The staff had done a beautiful job.
“Why did Phoebe Frank have a seven-bedroom villa in Barcelona? How did this never come up? Why didn’t you mention it, perhaps, at some point after we figured out the dead cat letter led us to Spain on Agatha’s map?”
Cosima raised an eyebrow at Edie, who’d been asking these questions while unlacing her shoes in preparation to shovethem off onto the flat woven white carpet. “Sometimes she worked in Barcelona.”
“Sometimes I cater in Appleton, but I don’t have a seven-bedroom villa there.”
Edie sounded as though she was enjoying this argument. She’d been in a good mood throughout their journey on the express train from Grantham to Heathrow and over the pond on a budget flight. Cosima had made arrangements by text for the villa to be prepared for their arrival, and Spain still had proper taxis, so Edie hadn’t figured out where they were staying until Cosima tapped the code into the keypad at the entry.
Her protests had started up immediately thereafter.
“Sometimes we took a short vacation here,” Cosima explained. “Or lent it out to friends.”
Edie crossed her arms over her red sweatshirt. It was another item of clothing that was obviously just hers, like the shirt with mice. It fit her body perfectly and was made from a drapey material that bared one shoulder and a black bra strap. So far, Cosima had refrained from fondling that rounded, freckled shoulder, but she had little restraint left. Edie’s hair was loose, falling nearly to her waist. She looked edible.
“And I thought you got a C in Spanish,” Cosima shot back. “What was that display of perfect Spanish with the taxi driver?”
Edie sat down gingerly on a leather sling chair that she would be horrified to learn was an antique and probably five times more expensive than the sofa. “I got a C inschoolSpanish. But I live in Green Bay, and despite its reputation for being whiter than white, in fact my hometown isalsohome to Mexican immigrants and their children and grandchildren. You want to eat conchas in the snow? Come to Green Bay. I worked as a server at my closest friend’s family’s Mexican restaurant on and off for years. It would be shameful if I didn’t speak a little Spanish. Youknow whatIdidn’t know, other than that you were going to shamelessly break the rules of our agreement and lure me into this palace? That Spanish isn’t the main language in Barcelona. It’s Catalan. The taxi driver gave me a whole lecture to correct my ignorance.”
“In Spanish.”
“In Catalan, mostly. But he switched back and forth, so I got the gist of it.”
“Come here.” They’d had to sit in separate seats on the plane. She’d been torturing herself thinking about what they’d gotten up to before Morag burst in on them and what they might have gotten up to if she hadn’t. “You know, this is a home, my family’s home. Our staying here is actually a frugal decision.”
“I still think it’s cheating,” Edie said as she stood up and took a step toward Cosima. “There’s a significant element of overhead. Whatever it costs to heat up a pool for two people. That melon you ate in two bites that I happen to know costs eight dollars a pound wholesale.”
Edie was definitely fake-protesting at this point. Which meant she was real-flirting.
“On the other hand,” Cosima said, willing Edie closer with her mind, “you might consider that Phoebewantedme to stay at the Gregory Inn. I promise you she would have insisted that we follow this map and, when the map led us here, been insulted if we didn’t stay. We have to do this in her memory.”
“In memory of Phoebe Frank? Utter takedown.” Edie carefully toed off her Converse onto the wood part of the floor while maintaining eye contact, giving Cosima hope she planned to crawl onto the sofa next.
“This place isn’t precious.” Cosima looked around at the pale woods and pale stone, as much evidence of Duncan’s influence as the pink marble, gilt, and dark wood of Phoebe’s OldHollywood Beverly Hills castle were of hers. “We could relax here. There have been a lot of deals made, but only between meals and siesta.”
Edie took the final few steps and sunk into the sofa beside her. Cosima inwardly rejoiced. She turned her body to face Edie and scootched to get as close as she could.
“You’ve been happy in this place.” Edie was searching Cosima’s face, her green eyes serious. She bit her lip. “Your mom?”
It was a direct question, not careful, but full of empathy for a difficult subject. Edie wouldn’t make any demands, and her question didn’t make Cosima’s stomach hurt. Even if it did make her heart hurt.
“I never saw her drunk, you know?” She inhaled, sharp, surprised at her audacity, though of course Phoebe wasn’t about to walk into the room. She was gone. Cosima waited until her heart steadied. “What that means is that Idid, all the time, but I never saw that she was impaired. I grew to understand that her biggest problem was secrets. When her liver started to fail, I learned from her doctor she had checked herself into discreet rehabs more than once. I didn’t know. Duncan only knew about one time. But with something like rehab, you’re supposed to trust the people that love you to get you through. I had a nurse tell me that when you keep your problems to yourself, you stop having perspective. You start to believe everything is your fault. Then you drink more. Hurt yourself more.”
“We both know that’s true.”
Cosima picked up a hank of Edie’s silky hair and ran it through her fingers. “Isthisthe part of our game where the discomfort and social embarrassment settles over us like a black cloud?” She smiled.
“What a terrible game. I’m sorry I subjected you to it. Butat the time, you would only open up to me if I let you be miserable.”
She laughed. “We are not sad stories,” Cosima said. She leaned forward and settled her lips against Edie’s temple.
Edie slipped her leg over Cosima’s hip, making her shiver. “What time does La Sagrada Família open tomorrow?” The letter had referred to Gaudí and the “Sacred Family,” which Cosima had known could only be the architect’s world-renowned basilica in Barcelona.
“I made tickets for a ten-thirty tour.” Cosima traced her finger around Edie’s kneecap. “I can hire a car or we can call a taxi—”
“A taxi.” Edie’s jaw was stubborn. “I would never hire a car.”
“What else would you never do?” Cosima didn’t quite recognize her own low, teasing voice, but the woman asking this daring question wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. She’d been inside Cosima, patient, waiting for Edie Whitelock.
