I think I'll tone it down.
Following Hugo into the old home is like being reintroduced to my childhood, albeit with an inch of dust and what is almost definitely mouse droppings. Through the west-facing windows, sunshine bulldozes its way through layers of dust and dirt, relentless and undeterred. The filtered natural light gives the place an eerie quality, leaving parts of it dark and other places dully highlighted.
"I forgot about this wallpaper," Hugo muses, moving to the far wall of the small living room. With one finger he swipes over the royal blue background, the gold flourishes stretching out like fingers, and the tigers in position to pounce.Why the tigers,I'd asked my mom when she finished papering the wall. I was seven. Maybe eight.Because,she'd replied, running her warm palms over my shoulders,tigers are majestic and bold, and they areself-sufficient.It took me a long time to figure out my mother saw such qualities as something to aspire to. She wanted to be self-sufficient, to not let her heartbreak over my dad's departure pull her into the depths. Neither of us could have known that one day, in the not too distant future, it would. And it would be the beginning of the end.
"Yeah," I answer Hugo as he wipes his hand on his jeans. "My mom liked weird shit."
A stab of guilt assails me. I don't mean to sound crass or reductive, but I can't wax poetic on the subject of eclectic wallpaper right now. There are too many feelings, too much emotion to wade through, and what I'd really like to do is set them all on fire.
I knew it was going to be a lot coming in here, coming back to Olive Township at all, but I wasn't expecting to feel quite this affected. Nor was I expecting to see Daisy right away, to talk to her, to watch her tuck away a part of herself, to watch her lips form the words that knocked me over even as I stood tall.
That's Duke. My fiancé.
I wanted to snatch the words out of the air, crush them in my palm. Instead, I snapped. Practically stormed off. She must have thoughtPeterwas a few bricks shy of a load. Maybe I frightened her. It would be for the best, maybe encourage her to stay away from me if she sees me again.
Daisy is an engaged woman, and I am here for a short time to offload a house that should've been dealt with a long time ago. I'm not here to make friends or rekindle foes. No reminiscing, noI remember when, no nothing.
That's it. That's all.
Thunk.
In unison, Hugo's and my head whip toward the sound. Slim Jim bounds to the window, and we follow. A dove lies on the porch floor, unmoving.
Shoulder to shoulder, we stare out the window. "I think that's a bad omen."
"Maybe if it were a raven," Hugo argues. "But doves are, you know, sweet and shit."
"Sweet and shit," I mimic.
The dove blinks, spending half a second in the space between stunned and reality, and begins flapping its wings manically. It rights itself, hopping around before giving its wings a try. It takes off, flying low and unsteadily across the unexpectedly short dead grass.
Hugo turns away from the window, walking into the kitchen and cursing about something he finds there.
I spend another moment gazing out at the yard, mentally sifting through who would keep the yard from disrepair. Someone who only had access to the front yard, which is everybody. Someone who cared, which narrows it down. And someone with the fortitude, loyalty, or just plain stubbornness to keep coming back to a thankless job and zero recognition.
As much as I would like to write this off as an anomaly, or something of little consequence, the truth is, this mystery is going to keep me up at night.
Chapter 6
Daisy
"This one isa dark chocolate cake with a Cabernet curd, fresh raspberries, and vanilla buttercream." Kathleen, the general manager of Sweet Nothings, places the bone china plates on the table in front of us, alongside fresh forks. The chocolate frosting glistens, the overhead light reflecting off the edible gold sprayed on the cake.
It's wedding cake tasting day, and Kathleen has made the drive out to St. James farm. I helped her carry box after box into the small kitchen at Spot Of Tea (affectionately shortened to Spot), the adorable little tea room on the property. My parents built the tea room before I was born, and my mother has operated it since. Spot was officially my first job in high school, but I helped out long before that, organizing the tea offerings and eliminating water spots from the china. When I became an employee and got my food handler’s license, I began assembling the finger sandwiches and quiches, arranging them artfully on tiered serving stands.
Spot has always been one of my favorite places in the world, a home within a home. A fancy trunk bedecked in gold metal and filled with fascinators sits in the corner beside an ornategilt full-length mirror. There’s a French feel to the space, though the tea service is English proper. The walls are covered in a cream textured wallpaper, with a gallery wall displaying photos of female royals. Duchess Kate, Princess Diana on her wedding dayandpost-divorce, and of course, Queen Elizabeth. Notably missing from the wall is Camilla, who my mother refuses to include, or acknowledge her new title of Queen Consort. When asked to explain the snub, my mother will only saymy memory is long.
The view from the cozy dining area is one of my favorites on the property. A long window opens up to the largest section of pasture, where rare white and multi-colored thoroughbreds spend their days. It's almost magical, and a big contributor to my young, and naïve, love for fairy tales. Well, that and my mother's insistence that I had true love waiting for me in the future. It was as if she'd said,follow the yellow brick road, and there you'll find it.
I believed her at the time, but now I know true love is as real as a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. My mom meant well, but it was a parcel of lies wrapped in the silkiest of ribbons.
She's happy today, energized, the shadows under her eyes slightly less than usual. I'd give almost anything to go back in time, spend a Sunday with her preparing pot roast, mulch her flower bed, work alongside her in Spot. What used to feel like a chore would now be a gift. Just more collateral damage of the late cancer diagnosis.
It's important to find the good in every moment with her, even when it hurts. Today, she isn't wincing from pain. Her hair, held back from her face in matching mother of pearl barrettes, is curled at the ends. She wears more makeup than usual, trying to cover the pale of her skin. In her eyes is a twinkle makeup could never deliver. That is courtesy of our current activity.
My mother delicately deposits a forkful of our third sample of wedding cake in her mouth. "Mmm." The groan is borderline indecent.
Vivienne, my best friend and maid of honor, takes a bite, dark eyes squinting in ponder while she chews. "It's delicious," she concedes, "but I think the first cake is more your style."
