“I don’t know where they are,” she whispered. “I was in California for college when my mom moved into this house. I’ve never lived here.”
“Wanna drive by the house you grew up in and show me?”
Willow looked down at the vinyl floor. “We’re sleeping there.”
Oh shit.“I had no idea.”
She gave a little shrug. “Bev’s rental is where I grew up. It’s the house my mom and Shep moved into when they got married. It’s the only one I remember living in. I lived there until I moved out for college and my mom sold it to Bev. She turned it into a short-term rental property.”
I had so many questions. I turned Willow to face me and cupped her soft cheeks in my hands. But instead of kissing her lips the way I wanted to, I pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “Take me somewhere that feels like home.”
Lisa Winslow livedin a small white-sided house in the middle of nowhere. Land stretched as far as the eye could see, bracketed by the clear summer sky and the crunch of car tires on gravel.
The screen door flew open the moment I slowed to a stop. Lisa hurried down the front steps, dodging a package that had been left in front of the door. She was in an eclectic combination of an old, oversized T-shirt I assumed had once belonged to Shep, a pair of rubber garden boots, and cut-off denim shorts. Her hair was in a raucous mess on top of her head, and dirt streaked her arms and legs.
“Do you like wine, tequila, or lemonade?” Lisa shouted as we got out of the car. “Because I have all three. Although, technically I poured the tequila into the lemonade so it’s a two-fer.”
I could see why Willow liked Lisa.
“Tequila-ade,” Willow said.
Lisa froze mid-stride and looked her up and down. “Did you just leave your mom’s?”
We both nodded.
Lisa snapped her fingers and pivoted, heading right back inside. “I’ll open the other bottle of tequila.” She kicked off her boots before darting inside.
I followed Willow inside and the smell of flowers immediately smacked me in the face.
Bouquets littered every flat surface. Large ones, small ones, and ones with kinds of flowers I had never even seen before. It looked like a florist shop exploded all over the place.
“Lisa?” Willow called out as she eased around a giant vase full of sunflowers.
“Kitchen!”
We followed the sound of her voice and found her in a sun-drenched kitchen filling glasses with ice. A pitcher of—what I guessed was—spiked lemonade sat beside them. Without a word, she ran a knife through an orange, cutting it into segments. I watched as she squeezed a wedge into a glass, dropped it in, then filled it with lemonade.
“Poor man’s margarita,” Lisa said as she handed the first one to me. “Thanks for coming over. I love my folks, but they’re driving me batshit crazy. I got them out of the house for an hour.” She stuffed a glass into Willow’s hand. “Please don’t ask me how I’m holding up. Just so it can go on record and we don’t have to talk about it, I miss him and I feel like shit.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted some of these flowers to disappear,” Willow said as she looked around. “I’m not sure where your couch is.”
As if on cue, Lisa sneezed three times. “On top of all that, I’m allergic to goldenrods, and every florist in the state uses them as filler. At least the puffy allergy eyes hide all the crying I’ve been doing.”
“You got a trash bag?” I asked.
Lisa didn’t hesitate to reach under the kitchen sink and hand me one. While she and Willow talked in the kitchen, Iwent through each bouquet, pulling out the goldenrods and throwing them away. It took nearly a half an hour. My hands were covered with pollen, and I was fairly certain I’d send Lisa into anaphylaxis if I hugged her.
I found a garbage can outside and disposed of the trash bag, then dipped into the bathroom to wash my hands. On the way out, I paused by the fireplace mantle. Through all the vases and arrangements, framed photos littered every spare nook and cranny.
There were the obvious ones: Shep and Lisa on their wedding day, the two of them traveling together and living life. But there were older photos too. Ones of Willow and Shep when she was a kid. Photos of Willow and her sister, and a few of Shep and Amber. They were all neat and tidy, not a speck of dust coating the frames.
A bookshelf was tucked in the corner, each shelf full of Willow Winslet books in every edition and cover style. Photos were displayed on each shelf of Shep and Willow or of Shep and Lisa posing with Willow at book signings.
No wonder Willow had brought me here when I told her to take me somewhere that felt like home.
“You don't have to do it right now, but you should,” Lisa said. I had found them sipping bootleg margaritas at the kitchen table with a cardboard box between them.
Willow traced the edge of the box with her finger. “I feel bad taking your stuff.”
