Pen was right. He’s got a thing for her. Yes, this could spell disaster. But the look on his face when he got her lock installed? I haven’t seen him beam like that since before the accident.
So, I’ll take it.
Tyler spent yesterday installing latches in all the bedrooms. Even mine. He even added ones to the bathrooms, and those already had locks.
I don’t care. He can install latches on all the closets and cabinets if he wants to. He’s proud of himself, and he’s doing something. If I have Nina to thank for that, I will.
She’s the first one in the kitchen this morning, coming in right when I take two trays of biscuits out of the oven.
“Can I help with anything?” she asks, her voice a soft squeak.
I give her a smile and nod toward the fridge. My fridge. The new one for the tenants was delivered yesterday. “You can get out the butter and jelly and put them on the table.”
She does this while I stir the skillet of scrambled eggs and set the burner on warm. Sausages are still in the oven, but they’ll be done in a minute. I don’t usually go into the salon on Sundays, but I had to take some time off when Nanna died. I got behind and a few of my regulars are overdue, so today I have appointments until mid-afternoon. Hopefully, the extra biscuits and sausage will hold Tyler and Maisy over until I get back.
“Help yourself to some coffee,” I tell Nina just as Pen shuffles in wearing her purple paisley pajamas and apple green fuzzy slippers. Her head is still wrapped in her sleeping scarf.
“I’m up,” she mutters, dragging out a chair and slumping into it.
“You didn’t have to get up so early.” Her hatred of single digit morning hours is nothing new, but I still snicker. “I don’t have to leave for another hour and a half.” She’s keeping an eye on Maisy today, and even though he doesn’t want it, keeping an eye on Tyler, too.
Pen shakes her head but rests it on her propped elbow. “I need coffee and a shower before I can be responsible for the lives of others,” she says around a yawn.
Nina’s at the coffee pot. “Can I pour you a cup?” Her voice is so soft, I wonder how Pen can hear her.
But Pen’s eyes brighten. Her head just looks too heavy to lift. “That would be spectacular.”
I roll my eyes. “You shouldn’t make her pour your coffee, Pen. It’s Nina’s day off.”
“It’s all right,” Nina says, putting her hand on a third mug and smiling meekly at me. “You want one?”
“Well,” My mouth twitches, “if you’re offering.”
Pen snorts. “Hypocrite.”
Nina giggles at our banter. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh. It’s a sweet, tinkling sound that seems to surprise even her.
I take down three plates. I’ve learned in the last week that if I want Nina to eat enough, I have to serve her. She’ll clean her plate, but if I let her serve herself, she only takes the smallest morsels of food. So instead of making it obvious, I just serve everyone.
Pen sits up when I slide her plate in front of her. “Ooh, Stella, darling! Biscuits, eggs, and sausage. You’re getting the hang of this boarding house thang.”
“It smells so good.” Even though her compliment is just above a whisper, I hear Nina’s worshipful tone, and I have to keep my grin under control as I set down her plate.
I’m carrying my own plate back to the table when Tyler practically crashes into the kitchen, yanking a shirt over his head, his hair sticking up in nine directions.
“Whoa! What’s up?” I ask.
His eyes are on Nina, who freezes at his arrival. Their gazes lock for a second before Nina’s drops to her lap.
Tyler looks out of breath. Like he raced out of bed to get dressed.
He stares at Nina, not moving.
“Tyler, want some breakfast?” I wave my plate in front of him, and he finally looks at me and nods.
I purposefully move it as far away from Nina as possible, which isn’t very far since the table can only fit six. I don’t want Nina to worry that she has another stalker.
But when I turn back to the stove to make a new plate, I can’t help but notice that when Nina tucks one side of her hair back behind her ear, a gentle smile is playing on her lips.
God help them.
This, of course, is the moment four-year-old footsteps slap down the hall, and Maisy tears into the room in her ruffled blue nightgown.
“Mama! I have to tee-tee!”
“Well, go on then,” I say, setting down my plate and shooing her back toward the bathroom while Pen and Nina try to smother their laughter. “We don’t need a news flash.”
Maisy skids to a halt on her heels and turns around to dash back the way she came.
“Don’t forget to wipe, flush, and wash your hands!” I call after her. I turn back to the table to find Livy in the doorway, looking startled. I blush. “Morning, Livy. Sorry about that. Maisy’s still learning.”
Pen wheels around in her chair, her hand flying to her head scarf until she sees that Livy is wearing a black one of her own. I watch my best friend bite down on her smile. She takes in Livy’s fuschia wrap and matching mule heeled slippers with obvious appreciation.
“Morning, Livy,” she says, getting to her feet. “Can I get you some coffee?”
I want to palm my forehead, but I resist. Livy tilts up her chin. “Thank you. No. I drink tea.” She cuts her eyes to me. “Ethically sourced, if you have it.”
I’m not sure we have any tea, but I can’t imagine Nanna stocking up on fair trade tea before she went into the nursing home.
“I’ll check,” I mutter, but Pen darts to the pantry.
“Allow me.”
I turn back to the stove to fill Maisy’s plate and indulge myself in an eyeroll of yogic proportions.
Pen sidles up next to me, Nanna’s copper tea kettle in hand. “Drop the attitude, Mouton,” she whispers.
“I don’t—”
“Hush now. Your aura’s practically pulsing with pique.”
I glare. “Say that three times fast.”
“Practically pulsing with pique. Practically pulsing with pique. Practically pulsing with pique,” she hisses, nostrils flaring.
“You just spit on me.” I pretend to dab my wrist against my eye.
“Did not.” She darts to the sink and fills the kettle. “All we have is Luzianne. Is that okay, Livy?”
Livy takes a seat at the table with a sigh. “I suppose.”
“I’ll pick up some Equal Exchange at the store,” Pen says, setting the kettle onto the stove.
Maisy runs back just in time to take the empty spot between Tyler and Livy. “You’re shiny,” she brays at Livy in obvious awe.
I tense, ready for Livy to say something judgy or chilly to my daughter. Instead she looks down at her and smiles her killer smile. “So are you. We haven’t met. I’m Livy.”
Maisy nods. “I know. I heard Pen tell Mama she wants to lie down in your garden,” she announces. “Where’s your gar—”
“Maisy!”
My shriek is only slightly louder than Pen’s wail and Nina’s choking fit.
Maisy looks up, her eyes wide with worry. Next to her, Livy’s eyes are wide too, but she’s not looking at me. She’s fixed her gaze on the back of Pen’s head.
My best friend is still facing the stove, unmoving, and if I know her, she’s scanning her mental library of spells in search of something that even remotely might help her turn back time or at least spontaneously combust.
“What, Mama?” Maisy asks, still looking alarmed.
“D-D-Do you want some chocolate milk?”
She beams. “Yes, please.”
“H-here. Eat your breakfast.” I set her plate down and wipe my sweaty hands on the apron tied around my waist, looking for any distraction. “Tyler, how are the biscuits?”
One glimpse at my brother, and I realize calling on him was a mistake. I’d hoped the conversation had gone over his head, but judging by his red face and watering eyes, i
t did not. He’s locked gazes with Nina down the length of the table and both are trying valiantly not to split apart laughing.
It is funny. It’s damn funny. But I can’t let myself think about that. Because Pen is boiling in embarrassment, and I think Livy is in some kind of shock.
I move briskly to the fridge for Maisy’s chocolate milk.
Pen is still standing rigidly at the stove. “Do we have any blueberries?” she asks in hushed tones.
I pull open the fruit drawer and grab the plastic clamshell. “Yeah,” I whisper back. I just don’t know why we’re whispering about blueberries.
When I hand her the carton, she pops the lid and takes out a blueberry. “I just need one,” she mutters. She closes the lid, puts the carton back in the fridge, and walks out of the kitchen toward the back of the house.
I set down the milk and dart after her—through the laundry room and into the hall.
“What are you doing?” I hiss whisper as she approaches Maisy’s bedroom door.
She stands outside it and throws the lone blueberry into my daughter’s room.
“Pen, what the hell are you doing?!” I’m not whispering anymore.
She turns to me, blinking those wide amber eyes like she can’t believe I’m asking. “You throw a blueberry through the door of your enemy to confuse them.”
My mouth falls open. “Well, I’m confused!”
With a flick of her wrists, she brushes her long fingers through the air. “See? It works.”
I gape at her. “Maisy’s not your enemy. She’s four.”
“Oh, I know that.” Pen bats a hand in my direction. “This spell is more about helping me transform negative energy than anything else. But if finding blueberries in her room keeps Maisy from listening in on private conversations, I’ll take that too.”
“Did you just say blueberries? As in plural?”
Pen tilts her chin and jiggles her shoulder with theatrical innocence. “I might have done this spell a few times.”
My eyelids stutter. “Here?”
Again, the shoulder jiggle. “Once or twice.”
“What the hell for?”
“Well.” Pen runs a hand over her head scarf. “In addition to mortifying me just now, Maisy took one of my attraction charms from my purse and unbundled it.”
Even though her voice is calm, Pen’s eyebrows arch in a way that makes me think of heat lightning.
“When was this?” I ask, my face going hot.
“On Tuesday.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugs. “I handled it.”
“By throwing fruit into my daughter’s bedroom?”
“Among other things,” Again, her theatrical innocence makes me nervous.
“What other things?”
Pen presses her lips together. “I just put a protection spell on my purse and made an offering to Hermes.”
“Oh.” Okay, that’s not so bad. “So, no animal sacrifices in Maisy’s room or anything.”
She glares daggers. “That’s not funny. You know I’d never hurt an animal.”
“I’m just teasing,” I say. “You know. Transforming energy.”
Pen snorts. But then her eyes flick guiltily toward Maisy’s bed. “Just... don’t be surprised if you find a comfrey root bundle under Maisy’s mattress when you change her sheets.”
“Pen!”
She spins on her heel and sashays back toward the kitchen, laughing over her shoulder. The kettle pipes into a whistle as soon as we enter, and I have to say, Pen might know what she’s doing because it seems like everyone’s moved on from the Pen wants to lie down in Livy’s garden revelation.
In fact, Maisy’s telling everyone about her dream of a blue pony. She has them all smiling, and she’s eating it up.
“His name was Ralphie.” Everyone laughs, and the glint in her eye lets me know she’s making this part up on the spot, relishing the attention.
When Pen sets a mug of tea down in front of Livy, I even notice the young woman’s warm smile.
I’m attempting to serve myself for the third time when I hear heavy footfalls on the stairs.
Lark.
Expecting him to come in and take the last spot at the table, I load a heaping spoonful of eggs onto the plate in my hand before piling on a couple of sausages and biscuits. I’m striding to the table, plate in hand, when he walks in and stops me in my tracks.
Lark Bienvenue stands there, freshly shaven, dark hair darker still from the shower, and wearing a light blue dress shirt and matching tie. His charcoal gray dress pants hug his hips and thighs with breath-halting precision.
Of their own accord, my eyes sweep down and then up the length of his body, landing on his eyes. I’ve never noticed how blue they are. Like the blue of a morpho butterfly. Or a peacock. A blue that nature only saves for a special few. It must be the dress shirt that’s setting them off because I couldn’t have missed something so striking.
I blink and realize those blue eyes are staring at me. Me, dressed in my black lounge pants with the bleach stain on the butt that looks like a maroon lightbulb. Me, with my hair in an orange plastic clip, wearing Nanna’s apron and holding a plate of greasy sausage and biscuits.
“Hungry?” he asks, his gaze flitting from me to the plate in my hand.
I look down. It’s an obscene amount of food. I jolt. “This is for you.”
Lark’s chin inches back. “Me?”
My face grows hot. I think I’ve been standing by the stove for too long. “Yeah, have a seat.” I gesture to the empty spot at the table, wanting him to take this from me so I can head to my room. The wish to splash some cool water on my face, run a brush through my hair, and change clothes is suddenly irresistible.
Cooking for a full house is blistering work.
Lark shakes his head. “Love to, but I can’t.” He glances at the heaping plate again.
“Why can’t you?” I blurt the question before I even know I’ve thought it. “I-I mean, sure. Okay—”
One side of his mouth hikes in a grin. “I’m headed to church.” He wrinkles his nose. “Mass starts in a few minutes.”
It’s the last thing I expect him to say. Yeah, I know next to nothing about him, but the few interactions we’ve had and the three-minute encounter in his room the other night have not given me the impression he’s the churchgoing type. But this explains why he’s so dressed up.
And dressed up is a good look on him.
“Right.” I nod stupidly, aware that everyone at the table is now watching this little exchange.
Lark must be aware of it too because he looks over and raises a hand. “Morning, everybody.”
A couple of nods, muttered greetings, and Maisy’s strident “Morning, Bark!” come his way, and Lark’s smile stretches. He scans the table and then his brow draws together.
“You made all of this?” he asks with a gesture to the plate.
“Yeah, breakfast is on the house, remember?”
His gaze narrows on me. “I thought Pen was making that up.”
“I was not!” Pen defends from her spot at the head of the table.
Frowning, Lark looks over again at the full table lined with once-full plates. His stare jerks back to me. Man, those eyes are blue.
Maybe he’s wearing those fake colored contacts. He has to be.
“I’ve been missing out.” He sounds surprised.
“Yes, you have,” Pen chimes.
“Not really,” I blurt. “Yesterday was steel cut oats with peaches.”
“It was gross,” Maisy mutters.
I turn a scowl on my daughter. “What was that, missy?”
Her eyes bug behind her glasses, and she looks back at the biscuits she’s decimating.
“Yeah.” Lark nods as if agreeing with himself, his gaze lingering on me. His voice drops low enough to make warmth erupt in my belly. “I’ve been missing out.”
And then he snags one of the biscuits off the full plate I’m hol
ding and flashes a wicked grin. “Wish I could take it all.”
With feline grace he turns and moves toward the tenant fridge.
The front view of his dress pants should have prepared me, but holy God!
When he opens the fridge door and bends to grab a bottled iced coffee, I almost drop the plate.
Instead I swivel on my heel and take a seat at the table, eyes on the too-big pile of eggs in front of me.
“Later.”
I glance up to see Lark giving everyone a casual wave, but those eyes land on mine.
I swallow some air, cough, and wave back.
When he’s gone, I’m still struggling to breathe.
“Y’okay?” Pen asks, smirking at me over her coffee cup.
I clear my throat, wishing my face would cool off. “Yeah, just served myself too much.” I look to my brother for rescue. “Tyler, you want some of my eggs?”
He grunts a yes, and I push half of my pile onto his near-empty plate.
“Too much for you to handle?” Pen says, her tone as dry as paper. Her brow nearly brushes the ceiling.
I glare at her. “More than I need,” I fire back.
“I don’t know,” Pen says, shrugging. “You looked pretty hungry just now.”
I feel my nostrils flare. “Don’t you have some gardening to do?”
Pen shoots to her feet amid choked snickers and lowered gazes. “Anybody want any blueberries?”
Chapter Ten
LARK
By the time I get back to Lafayette after church, Sunday dinner with the fam, and the thirty-minute drive from New Iberia, I’m practically in a coma. Whether it’s induced by a long-winded sermon on seeking the Lord—the one at the cathedral and then the one at home—too much rice and gravy, or twenty depressing miles of Highway 90, I don’t really know, but it feels like the day has been a waste.
I like visiting my family. I do. I don’t see my younger brothers and sisters enough. And I feel bad when I haven’t checked on my dad in a while. But it’s also exhausting. And not just this time when practically everyone asked separately where Zoe was.
It’s exhausting most times. Like paddling upstream. Fox News bellows from the TV morning, noon, and night. Mom always has to start the meal with grace, and every prayer enumerates the number of abortions that took place in the United States in the last week.
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