I hesitated just a second, then wiped my red boots on the rug and pushed the door open, ready to cause just the tiniest bit of trouble.
For Sicily, of course. I was just that nice.
14
Nudging my way into Edith’s house, I was aware of my world order upending again. Until now I’d onlysuspectedthere were houses like this. Lives like this. Maybe this kind of abode didn’t show up only on home improvement TV, the hosts chirping about rooms that “rose to greet you.” You know, Oprah crap.
Maybe this was the norm somewhere. Narnia came to mind. Wonderland. Magic places. It could all be real. It could be Christmas every day of the year, in a house like Aunt Edith’s.
Sicily’s and Edith’s voices sounded from the back of the house. I paused at an open doorway to marvel at the loaded tree and all its bounty. Plastic tree, though. The scent of pine was coming from a candle labeled “Love & Linger.” If you say so.
I edged into the room to look around. I walked around, petting the supple leather of a chair, the tuft of an embellished throw pillow. Just as grabby as Edith thought I might be, I slid a fingertip down the fabric spine of an old book on the shelf that no one would read.
I was humming, sort of enjoying myself.
Across the room, a spot of blue caught my attention. On a table behind the couch, among a lot of fine-looking doodads, sat a slim vase,and sticking out of it like a quill in a jar of ink, a perfect blue eye. A peacock feather.
I walked over to it, imagining the feather pinned in my hair, the perfect accent to my blue stage dress. I had never seen a peacock feather in real life, had never considered one of them could have any use but to the peacock.
I wanted it.
I ran my fingers along its soft edge.
When I realized I had slid into “She’s Got You,” the Patsy Cline song best suited to envy, I was a little disgusted with myself.
Maybe I had aspirations. If the band ever broke big, I could surround myself with luxury—with things that proved I had money to burn, with softness and comfort. All of it insulation against the black void of my nightmares becoming all too real.
Before I did something stupid, I had to remind myself that this wasn’tMarisa’shouse. It was time to get this over with.
They were in the kitchen, Edith saying something in a low voice to Sicily. As I came into the room, she clammed up. Sicily looked up guiltily.
And I wished I’d snapped that feather in half.
“Don’t mind me,” I said. “Just casing the joint. If you’re all good here, Sicily, I can find the train—”
“She’s not here,” Sicily said. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she looked miserable, smaller than she had already.
I turned on Edith.
“So where is she?” I asked. It wasn’t even curiosity. This woman knew something she wasn’t telling, and all I wanted was to fan out Edith’s lies like a losing hand of cards. “Was that not your car passing by McPhee’s last night? Webothknow you know the way to the pub.”
Edith had moved to the counter, where she was steeping tea bags in two mugs, which needed all her attention. I had a feeling neither of those cups was for me. I watched the tea bags dipping, dipping. “Aunt Edie?” I said.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Edith said sharply. “It’s not something I let just anyone—”
“You know I’m not just anyone,” I said.
Edith rolled her lips. “You’re thatperformer. Alex McPhee’s… friend.”
She said friend like it was a dirty word.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll stop calling you Aunt Edie if you tell Sicily the truth. When did you last see Marisa? Your best pal in the world.”
She sighed and left the tea to the gods. “Last night,” she said.
Sicily’s head snapped in her direction. “I thought you said—”
“I wastryingto keep a promise,” Edith said. Her eyes shifted all around. “I was heading home from a showing—”
