I was surprised that she’d gone to such lengths, not that I should’ve been. She’d organized my after-school activities and driven me to doctors’ appointments for more than half of my life. Still, this kind of directness, this demanding—this was new.
I tried to brush aside her talk of a job. I planned to live on… well, for the first time in my life, I didn’t have a plan. Failingso spectacularly to save my mother’s life had knocked all of that right out of me.
As soon as Aunt DeeDee had seen that I’d finished my breakfast, she’d shoved me into the bathroom, handing me a worn pair of jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt she’d probably found on my floor. Later, she shook her head as she located my boots—one in the hallway and the other under the couch—and tisked about how Momma would be ashamed at the state of her house.
That got my attention—a little.
Later that morning, we saw Doctor Palmer, who gave me a prescription for an antidepressant, and that afternoon, I swallowed my first dose before trying to make a list of things I’d need to do to properly clean the house.
At the end of the day, I’d felt better—only two percent better, but still… it was something.
The next day, Aunt DeeDee arrived and we did the entire process all over again, but this time instead of taking me to the doctor, she dropped me at Straight from the Horse’s Mouth Stables for an informal orientation and introduction to Bella and the other horses. Ever since that day, I’d had a routine, a place to go, a purpose. Thanks to Aunt DeeDee.
Lacy moved back home a couple of months later—a job in New York hadn’t panned out—and started her event planning business for Aubergine and surrounding towns. I never confirmed it, but I wondered if she’d also been encouraged by my aunt to return to open her new business there because of the state of me.
Lacy and my aunt saved me from starving to death or being buried beneath my clutter—and the weight of my own grief—but I hadn’t fully rejoined the world again as a whole and functioning person. I hadn’t needed to. Yet.
With renewed purpose I told my aunt I loved her and hung up, and I made my way back to the Finch residence. I knockedon the door labeledThe Tickled Pink Apartment, and Katie called for me to let myself inside.
The name of the apartment did not disappoint. The entryway sported a rosy-pink glow, and blond wood stairs rose half a floor into an open living area. By the door was a hat stand, so I hung up my garment bag. I took in the high domed ceiling and the curved windows before my eyes landed on Mrs. Finch, lying with her legs elevated on a hot-pink velvet settee.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Mrs. Finch said. At first I thought she was speaking to me, but then she extended an arm to Katie Gilman. “Doris went back to her own room to take a nap, and Savilla’s in the kitchen, making me toast—as if I could eat a bite. I’m here all alone with my thoughts.”
Katie gave a pitying smile to Mrs. Finch before motioning for me to take off my boots. My feet sank into a pale pink carpet. Behind us, the walls popped with vertical magenta stripes against a light silver plane. Barbie’s Dream House had nothing on this palatial abode. As Momma would’ve said,It was something else.
I had trouble imagining the man I’d chatted with earlier, and who was now missing, in this very pink environment. Not that Mr. Finch had seemed overbearingly masculine, but he also didn’t seem like someone who would appreciate pink, Pink, PINK!
“Do you need anything? Can I get you water? Or a drink?” Katie asked Mrs. Finch, falling easily back into her role as former employee.
“My slippers—if you’d be a dear—and then if you could pour me the slightest smidge of Mr. Finch’s whiskey.”
Katie opened a tall, cherry-wood cabinet that stood regally behind Mrs. Finch’s settee and then motioned for me to pour the woman a drink before she strode into the recesses of the apartment to locate the requested slippers.
“Carolina, isn’t it?” Mrs. Finch asked me, though with her arm thrown dramatically across her eyes, I wasn’t sure how she could see me clearly enough to know.
“Dakota,” I answered, trying not to sound offended that this woman couldn’t seem to remember my name.
“That’s right. Savilla’s friend.”
Uh. That might be a stretch, but I’d go with it.
“Just this much,” she requested, lifting her other hand and separating her fingers about an inch apart. “It’s on the top shelf, behind the books. We haven’t been here since December, but still my husband feels the need to hide his whiskey. Says he doesn’t like to share his vintage stash… always paranoid people are after his things.”
This assessment of her husband was an interesting one, particularly since he’d donated enough money to the town of Aubergine for a premier park and a renovated school, as well as invested in a slew of businesses on Main Street. Not exactly the behavior of a paranoid or stingy man. I wondered how well Mrs. Finch knew her own husband.
I took the books from Mr. Finch’s cabinet shelves and stacked them one by one on an end table. Most were expected—A History of the Pageant WorldandA Pageant Coach’s Guide to Being Crowned—but there were a couple of surprises, namelyBackyard ApiariesandHow to Rebuild a Broken Home. Fleetingly, I wondered if this last title was literal or figurative.
As I pulled the whiskey decanter from its resting place, a thin ledger book that could fit in the palm of my hand fell forward. Since Mrs. Finch’s forearm was still draped languidly across her eyes, I picked it up and silently turned the pages, which were filled with row after row of numbers.
I slipped it in my back pocket, promising myself that I’d return the item after a closer look.
Opening the bottle, the scent of caramel and vanilla wafted out. A tray of mixers lined the very back of the shelf: ginger, lemon, honey, sweet vermouth, and grapefruit juice. There were two small glasses next to the tray.
“Would you like me to add anything?”
“Is there honey?” she asked.
I opened the lid of the small glass jar which was much like the one I’d been gifted when checking in earlier that day. This one sported a homemade label featuring a tiny purple bee and a small white flower with scarlet dots. As I peered inside, the fragrance of grapevines met my nose. It reminded me of hikes with Momma when she’d taught me to spot nightshade, hellebore, and mandrake. We weren’t witches—unfortunately—but Momma had wanted to make sure I would know what not to eat if I ever got lost up there.
