Dream House

by Stephanie Fournet

  “So, you’re like a geo-junky.” Her teasing grin makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a couple of shooting stars.

  Since that makes no sense, I adopt a deadpan expression. “That’s not the preferred term we use, but maybe.”

  Laughter overtakes her. If only everyone overtaken by laughter made it look so good. The world would be a shit-ton more bearable. “Who’s we?”

  The deadpan thing is working so I stick with it. “Me and the other geological enthusiasts of the world.”

  “And have you always been a geological enthusiast? Ever since your trip down into the mine shaft?”

  When she takes us back to that memory, I realize I’ve been sucking up all of the air in the room. “I’m pretty sure it was even before then, but what about you? Have you always wanted to be Salon Stella?”

  Her eyes bat wide. Did I really just say that?

  “Salon Stella?” she parrots.

  I shake my head. “Forget I said that. I didn’t say that. What are you talking about?”

  She gapes at me like I’m a nutter—which I am. “Okay, we’re going to put a pin in that, but first I need to hear more about you—”

  Stella wants to hear more. About me.

  I’m not fizzing over like a shaken Mountain Dew. I swear I’m not.

  “Like you knowing you wanted to be a geologist when you were seven years old.”

  “Um, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “How would you put it?”

  I blow out a breath. “I’ve always been fascinated with the earth. When I was about five, I threw a temper tantrum when I figured out we didn’t live on an active fault line and I’d probably never experience an earthquake.”

  She tilts her head back, laughing.

  How could I have thought earthquakes would be better than this?

  “I could so see Maisy doing something like that,” she says, still laughing. “No one tried to tell you that you could just move to California?”

  I roll my eyes. “California? Girl, I’m from New Iberia. We don’t move out of the 337 area code.”

  That sets her off again.

  I shake my head, tacking on, “I grew up thinking I was going to be a shift foreman in the salt mines just like my dad.”

  I realize my mistake as soon as curiosity sparks in her gaze. “What changed your mind?”

  Watching her smile and making her laugh has felt too good. I don’t want to ruin it. And call me selfish, but I don’t want to maroon myself back in those terrifying thirty hours.

  “That’s a story for another day. Your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  I nod. “How long have you been a stylist?”

  Stella blows out a sigh and looks deflated. “It’s been about six years.”

  Damn. I thought it would be my story that chased away her smiles.

  I chose my words carefully. “I’m guessing by the look on your face, you weren’t dreaming about working in a salon when you were a little kid.”

  Stella tilts her head to the right, looking thoughtful. “Well, now that you mentioned it, I can remember more than one time when I used to play pretend and give my dolls different hairdos.” Her eyes glint at the memory. “It wasn’t just working in a salon that appealed to me. It was owning one.”

  Just watching her tells me that the idea still holds appeal.

  “You should do it,” I say with conviction.

  Her mouth opens like I’ve taken her off guard. “I’ve always wanted to run my own business.” Stella looks like she’s just confessed something embarrassing.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  She bites her bottom lip. “For a while, it was nothing more than a pipe dream. No capital. No savings. No time. But now?” The light in her eyes changes and that green seems to flash brighter. “I have ideas.”

  You couldn’t pay me not to ask for more. “What kind of ideas?”

  With a timid gesture, like she’s sharing something forbidden, Stella points to the room behind me. “I’m thinking about opening one here. I want to outfit the dining room with salon stations and hair washing sinks.”

  As soon as she says it, I can picture it clearly. The outdated dining room is huge—like the rest of the house—and impractical for Stella and her small family. Let’s face it. The rest of her house is impractical for her small family too. But what she’s doing with all that space? Turning it into income? That’s smart.

  “Cool. That’s a great idea.”

  She nods with excitement. “Working from home? Setting my own hours? Owning my own business?” Her smile grows with each statement. “It would be awesome.”

  I nod toward the future salon. “So, when will this all be happening?”

  That wide smile falters. “I-I-I’m not sure. It’s all kind of overwhelming.”

  “What is?”

  Stella glances down at the table then back up at me, looking embarrassed again. “I just don’t even know where to start.” Then she shakes her head as if clearing it. “Not with the business side, I mean. I know how to run a salon.”

  The way she says it makes me think she has opinions about where she works and how she’d do things differently when she has a place of her own. That spark of hers lights up the whole room. And then it dims just as quickly as it ignited.

  “It’s just getting from here—” She gestures with an open palm to the dining room, “to Opening Day that has me tied in knots.”

  “Do you know what you want? For the space, I mean.”

  She blinks, surprised. “Sort of.”

  “Do you have a contractor?”

  Two spots of color rise on her cheeks. “No.”

  I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Are you embarrassed?”

  I watch her swallow. “This is my dream. I feel like I should have all the answers, and I don’t.”

  When she says this, not only does she look embarrassed, Stella Mouton looks vulnerable. I feel a tug in my gut that makes me want to push away from my chair and move to her side of the table. I don’t, but the urge is strong.

  And so is the urge to help her.

  “What’s your budget?”

  Her laugh comes out jaded. “I have no idea. See? Do I even deserve to open my own business if I don’t know these basic answers?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation.

  I haven’t lived here long, but I know that Stella spends most of her “free” time looking after other people. She’s working or running errands or cooking meals—yeah, breakfast is for everyone, but more than once I’ve come in at dinner time and seen her feeding Pen, Livy, or Nina. Or all three.

  I don’t see when she’d have the time to figure out all the necessary steps to open her business.

  “Let me help you.”

  Her gaze shoots to mine, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t look afraid. Why the hell would she look afraid?

  “Wh-why would you do that?”

  Too many answers line up to be voiced. Because you help everybody else, and it’s about time someone helped you. Because the way you smile when you talk about opening your own place is something the world needs more of. Because helping would mean I’d get to hang out with you.

  “Because I can.” I say it like a dare, and I’m lucky that this is how Stella takes it.

  “Oh, you can?”

  “Yeah.” My tone may be a little cocky. “We’ll sit down together and work up a plan.”

  “We will?” Again, she looks surprised.

  “Yeah, soon. I can’t do it tonight. My sis-in-law’s coming over to meet with Nina, and I’m on babysitting duty.”

  Her mouth drops open.

  And I’ve just discovered that surprising Stella is one of my favorite things.

  Chapter Thirteen

  STELLA

  When I get home with Maisy, I step into a house I barely recognize. Lark Bienvenue is pacing the kitchen floor with a fussing infant over his shoulder and a giggling toddler clasped to his left leg.


  “Fastew, Unca Lawk! Fastew!”

  “No-can-do, little man. Lola doesn’t like it when I go fast—Oh.” Lark pivots like a peg-legged pirate when he sees me. “Hi.”

  Only now do I spot the burp rag draped under the baby. And is that? Yep, that’s spit-up down the back of it. A whitish dribble has missed the cloth and stands out on his brick red T-shirt.

  “Oh, wow.” It’s really all I can manage without laughing.

  “Mama, who dat boy?” Maisy asks, possibly more taken aback than I am.

  “Who is that boy,” I annunciate. “And my guess is Mr. Lark’s nephew?”

  Lark nods, patting the baby’s diaper as he does. Against the little one’s body, his hand looks huge. And strong. And gentle at the same time.

  “This is Grayson,” he says, pointing an elbow down to the boy using his foot as a carousel horse. “Grayson, the little one is Maisy and the big one is Stella.”

  “Hey, I’m bigger than him!” Maisy protests, standing to her full forty inches.

  I smooth a hand down my dress. The big one?

  Grayson hops off Lark’s foot, frowning at Maisy. “How old awe you?”

  Maisy folds in her thumb and shows him her hand. “Four. How old are you?”

  His cropped head slumps in defeat. “Three.”

  Assured of her unquestionable supremacy, Maisy preens. “Wanna play?”

  The little boy perks up. “Yeah!” He tilts up his chin to Lark. “Can I Unca Lawk?”

  Lark’s eyes go to me first. I give a silent nod. “Okay, but no messes,” he cautions. “And play nice.”

  “C’mon.” Maisy races to the swinging door, and Grayson wastes no time chasing after her.

  “Grayson?” Lark calls in a voice that even has me coming to attention.

  The little boy screeches to a halt before hitting the door. “Yeah?”

  Lark holds up two fingers. “What two things did I say?”

  Grayson’s eyes are wide. He stares at his uncle. Behind him, we all hear Maisy stage whisper, “No messes and play nice.”

  With no shame at all, Grayson parrots, “No messes...” And then the door is swinging closed behind him.

  I look back at Lark and find him shaking his head. “That little turd.”

  I beam. I can’t help it. Wearing a newborn on his shoulder and that frazzled expression, Lark is ten kinds of cute.

  “I’m apologizing in advance. Grayson is shit at sharing.”

  I blow out a laugh. “And you think Maisy knows how to share? She’s an only child. She gets her card pulled at school for fighting over toys at least once a week.”

  Lark’s mouth quirks. “Well, this’ll be interesting. Who’ll be the winner? My money’s on Maisy.”

  “Damn right,” I say, making him laugh.

  Update: Lark wearing a newborn on his shoulder and laughing is twenty kinds of cute.

  I shake off that thought and focus on the obvious. “So your sister-in-law is with Nina?”

  Lark nods. “They’ve been in there about an hour.” He gestures in the direction of the sitting room, changing up his diaper-patting for a bounce-and-sway thing. The little one continues to fuss. “It’s cutting into Lola’s dinnertime.”

  “How old is she?” I ask, trying to remember that fleeting time when Maisy was that small. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  “Three months.” Something like pride shapes his smile.

  I move to the fridge. It’s leftover minestrone tonight, and I just need to reheat the soup on the stove. “You’re really good with her,” I say over my shoulder.

  Is he blushing? Oh my God. How adorable!

  My own face heats as I set the stockpot on the burner and turn the flame on low.

  “I had a crash-course in baby-soothing when I bunked at Bear and Maggie’s for a couple weeks before moving here.” When I look back at him, his smile is rueful. “The midnight to three a.m. shift is no joke.”

  “Tell me about it.” Baby Lola is winding up, not yet at a full cry, but she’s tucked her little fist into a ball and is sucking on it with frustrated little whimpers. “It’s a good thing you fall head over heels for them because the nights are endless.”

  Lark’s brows draw together. “Did you…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  “Did I what?”

  He shakes his head again. “None of my business.”

  “It’s okay.” I drag open the drawer next to the stove and rifle around for a wooden spoon. “What’s your question?”

  Lark watches me for a second like he’s debating. “Did you have help?”

  My smile is wry. “Oh. That.” I roll my eyes. “Maisy’s dad wasn’t really interested.”

  His brows pinch together again, lower this time. “What about your family?”

  I lift the lid off the pot and drag the spoon through the soup. Bits of carrot, celery, and green bean swirl to the surface. Straight from the fridge, the soup is warmer than some of those memories.

  “My mom stayed a couple of nights after Maisy was born, but having her there just stressed me out more.” I wrinkle my nose. “She’s easily overwhelmed.”

  That’s an understatement. I think my mom suffers from an acute form of single-mother PTSD. Crying babies, spilled cereal, a mess of toys—anything that reminds her of the hardships of parenting seems to trigger a hot flash. Then Didi sheds her latest kimono shawl, whips out her bamboo fan, and flees the room, muttering that she has to get some air.

  When I pull back from thoughts of my mother, I realize Lark is still watching me. “What about your dad?” he asks.

  I nod. “My dad was very supportive. Financially.” Maisy had the Cadillac of strollers. A baby swing that could execute a figure-eight. A playpen with a remote controlled, programmable, lullaby-playing mobile. My apartment could barely fit it all.

  Lark has stopped bouncing the baby. He’s just standing there. Watching me. “And Tyler?”

  I chuckle. “Tyler was…” It’s hard to even put it into words for someone who didn’t know him. “Different back then.”

  “Before his accident, you mean? He got hurt after Maisy was born, right?”

  I nod. “It’s been about two years now.”

  Confusion crinkles the corners of his eyes. “But if he was okay back then—”

  “He had his own life,” I fill in.

  His eyes darken, those brows descending. “You were alone.”

  He says it like it’s some sinister realization.

  My mouth dries up. Not because he’s speaking the truth—and it was a damn hard truth—but because of that look in his eyes.

  I work my jaw for a wordless moment. “W-Well, Pen helped when she could.” I don’t tell him that she was working nights back then. “She’d do my grocery shopping for me and help with laundry and chores on her days off, and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

  His dark look doesn’t lift.

  “A-And I came over here to my Nanna’s when I needed advice… or a nap.” My throat closes on the words because those rare afternoons were my lifelines. I’d pick up Maisy from daycare, nurse her in Nanna’s rocker, and then my grandmother would give her a bath in the kitchen sink while I slept. Nanna was slowing down by then—she’d already survived one heart attack—and I didn’t want to take advantage of her, but some days when she’d call me up, she just knew by the sound of my voice what I needed.

  If she invited us over, refusing wasn’t an option. Not with Nanna Estelle. And if we were here, she was taking care of us.

  Memories sting my nose, and I clear my throat hard.

  When I look up, Lark’s gaze has softened. He opens his mouth to say something, but as he does, little Lola lets out a lusty yowl. Then another.

  Saved by the baby.

  “I think she needs her mama.” I’m not sure if Lark can hear the relief in my voice, but it’s there.

  “Guess it’s suppertime.” And as soon as he shifts her in his arms, Baby Lola begins to root on his chest. “Whoa! Gah! Maggie
!” he calls.

  And then he’s moving—almost running—with the baby. Grinning, I follow, wanting to give his sister-in-law a quick greeting and offer her something to drink. Feeding Maisy used to make me instantly thirsty, but I don’t get past the foot of the stairs.

  Because I hear giggling.

  Not from the direction of Maisy’s room, where giggling would be expected. Nope, from upstairs.

  “Maisy Estelle Mouton, you know you’re not supposed to be up there!”

  The giggling evaporates like spit on the sun.

  “Come down here right now!”

  The pitter-patter of little feet isn’t so adorable when your kid is trespassing—with an accomplice. Two faces appear on the second floor balcony. Behind the spindles of the banister, Maisy and Grayson’s round faces peek through. Their eyes are wide with wary mischief, and they look through the lathe-turned balusters like a couple of jailbirds behind bars.

  “What were you doing up there?”

  I must be hilarious because the only answers I get are more giggles.

  “Maisy, Pen is going to put a spell on you if you were in her room again.”

  Grayson gasps.

  My daughter’s rasp-whisper drifts into the foyer. “I told you a witch lives here.”

  Grayson needs no more convincing. He’s zooming down the stairs so fast, I jog up to spot him before he tumbles top over training pants. As soon as he’s safely on the bottom, Grayson looks up at me.

  “We didn’t fine a witch’s womb. We found Unca Lawk’s womb.”

  I eye him for a second, trying to make sense of fining a witch’s womb. Pen definitely needs to hear about this.

  “Oh! You found your uncle’s room.”

  He nods with clear delight.

  I frown. “Did you go in?”

  “We just—” Grayson starts.

  “No,” Maisy declares.

  I give my daughter a gimlet-eyed stare. “No?”

  She tilts her gaze down so that when she looks at me, I know her thick lenses distort my image. Classic avoidance behavior. “No,” she says again, but I know better than to buy this denial.

  “What did you do in there?”

  “We wanted—” Grayson starts.

  “Nothing,” Maisy interrupts.