“I do not know, Fiona,” Sylvie snapped. “I don’t know, okay? I found out about this less than a week ago. She called me in, sat me down, announced that not only was she dying but she was pretty sure she was about to diesoon, and told me that this place would go to Lilly unless I ‘played ball.’ So, honestly, I know about as much as you do right now.”
Fiona stared at her like she had never seen Sylvie yell before, which was not true. They had yelled at each other plenty over the years. But maybe not quite like this.
The two women sat in silence for what seemed like forever.
“Wow,” Fiona said finally. “That…that’s really rough. I’m sorry she did that to you.”
What?Sylvie looked over at her sister-in-law. “I know you’re not about to insult my mother’s character right now.”
“No! Not at all,” Fiona rushed to say. “I just mean, I’m sorry that’s how you found out about any of this. There’s no easy way to learn that, but some ways sure are harder than others.”
Pressing her lips together, Sylvie shrugged. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
Her phone buzzed loudly on the desk, and a picture message preview flashed on the screen—another three bouquets were on the porch.
“I suppose I’ll go and fetch those for you,” Fiona snipped.
Before Sylvie could say thank you, the woman was gone. She let out a long sigh and pressed the heels of her palms against her face, yawning and muttering to herself.
“I swear, one more bunch of flowers and I think I’ll scream.”
Chapter 6
The night air was cool on Sylvie’s skin as she pushed open the slatted wooden screen and stepped onto the small balcony outside her bedroom. Leaning her elbows on the railing, she could feel the rough wood pressing into her skin through the thin satin dressing gown she’d pulled on over what passed for pajamas these days. When she was younger, she had gone out of her way to buy nice things to sleep in—matching sets and frilly lace. Now, though, bike shorts and a singlet were as fancy as she got.
Despite Juliette’s teasing, she hadn’t suddenly become a frump overnight when Kenny left. It had been a slow process—losing faith in romance, yes, but more than that, in life, really.
“It can’t all be Kenny’s fault,” she said to herself. “That gives him way too much credit.” She shook her head as she laughed at her own joke. “You’re losing it, Sylvia. Going mad.”
She knew full well that sleep deprivation was harmful, but she could never really help it. Whenever she was stressed or sad, try as she might, falling asleep was a struggle, and staying asleep was even tougher.
All right, she decided. It was time to go inside and make some tea.
That was one thing Kenny had left her with when he jumped town—a set of activities that might help her sleep. Sylvie mused on this as she wandered downstairs to the kitchen. She was glad, for once, that they didn’t have any guests booked. Thebrown glass jar of tea at the back of the cupboard only came out when she couldn’t sleep, and she hadn’t needed it for months now—not since the electrician said the whole place might need rewiring and that potential bill had loomed over her for a whole month until he found the actual problem.
She turned on the water to boil in a kettle on the stove and raised her arms overhead, stretching tall and leaning to one side, then the other. Slowly rolling her shoulders, she went through the stretches she’d been told would help her feel less stiff.
To complete her ritual, she needed a book. Despite the New Year’s resolution Lilly had mentioned, she hadn’t actually set up a physical to-be-read pile. There were a few on her e-book app, but she shouldn’t look at screens when trying to fall asleep.
“Storage room next,” she said under her breath.
Pouring the hot water over the tea leaves and letting them steep was her favorite part—the leaves unfurling, the delicious aroma filling the air. She moved to put the glass jar back in the cupboard but hesitated, then left it on the counter instead.
The storage room was located just down the hall, behind the office. She had walked these halls so many times she didn’t need the lights on to find her way, even in the parts of the house where the moonlight barely reached. Inside, though, there were no windows at all, so she needed some light. A table lamp on the small desk was perfect, casting a soft, warm glow over the shelves and boxes.
She wanted something to help her sleep—something she had read before. The shelves were cluttered with a mix of titles, some left by guests, others from her family’s collection over the years. She tried to swap out the books on the small guest library shelf in the sitting room every few weeks, but she often forgot to do so.
“Why is there so much Shakespeare?” she muttered after finding the third volume in a row. Then her fingers brushedagainst a leather-bound spine with no title, and a tingle of recognition threaded through her. She took a slow inhale and pulled it down. “Seriously?”
It was the notebook her parents had given her on her thirteenth birthday. Back then, she thought it was the nicest book she had ever seen—it even had a ribbon bookmark. She was supposed to use it as a journal, but it felt too special for that. Over time, the book became a repository for special things and eventually evolved into more of a scrapbook—a place to record milestones she felt were worth celebrating.
Tickets from the first concert she’d gone to. A pressed and dried flower from the corsage her high school sweetheart had given her for prom. And theSweet Somedayslist.
Starting from the last page and working backward through the book was a list of all the things she wanted to do in her life. There was a clear change in both tone and penmanship halfway down the third page. The original list was written in the careful handwriting of a teenager who believed she was doing something very serious. The second author had been a twenty-two-year-old Sylvie, heartbroken after Kenny’s sudden decision to end their marriage, which had lasted barely three years.
As she scanned the list, she saw that some items were checked off, and she smiled. At seventeen, shehadgone to see the band she was obsessed with when they played in Charleston. She’d gotten her own car. Gone to prom with Luke.
Sylvie squeezed her eyes shut as tears raced down her face.
