“Cooking is what most people do.”
“Not people who live in the city.”
“Well, you’re not in the city anymore, Dorothy.”
Helga walked into the tiny kitchen, which had been done with happy blue and white tile on the countertops, probably back in the eighties, Vivien guessed. There was no island and about a square yard of counter space, and the cabinets were decades-old medium brown that might eventually be called “vintage” but were just plain ugly (in her mind) right now. Someone had put blue and white china knobs on them and hung matching blue curtains over the small window that looked into the backyard.
“I can see you’ve been doing a lot of cooking,” said Helga, eyeing the single pot in the dish drainer and the one plate next to it.
“I hate cooking,” Vivien replied, putting her keys, purse, and the Nutcracker on the kitchen table. “I love eating but I hate cooking. Food, glorious food!” she sang with a grin. “You know that’s my theme song— Hey, where are you going?”
“Gonna check around a little.”
“Check around for what?” Then it dawned on her, and Vivien put a hand over her middle as her insides sank. Her cop friend was making sure there was no one here lying in wait for her—or that no one hadbeenhere, vandalizing or stealing anything.
“It’s really hard to tell whether someone’s come through and searched your things or whether you just dumped all this stuff on the bed yourself,” Helga called from the back of the cottage—which was near enough that Vivien could hear her sigh of exasperation.
The bungalow was only five hundred square feet with two bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a compact living room/kitchen area, so it didn’t take Helga long to do her “checking.”
“It’s not like I didn’tjust move inthree days ago,” Vivien retorted. “I’m still trying to figure out where to put everything.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it all out. Someday. Anyway, all clear,” Helga said as she walked through to the kitchen while Vivien just stood there, watching her home—and then her fridge—being invaded, for now her cop friend was poking in there too. “I can see you’ve been doing a lot of cooking with this entire apple and a sad-looking box of romaine. What the hell is this? A carrot?Onecarrot? Who buysonecarrot? But at least you’ve got wine.”
“I thought you were on duty till ten,” Vivien said when Helga pulled out the bottle of Viognier. “And you didn’t look in the freezer or the cupboards,” she added grumpily. “There’s frozen pizza and macaroni and cheese and ramen.”
“The wine’s for you not me.” Helga handed Vivien a glass of the Viognier then plumped down on the beige and blue plaid sofa that looked like it had been on the set ofStranger Things. “Lord, that thing is creepy,” said Helga, eyeing the Nutcracker headpiece. “Tell me again why you have it.”
“I’m going to display it at the theater as a relic from shows gone by,” Vivien replied.
“Having that thing in my house would give me nightmares.”
“It’s the Nutcracker! From aballet. It’s not like it’s the mask fromHalloween.”
“If you say so.” Helga didn’t sound convinced. “All right, so I’ve got maybe another twenty minutes before I have to go back out on patrol—there’s a live band playing at the gazebo by the beach from seven to nine, and it’s ripe for drunk and disorderly—so let’s get on with it. Give it to me: high-level overview. Quick, so I can give you my two cents’ worth.”
Vivien sighed and set the wine aside. She didn’t want it right now. All she really wanted was to lie down and sob herself to sleep, or binge something light and airy on Netflix. Maybe she’d dig upMy Fair Ladyor one of the best musicals ever:Hairspray.She deserved it—it had been one upside-down, ugly, emotional day.
But she gave Helga the basics, sparing herself no mercy over her actions both eleven years ago and recently with Jake.
“So what I’m hearing you say is that you freaked out when Jake told you he was leaving—leavingyou, basically. It was sudden and unexpected and it probably reminded you a little bit of Liv, didn’t it?” Helga said in a soothing, knowing voice.
“When did you turn into a psychologist?” Vivien grumbled, but she couldn’t deny that what her friend said had hit the right button.
“Part of cop training, babe. I did a workshop on hostage negotiating a while back, too.”
“Well, I’m not holding any hostages, but you might be right about it,” Vivien replied. “About me equating him leaving to Liv dying.”
Had she ever thought about it that way?
No. She’d blocked it all off because it hurt too damned much. And so she’d focused on the “cheating” part of Jake’s actions, not the leaving part, because the cheating part was cut and dry and easy to understand, easy to hold against him.
The leaving part was a lot more nebulous.
“Not just Liv, but your mom too.” If Helga had been wearing glasses, she would have been looking at Vivien from over the tops of them like Blanche fromGrease.
“And Mom, too. Geez,” Vivien said, tipping her head back against the chair. Her mother had been in and out of rehab for the last twenty years and was currently sober…but who knew for how long. “She didn’t die, but she sort of left me too, didn’t she? I mean, I knew I had issues with abandonment, but—”
“You were only ten when it happened, right? That shit leaves a deep scar at any age, but at ten? Losing your twin suddenly and without warning? Not only your twin, but your career and life as you knew it—right?”
