
“You are a good helper.” I narrow my gaze on her pink T-shirt. It’s wet. I don’t hear water running, which is a good sign, but you never know. “What were you doing?”
“Washing.” She blinks up at me, all innocence behind the frames of her glasses. That’s one of the few things she got from her father. Hyperopia. You know those toddlers you see wearing glasses with the strap that goes around the back of their heads? Pitiful, right? Yeah, that was Maisy.
At least she doesn’t need the strap anymore. Maybe she’ll be able to wear contacts when she’s older, but since her lenses magnify her eyes, she can pull off the innocent look like nobody’s business.
But it’s my business not to be fooled.
“Washing what?”
She looks at me with as much affront as a four-year-old can manage. I swear, the cuteness factor is almost lethal. Thank goodness I have more tolerance than most of the adults in Maisy’s life.
Pen, Tyler, my mom, and even my dad are much more susceptible.
“What were you washing in the kitchen, Maisy?” The fact that I have to ask twice does not give me confidence.
“Things,” she says as though it should be obvious.
When I walked out of the kitchen not ten minutes ago, it was with the intention of grabbing one of the boxes of small appliances from the stacks of boxes still in the front hall and coming right back. Maisy had been playing on the floor with her toy kitchen set. But the insurance guy called, asking me if I wanted to bundle property liability to the policy since I’d be opening a business, and I went down an insurance rabbit hole.
They exist. I swear it.
“What things?”
Maisy tilts her head left then right as if debating how much detail she’s willing to share. I could just stride back to the kitchen to find out what she’s been up to, but I don’t. I asked her a question. I’ll wait for the answer.
Maisy side-eyes me, and I know immediately she’s afraid of my reaction. “Nanna’s cooking cards.”
My heart plummets. I steel my features. “Nanna’s recipe cards?”
My grandmother kept all of her recipes in plastic index card boxes, organized by categories: Baking, Holidays, Poultry, and then alphabetized by name.
These boxes constitute a family treasure. I clench my back teeth so I don’t wail. Instead, I hold out my hand to my child.
“Show me.”
It’s only when Maisy takes my hand in hers and starts tugging me to the kitchen that I lock eyes with Pen and see my horror mirrored in hers. She follows hot on my heels. As far as she’s concerned, Nanna’s recipes might as well be magic spells.
“The boxes was dirty,” Maisy explains.
Boxes?
Please, God, please let her recipes be intact.
“Oh holy—” Pen’s hand flies to her mouth.
Four—four—of Nanna’s ten index card boxes are in the sink, floating like jettisoned ice chests after a boating accident.
“I cleaned them.” Maisy points her palms toward the basin of sudsy water.
I cross the big kitchen at a run and perform a water rescue.
“Maisy—”
I check my tone. She didn’t mean to do any harm. I swallow against loss and anger. Anger at myself. I shouldn’t have left her in here alone. Not even for ten minutes.
“We might be able to save them,” Pen says beside me. She opens the nearest box. The crisp white index cards are now a wet gray. Nanna’s familiar curlicued handwriting swells and bleeds. “Let’s try laying them out.”
I open the box in my hands labelled Baking and stifle a moan. I can barely make out the first recipe. Nanna’s Banana Nut Bread. I can almost taste my childhood—the smell of that bread baking in this kitchen and the way it made me feel grounded when my world was turning upside down.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Maisy asks. “You sad?” I know she’s watching my face. I don’t want to upset her, but I don’t want to lie to her either.
I make eye contact with her. “I’m sad, Maisy,” I say as evenly as possible. “I miss Nanna.”
“Did I do bad?” Her voice is pinched in a way I know means tears are imminent.
“Baby, you didn’t mean to.”
Her glasses magnify the tears welling in her brown eyes. “Did I hurt Nanna’s cooking cards?”
Abandoning the recipes, I drop into a squat and hold her little arms. “Cards aren’t supposed to get wet,” I explain calmly, “But I’m not mad at you.”
Fat tears spill down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she wails.
Forgetting all about the recipes, I pull her into a hug. “It’s okay, baby. It’ll be okay.”
“We’re gonna fix it,” Pen says with confidence. “I know just what to do.”
Maisy just sniffles and quakes in my arms. She presses her wet face into my neck, and I plant a kiss on one ear. Whenever she cries, her plump little body heats up as if she’s literally melting down. I hug her against me even tighter.
“I miss Nanna too, Mama,” Maisy confides.
My throat tightens. She’s said this more than once over the last few days, and she’s asked a lot of questions. Some I’m not sure how to answer. At least she’s not asking any now.
“We all do, Maisy Bug,” I rasp.
“We sure do,” Pen echoes, her voice sounding just a little tight too.
Footsteps scrape down the hall so I stand and swipe my eyes before Tyler walks in, but it’s no good.
He sees us and frowns. “Wha..sh...wron?”
The last thing I want to do is upset Tyler too, but he hates it when I coddle him. Even if he can’t come out and say it in precisely those words, he totally knows when I’m doing it.
I glance down at my daughter. “Want to tell him?”
Maisy sniffles again and drags her forearm under her nose. “I w-washed Nanna’s cooking cards.”
Tyler’s frown deepens, and I know he’s trying to process what she means. He takes in Pen at the counter, separating and laying out the recipes. Then he looks back at Maisy.
“Can...’t… wash… pa...per.”
Maisy nods as though this is solemn wisdom.
“Un...lesh… yor… Spun Bo...b,” Tyler says, his slow-growing grin aimed at Maisy. “Wan... go… wash Spun Bo...b?”
Maisy understands her uncle perfectly. Want to go watch SpongeBob?
She darts across the kitchen and grabs Tyler’s hand. “We have to watch in your room.”
Tyler’s brows lift. “My… roo...m?”
“TV’s not plugged yet.” Her tone is flat, but I don’t miss the reproach. Who would’ve thought four-year-olds could be reproachful.
Pen swivels her head and nails me with I-told-you-so eyes.
Okay, so I might be dragging my feet on setting up the TV in the living room. We’ve been in the house two nights already, and I was hoping to make it a third before I caved. Maisy watches too much TV. So does Tyler. I’d like to say that wasn’t the case before his accident, but he’s been a lifelong SpongeBob fan.
“Fine. I’ll set it up tonight.”
“And we’ll watch Inside Out?”
Pen chokes on her smothered laughter. Maisy knows every line of Inside Out. I probably do too.
“And we’ll watch Inside Out,” I concede.
Maisy bounces in her flip-flops. “Hooray!” Then she’s tugging Tyler by the hand. “C’mon, Uncle T, c’mon.”
Maisy is faster, but Tyler follows.
“Just until I get supper ready,” I call after them. But given the work I’m trying to get done tonight—plus the unscheduled recipe rescue—it'll probably be Sandwich Night. Ag
ain.
I turn back to Pen, who’s moved onto the second box. The counter is covered with meticulously placed and sodden recipe cards. The ones written in pencil don’t look too bad. The ones in ink are going to take some deciphering. Does that say two or three teaspoons of cream of tartar for Nanna’s Snickerdoodle recipe?
I get to work beside Pen, and in short order, every surface in the kitchen is covered with wet cards.
“Nanna’s cooking will live on,” Pen says with decision.
I let go a sigh. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to copy these down somewhere safe. Like a Google Doc.”
“Or the Library of Congress,” Pen says.
I chuckle. “Family treasures they are. National treasures?” I let the question hang in the air.
“Don’t you blaspheme in this house.”
Now I full-on belly laugh. Pen snickers at my amusement.
We almost miss the knock at the front door.
Both of us freeze and give each other questioning looks.
“You expecting someone?”
“No. You?”
It’s after six, so it’s probably not one of the contractors I’ve contacted to give me an estimate on replacing cracked window panes, but who knows.
When I open the front door, my hand flies to my mouth. A woman—young, skinny, and sporting a heinous black eye—stares back at me.
“Um… Hi.” She looks down at her feet. I do too. She’s wearing flip-flops. She has bruises and brush burns on her knees. I snap my gaze back to her face and then force myself to focus on her un-blacked eye. “Is this the house with the rooms for rent?”
My mouth drops open.
Slowly, I look over my shoulder and find Pen gaping just like I am.
“You posted the address in the ads?”
Her amber eyes go wide. “Shit,” she mutters.
I plaster on my best I’m-not-annoyed-at-all smile and blink obnoxiously at my best friend. “Could you edit that—”
“I’m doing it right now,” she says, reaching into her back pocket for her phone.
I turn back to the woman on the front porch. She’s watched this little exchange, and the look in her eyes is now so hollow, I almost lose my balance.
“I’m sorry,” she says almost soundlessly. “I should’ve called.”
My heart starts racing because I take in the fact that, aside from the flip-flops, she’s wearing—or barely wearing—a pair of short jeans shorts and a white T-shirt. Clearly without a bra. I don’t see a phone on her person. Or a purse. And the curb is free of cars.
“A-are you… okay?” I hear myself ask.
The young woman swallows but says nothing.
She has limp, straight blonde hair that’s in need of a wash, but if she didn’t have the black eye, anyone would say she’s pretty—in that waifish kind of way.
I step back from the entrance. “Do you want to come in?”
She swallows again but nods.
When she steps inside, I close the door on the sticky September evening. I turn and find her taking in Nanna’s gleaming white staircase with the glossy banister that wraps its way all the way up to Pen’s attic. I’ve always thought the entryway was grand. Even growing up knowing this place doesn’t make me immune to its majesty. Judging by her posture, this girl is gobsmacked.
She whirls on me. “W-was the ad wrong?” She looks a little panicked and shakes her head. “It said $350 a month for a bedroom in a shared house. That can’t be right. Not here.”
“Well—” I start.
“I’m sorry,” Pen launches in. “I posted the ad too soon.”
The girl’s face falls. “So it’s more than $350.” Her disappointment borders on despair.
“No.” It’s suddenly important that I reassure her. “The price is right. It’s just that the room isn’t ready yet.”
“Oh.”
Her shoulders sag. In fact, all of her seems to sag, as though her spine can’t possibly hold her upright. If I wanted to reassure her, I did a crap job of it.
Despite the fact that she looks like she can’t take one more step, she turns and aims for the door. “I’d better go then—”
“Wait.” I reach out and grab her wrist. Not hard, I swear. But she hisses in pain and I let go, wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“No, it’s nothing,” she says, but she clutches her wrist to her chest and her face goes red. She looks away, her stringy hair hiding her eyes. “Just… I’ve got to go.”
I have no idea who this girl is, but I know in my bones that I can’t let her walk out Nanna’s door.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” I ask, my voice gentle but clear.
With the slightest tilt of her head, she peeks at me from behind the shelter of her hair but says nothing.
I take two steps back as though I’m trying not to spook a baby deer. “Please come sit down.”
I gesture toward the sitting room to the right of the stairs. The space is snug, especially with Nanna’s rocker recliner, the overstuffed, doily-topped loveseat, and her oval cherry coffee table crowding the floor space.
Taking in the options, our surprise visitor chooses the rocker and sits on the very edge. I’m actually a little afraid she’ll slip off. Pen and I sit side by side on the loveseat across from her.
“I’m Stella. Stella Mouton,” I say. “This is my friend Penelope Harper—”
“Call me Pen,” she blurts.
When the girl says nothing—just stares at us like we’re trying to talk her into a threesome—I prompt her. “What’s your name?”
“Christina—b-but everyone calls me Nina for short… Nina Lemoine.”
I stoke my courage and just go for it. “Looks like you’re having a bad day, Nina.”
Even though I’ve spoken gently, her head dips and she brings a hand to her forehead, shielding that god awful eye.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a rush. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
The sound of her swallowing, gulping really, is her only response.
“When did that happen?” I ask because I don’t know what else to ask.
This time, Nina doesn’t hesitate. “Last night.”
Jesus Christ.
My tongue feels useless. I have no idea what to say.
My silence must prompt her to lower her hand. “I need to find a new place to live,” Nina says as though she’s asking for a two million dollar loan. “Someplace I can afford.”
I nod because even though I didn’t look like she does when I kicked Brody to the curb, I know exactly what it feels like to be done taking shit from someone.
“I want to help you—”
Nina shakes her head so vehemently I’m sure it must make her eye throb. “I don’t want help.” She reaches into the pocket of her startlingly short shorts and pulls out a crumpled wad of cash. “I can pay for the room.”
I open my mouth to respond, and Pen grips my elbow.
“Can I just have a word with you?” she asks in that voice that sounds so artificially casual there’s nothing casual about it.
I glare at my best friend. She glares back.
I turn to Nina. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
Still gripping my elbow, Pen practically frog marches me across the foyer, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. It’s still empty, just like we left it, with all the waterlogged recipe cards laying out like sunbathers at the beach. SpongeBob’s highly annoying smoke alarm laugh blares from Tyler’s room, but for once, I’m grateful Maisy is occupied.
“What?”
Pen gives me her incredulous WTF face. “What are you doing?”
I point across the house. “That girl needs help.”
She blinks at me. “That girl’s aura is so gray it’s almost black.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“Um,” Pen jabs her fists onto her hips and gives me her most sarcastic sneer. “Gee. I don’t know. Maybe imminent death?”
My stomach pitches. “She’s going to die?”
“I don’t know,” Pen hisses, “and I don’t want to find out.”
“Pen.”
She wags a long finger at me. “Don’t give me that disappointed look. I’m here to help you and part of that job means protectin’ you.” Her amber eyes are practically sparking. “Whoever did that to her face ain’t done with her. Not by a long way.”
“Maybe she needs our help.”
“So gray it’s almost black,” Pen stresses.
I nod. “Then she definitely needs our help.” I turn on my heels.
“Stel-la!”
I wheel back around. “Don’t you dare.”
Pen takes every opportunity to channel A Streetcar Named Desire. She used to get us in trouble in the middle of the night during our sleepovers. I can’t count how many times her mom, my mom, or Nanna scolded or even grounded us for those antics.
She purses her mouth, and I know it’s a sign of peevish amusement.
“If you’re worried about whoever hurt that girl coming around here, do something about it.” I flap my hand in every direction. “Burn some sage. Cast some kind of protection spell. Bury your crystals in the yard—”
“Don’t you make fun of my crystals—”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Sorry. But I’m offering her a room.”
“I thought you said they weren’t ready.” She crosses her arms over her chest and the pout she gives me makes her look about thirteen years old.
“I’ll get it ready.”
I turn and march back to the sitting room. Pen follows, muttering something like, you need to ask Hestia,Goddess of the Hearth, to help you ‘cause I won’t be liftin’ a finga. Nina’s still sitting on the razor’s edge of the rocker, but she gets to her feet as soon as we enter. I have a feeling that despite the distance and the thickness of the walls in this old house, she heard every word.
“You’re welcome to one of our rooms,” I say.
“If you have first month’s rent and the security deposit,” Pen blurts, sidling up beside me.
I toss her a scowl. “What?”
She gives a huffy shrug. “Have you ever rented anything without payin’ a security deposit?”
I have to admit, she has a point. I don’t bother telling her that because Nina is smoothing out the wad of bills in her hand. She counts it out and then looks up at me with an equal mix of hope and despair.
Dream House Page 3