Mr. L continued his slow descent, pausing from time to time to pose as though traversing a red carpet. “My friends,” he said, stopping a few steps from the bottom, where he was almost as tall as the other adults in the room. “Welcome to my home.”
Jean coughed.
“Where I live with my beautiful Lillibet,” Mr. L added. “Who is my wife. And so it is alsoourhouse. You might say.”
The wink wasn’t even the worst of it. But at least he looked happy, like someone had complimented his faucet.Good for you, Rudy.One of them should enjoy this train wreck.
The only person having more fun was Hildy, who was drinking in every detail of Lillibet’s invented life, her mouth puckering in a soft O. Though that might have been the lingering tartness of the li hing mui. Jefferson’s face remained unreadable, but Libby felt the weight of his attention even when she resisted the urge to look in that direction. He probably thought she was a golddigger, shacking up with an oddball older man to fund her ridiculous lifestyle. Could this night get any more awesome?
“So this is what you’ve been hiding.” Hildy lowered her voice to a confidential murmur.
“What?” Libby hoped she didn’t sound as guilty as she felt.
“There’s your life and then there’s your ‘Life.’” Hildy underscored the last word with finger quotes. “You have to keep some things private.”
“Aye,” Jean concurred. “A woman has many hidden chambers. Attics and basements. Proper full of secrets, they are.”
Outside, the wind picked up, rain lashing the windows. No wonder Jean thought they’d been transported into a Gothic novel.
“I hope the goats are okay,” Hildy said as a flash of lightning illuminated the storm-tossed yard.
Mr. L clapped his hands. “Is that what we’re having for dinner? I love a good goat curry.”
Everyone stared at him with varying degrees of horror. Jean was the first to recover.
“They’re at the groomer.” Realizing she’d dropped the accent, she added a hurried, “doon ya fash, lassie.”
That’s Scottish,Libby mouthed. Though what she really meant was,Please stop. And also,No more Outlander for you.
“I’m excited to see your Me Tree.” The artificial brightness of Hildy’s tone said Subject Change. Thank goodness one of them had social skills. “JJ and I have been dying to know which theme you settled on.”
Me, too,Libby almost said out loud. The only thing Jean had let slip was that it was going to “rock your world.” Which could mean a lot of different things, Jean being Jean. At the very least, it had to be less pathetic than the shell heap on the dining room table.
“And what presents you got yourself,” Hildy added.
“We’ll have to wait a few days.”Or at least until we find something to wrap.“I can’t open my Me-mas gifts before—” Libby’s throat closed, refusing to say the word twice in the same sentence.
“Me-mas?” Jefferson supplied.
“We so appreciate you inviting us into your home,” Hildy cut in, linking her arm through Jefferson’s. “It’s an honor to witness the very first Me-mas. History in the making!”
“Right.” Libby dragged her gaze from the trusting way Hildy was clinging to Jefferson. “The, um, Me Tree is in here.”
She set off confidently in what she thought was the right direction, only to be hit with a wave of doubt in front of the pocket doors.Wasthis the living room?
The doors slid apart with the whispering glide of expensive engineering. Libby peeked inside.
So many books. Shelf upon shelf of them. Floor-to-ceiling, in fact.
“I thought you might like to see the library first,” she chirped, like it was a special treat. “And now we can—continue our journey together. To the living room. Because it’s not the length of the journey that matters as much as the spirit of… discovery.”
Jean flashed her a covert thumbs-up.
Hurrying to the other end of the corridor, Libby flung open a nearly identical set of doors with a game-show worthy, “Tada!”
Her fist clenched in victory at the sight of the “tree” in the corner, and not only because it meant she had the right room. Jean had strung together driftwood branches of varying lengths, backed with brown butcher paper, the straight edges suggesting a frame. The whole thing was suspended from the ceiling by metal rods and cables, the industrial elements contrasting against the weather-bleached wood strewn with bits of coral and fresh flowers.
Despite the pressure-packed situation, Libby took a momentto appreciate her friend’s artistry. Jean’s found-object kinetic sculpture phase had been one of Libby’s favorites, even though she’d developed a permanent forehead bruise trying to walk through their apartment.
