Dream House

by Stephanie Fournet

  “Mmm,” Tyler hums with his first bite. “Goo...d”

  Pen preens. “Thank you, Tyler. I worked hard on it.”

  I roll my eyes. But the jambalaya is good. And I’m hungry.

  Which reminds me.

  “Have you seen Nina today?” I ask Pen.

  Tyler’s fork stops halfway to his mouth.

  “She came in with two garbage bags for suitcases around ten this morning, changed clothes, and left again.” Pen’s tone signifies that she still has doubts about my decision to rent Nina a room.

  “Sounds like she was able to get some of her stuff,” I mutter between mouthfuls.

  “Hmph,” Pen huffs. “Giving her ex-boyfriend the chance to follow her back here.”

  “Pen.” I tilt my head over at Maisy in warning, but my daughter is busy chasing a sausage around her bowl. Tyler, on the other hand, stares unblinking at Pen.

  The sound of the front door unlocking carries into the kitchen.

  “Speak of the devil,” Pen says under her breath.

  “Pen,” I scold again, but I’m already pushing away from the table.

  Nina has locked the front door behind her and is halfway up the stairs when I call her name.

  She turns. Sandals, a light blue cotton skirt, a white tank top under a cropped denim jacket have almost completely transformed her.

  Almost.

  The black eye is camouflaged under makeup, but the caked-on concealer only mutes the injury.

  “H-Hi,” I stammer. “How was your day?”

  Nina stares at me, and a moment too late, I realize that a chatty, nosy landlady may not be at the top of everyone’s wish list.

  “I-I mean… we’re just having dinner. It’s jambalaya… There’s plenty if you’d like to join us.”

  Nina shakes her head and holds up a paper bag. “No thanks. I got dinner at work.” She climbs two more steps.

  “Do you need anything? Towels or… anything?”

  When she shakes her head again, the curtain of hair hides her face. “I’m good. G’night.”

  And then she’s up the stairs before I can say anything else she clearly doesn’t want to hear.

  I return to the kitchen. Both Tyler and Pen watch me enter, but it’s Maisy who speaks up.

  “Done! May I be ‘scused?” She’s already squirming out of her seat.

  I nod. “Take your dishes to the sink.”

  Maisy runs them across the kitchen, sets them down, and then hops with impatience. “C’mon, Uncle T!”

  Tyler’s bowl is empty, but he’s not moving. He’s still watching me.

  So is Pen.

  “What? I was just checking on Nina.”

  Pen blinks at me like their questions should be obvious. To my surprise, Tyler looks just as unimpressed. If my brother is given the choice, he won’t say a word. Ever. Sometimes, it’s downright laziness. Speech is a chore for him. It may be a chore for the rest of his life. Other times, he’s embarrassed. Or, at least, that’s what I think.

  But it’s just me and Pen right now. I don’t see anything to be embarrassed about, and I try not to let him get away with being lazy. His speech therapist says he doesn’t practice enough as it is.

  I cock a brow at him. “You have something to say?”

  Tyler narrows his eyes. He doesn’t appreciate me calling him out. He may not talk much, but he sure can let me know what he’s thinking.

  But I wait. It’s not like today is my first day being his sister.

  He sets his jaw and exhales his irritation. “Ish… she… o...kay?”

  My breath stills. I can’t remember the last time Tyler asked about anyone who wasn’t family. Not since the accident. But probably not for a while before that. Back then, Tyler’s attention was, well, pretty much on Tyler.

  Then again, he always had a weak spot for a pretty face. And even with a black eye, Nina has a pretty face.

  I want to feel excited that he’s noticed someone outside of his small circle, but I can’t ignore the pinch of worry in my gut.

  “She’s fine,” I say, reclaiming my seat at the table. I attempt to dive back to my cooling jambalaya.

  But neither Pen nor Tyler take their eyes off me.

  “She’s still in one piece?” Pen asks, an edge in her voice.

  “Of course. I think she just got back from work.”

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but a tension I hadn’t acknowledged leaves them both. Tyler pushes away from the table before I can ask about it.

  Ten minutes later, I’m loading the dishwasher. I’ve forbidden Pen from helping since she cooked, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t topped off our wine glasses and kept me entertained.

  Apparently, Pen was commissioned today to do a logo design for a client’s sex surrogacy business.

  “Sex surrogacy?”

  Pen nods.

  “What is that, exactly?”

  “It’s—”

  A knock at the front door stops her. Pen wrinkles her nose.

  “That’ll be your termagant—I mean tennant.”

  I pull a face. “Subtle.” Grabbing a dish towel for my wet hands, I head for the door with Pen flanking me. Before I unlatch the bolt, I level Pen with a warning stare. “Be nice.”

  She bats her false lashes over all-too-innocent amber eyes. “I’ll be an angel.”

  I pause and frown. “Didn’t you tell me some angels are malicious.”

  Pen smooths a hand over her gold head wrap, faking confusion. “Did I say that?”

  I roll my eyes and open the door. And then I look down. The girl on my front porch is barely five feet tall in her wedge sandals. Everything about her shines, from her bronze toenails to her gleaming mid-length butterfly locs.

  Pen’s breath catches at the sight of her, upturned nose and all.

  “You must be Livy,” I say, extending a hand. “Welcome.”

  She offers me hers, and even though her skin is buttery soft, her hand plump like the rest of her, her shake is cool and abrupt.

  “When was this house built?” she asks, ignoring my greeting. It occurs to me that I’m smiling wide, wanting to put her at ease, but her expression may as well be carved out of stone.

  “Uh… 1901?” It comes out as a question, and I want to kick myself. I know exactly when it was built. Nanna made sure I knew the whole history of this house. I clear my throat and speak firmly. “1901.”

  Livy presses her lips together and nods. “So slaves never lived here or helped to build it.”

  The jambalaya in my stomach suddenly feels like a sandbag. “No. The house was my grandmother’s.” I don’t want to sound defensive, but I’m pretty sure I fail. “Her grandfather built it. He was born after the Civil War.”

  I know by the look on her face I’ve said the wrong thing. Or one of many wrong things.

  “Coming from a family line like that is your privilege.”

  “You’re right,” I say, nodding. “Among other things.”

  She blinks like I’ve surprised her. I glance at Pen who’s been noticeably quiet during this little exchange. But she’s staring at Livy. Not like the woman on our doorstep is challenging me and my heritage, but like she’s just turned a wad of aluminum foil into a gold crown.

  “C’mon in,” I say, pulling the door wide. “This is Pen. She lives at the top of the stairs.”

  Pen’s hand shoots out between us. “Hi, Livy. Has anyone ever told you you have a red aura?” Her words fire loud and fast. “It signifies passion and purpose.”

  Livy offers her hand but she stares up at Pen, her lips slightly parted. Pen is a good ten inches taller than Livy. That’s just the beginning in terms of contrast. But I notice the handshake they share isn’t the same rushed, perfunctory one Livy gave me. Pen’s long, slender hand presses into Livy’s sumptuous one like a royal derriere into an ancestral throne. Pre-ordained.

  My brows sweep up, and I don’t miss the way Pen’s pupils open like time-lapsed flowers. Livy’s chin is still pointed up regally, but
her eyes execute a slow, slow—molasses-level slow—blink.

  Oh, Jesus.

  There’s actually nothing time-lapsed about their handshake. It goes on and on. Technically, it’s not a handshake. It’s a handhold. Neither one of them is moving.

  I clear my throat. They startle and look at me like I’ve just popped out of thin air.

  “There’s two rooms available on the second floor. I’ll take you up.”

  Pen doesn’t follow us. She leads the way, chattering about the house and its energy, how it’s a seat for centering and expression.

  She’s never told me it was a seat for centering and expression.

  When we reach the first free room, Livy steps in to explore, and I catch Pen by the elbow before she can float in after her.

  “What the hell?” I whisper.

  Pen looks at me in amazement. “Isn’t she great?”

  “I thought you said she might be a terrible person—”

  “Shhh!” Pen flaps her hands and scowls her disappointment in me. “No. No. She’s a force, but a force of change and creation. I’m surprised you can’t see that.”

  “I didn’t say I—”

  “And she smells like gardenias and lemonade.” Pen’s scowl melts away and her gaze drifts back to Livy, who’s now peering into the closet.

  “Oh, well, in that case—” But she’s not listening to me.

  Livy shuts the closet door and nails me with her stare. “And where’s the bathroom?”

  “Just next door.” I point the way, and she does a quick sweep of the hall bath. It’s not small, and it’s clean and bright with a frosted window that doesn’t completely obscure the view of the cemetery.

  “And I’d be sharing this with how many people?” she asks flatly.

  “Two for now,” I say, gesturing towards Nina’s shut door at the end of the hall. “But there’s another room for rent, so it could be three.”

  “Let’s see the other room.” To say that her speech pattern is clipped would be generous. I try to lock eyes with Pen to see if she’s picking up on Livy’s rudeness, but she’s grinning like the time we smoked a bowl and watched dolphins frolic at Panama Beach on senior trip.

  I lead them across the hall to the bedroom that faces the street. The traffic noise from University Avenue is louder here and it’s smaller than the other room, but it has a window seat tucked into the dormer with built-in bookshelves on either side.

  Livy tilts her gaze up to the ceiling. There’s not much to see up there, but I’m glad Nina did such a good job clearing out the cobwebs last night.

  “I’ll take this one,” Livy says to the ceiling.

  Pen sucks in a breath. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again.

  “Can I Venmo you my deposit and first month’s rent? I’d like to move in on Saturday.”

  “Sure, I’ll—”

  “I have to go,” Livy says to me then turns to face Pen and Pen alone. “Our Southern Poverty Law Center Student Alliance is having a chapter meeting at the library tonight. I’m the secretary. Would you like to come?”

  Pen is still wearing the smoked-a-bowl smile, but her eyes squint with obvious regret. “I’m not a student.”

  For the first time, Livy smiles. If I thought she shined before, it was nothing like this. A leprechaun’s own pot of gold couldn’t out dazzle her. Even I’m not immune. I smile too.

  But Pen shivers.

  “Of course you’re not,” Livy says through her million dollar smile. “You’d be my guest.”

  I can’t believe it, but my best friend—the one who dragged me into a cemetery at midnight under a full moon to summon spirits of the dead before we were even old enough to drive—looks nervous.

  Pen. A woman who opens her front door to bouncers from Marley’s Bar after closing time just to see if they really are bouncy.

  Penelope Harper. Artist. Witch. Woman. With the confidence of Aphrodite and the beauty of Nefertiti.

  She balks at Livy’s invitation.

  “I-I-I… can’t tonight.” She swallows so strongly I expect her to cluck.

  Livy and I await more—an explanation, an excuse. Something. But nothing comes.

  Pen squeezes her hands into fists and then releases them like she’s grasping for a lifeline. “I’ll walk you out,” she finally blurts.

  You know how you can be so embarrassed for someone else it physically hurts? The trip down the stairs and to the front door is so full of awkward stammerings and false starts, I have to tune it out.

  Once Livy signs her lease and confirms I’ve received her Venmo transfer, she leaves without saying goodbye. Pen closes the door behind her and presses her head to its solid length.

  “What just happened?” she groans into the wood.

  I want to belly laugh, but I won’t. Pen is as thin as a reed but also as straight as one. Now she slumps like a test piece of vermicelli slapped to the wall.

  “Hell if I know.”

  Her gaze narrows as she comes back to herself. A line forms between her brows and her focus locks on mine.

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” My heart thuds, dreading she’s having some kind of damning vision or other witchy warning.

  “Three.”

  “Three what?”

  “Three renters.”

  I give her the side-eye. “What about them?”

  Pen looks at me like I’m missing the obvious. “The next one’s yours.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pen’s gaze goes skyward, and she mutters some kind of incantation or Celtic swear word. “Three is a very powerful number. I should have thought of this before.” She jabs her finger at the stairs. “You have three rooms for rent, all on the same plane. That’s a really powerful draw.”

  “So?”

  “So, nature abhors a vacuum. The empty space needs to be filled.”

  I nod. “Right. No big deal. Three empty rooms. Three tenants.”

  “No.” Pen shakes her head. “Don’t you see? There’s also three of us.”

  I frown. “There’s four of us. You, Tyler, Maisy, and me.”

  Pen hasn’t stopped shaking her head. “Maisy’s a child. Yes, she’s attracting something, but her pull is not as powerful as ours. If there were three children in the household, maybe.”

  I start shaking my head now. “You’re making no sense at all.”

  She grabs my hands. I stop shaking my head. “The next one’s yours,” she says again.

  “You need to stop saying that.” Seriously, it’s making me nervous.

  Pen shrugs. “I’m just giving you a heads up.”

  “A heads up about what?” My voice comes out a little screechy. Just a little, but still.

  “Stella, don’t you see what’s happening?” She frowns at me again.

  “Uh, no. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Pen presses her lips together and shuts her eyes as if summoning patience. When she opens them again, the amber of her irises practically flares.

  “Nina is for Tyler. Livy is for me. The next one is for you.”

  A full-body flush soaks my flesh. It’s like I’ve been dipped in hot fizz or dunked in a barrel of warm beer.

  I shove away her words about the next one and challenge her. “What do you mean, Nina is for Tyler?” Even as I question it, I already know what she’s going to say.

  “Did you see him at dinner? Were you listening when he asked about her?” Pen knows I was. She also knows, just like I do, that this is different.

  I shake my head. “Are you saying the universe hit him with some kind of instalove spell—”

  “No.” Her tone is firm and her gaze serious. “Not at all. This isn’t about love. This is about energy.”

  My sigh is like an avalanche. Pen snickers.

  “Don’t sound so relieved. Energy is powerful. Did you see what Livy did to me?”

  Holy crap. I sure did.

  “But you’re attracted to her.”

  I think Pen’s
eyelashes bat of their own volition. “W-well—I mean—She’s. Very attractive. But.” She shakes her head as if clearing it. “I think there’s something she’s meant to teach me or lead me to. And I think that’s what Nina will do for Tyler. And maybe vice versa.”

  She brings her all-knowing gaze back to mine. “Which means the next one’s yours.” Her smile is positively wicked. “Ooh. This is going to be fun!”

  Chapter Five

  LARK

  “You sleepy Unca Lawk? You sleepy?”

  A pudgy hand smacks my closed eye twice before I can roll onto my stomach.

  “Mmmph.”

  “You want patty-cake? Patty-cake wif siw-wup?”

  I want to sleep for another hour. Or nine. As promised, I’ve covered diaper detail the last two weeks. Who knew Baby Lola saves her biggest loads for the two a.m. feeding? And the lungs on that girl? I’m sure Grayson never cried like that.

  Then again, I never crashed on the couch when Grayson was a newborn.

  “Mama make patty-cake.” Grayson continues smacking the back of my head. I have to hand it to him. He’s got rhythm.

  I push up onto my elbows and peel one eye open.

  Grayson laughs. “Unca Lawk a piwate.”

  “Aargh.”

  He shrieks and then dissolves into giggles.

  “Grayson, don’t wake your sister,” Maggie scolds from the kitchen.

  I peer over my shoulder with my pirate eye. My sister-in-law stands at the stove in the galley kitchen, a plate of buttered pancakes piling up beside her and a spatula in one hand.

  “Any of those for me?” I ask, my voice thick with sleep.

  Maggie shrugs. “That depends. I only feed Bienvenue men who are dressed for the day and seated at the table.”

  I look back at Grayson, who's fully dressed in a striped shirt and little dude jeans.

  “What’s the point of pancakes if you can’t eat them in your pajamas?” I ask him, but he just smiles a goofy smile. It’s extra goofy because of his candy-ass bowl haircut. I palm his head and mess up the stupid do.

  “Hey, don’t do that. It’s picture day at his preschool,” Maggie gripes.

  I peel open the other eye and share my shock with my nephew. “Well, he’s not gonna thank you for that,” I tell Maggie.