“Let me guess.” She grabs a cloth to wipe her palms. “Elsie?”
“She didn’t do it on purpose, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“No, but she was involved.”
I shrug.
Isla rolls her eyes. “You’re a bleeding heart, Wells Rourke.”
“It’s only my fuckin’ hand that’s bleeding,” I mutter.
She turns toward the shelves that line the back wall of the shed and returns a moment later with a small clay jar. “Sorry, Wells. There’s not much left. Might not be enough to patch you up, but I’ll brew more in a few days. If you start seeing red streaks, go see Alma.”
I pocket the jar. “Thanks, Winslow. I’ll be back for more.”
“Do you prefer fresh or preserved? The old tree by the north fence still throws out a handful late if the frost doesn’t kill them. There are three ripe clinging stubborn at the top.”
“Fresh, always.”
Her mouth quirks. “Figures.”
“How’s your dad doing, by the way?”
Isla’s dad, Walter, took it hard when her mom left. Took it personally, because how could you not? They were together more than thirty years. Raised two kids, kept the grove running. Then, one day, she packed a bag and drove south without looking back.
Florida, probably, where all the restless women go to reinvent themselves.
“Same as ever. Says he’ll come to the meeting if the moon’s in a good mood. Which, in his language, means probably not.” She squints at me. “You’re bringing Elsie, right?”
“She wasn’t invited.”
That earns me a look sharp enough to sting worse than the cut. “The town might not like what she plans to do, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t get a voice.”
I’m still chewing on that when I turn back down the path, the jar of salve warming against my palm. I’ve never been good at invitations. Easier to assume people would rather be left out than risk hearing them say no.
“Rourke!”
Jack Rhodes is striding toward me from the edge of the market green. Not surprising he’s hot on my trail—I just came from Isla’s, and those two have a way of orbiting each other. They bicker like it’s sport, but they can’t seem to keep their distance.
Jack’s been in Blue Willow longer than I have, though he grew up two towns over. Elspeth introduced us soon after I arrived, swearing we’d hit it off. She was right. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since, trading favors and the occasional late-night drink when the pipes burst or the gutters gave out.
He runs a carpentry shop by the western creek, takes on repair work all over the county. Sleeves rolled, scarf sliding off his shoulder, sandy-brown mullet wild from the wind. He always moves like he’s late to something.
“You skipping prep?” he asks, falling in beside me.
“Wasn’t planning to. Just needed something for my hand.”
I pull the bandage back far enough for him to see the angry line across my palm. Isla says the salve won’t heal it clean, but it’ll keep the sting down until a fresh batch is ready.
“Shit, what happened?”
“Little gutter incident.”
Jack winces, then cuts me a sidelong glance. “Elsie?”
“Why does everyone assume that?”
“It’s obvious you’ve got your hands full—figuratively, and apparently not so figuratively.”
