They both gasp loudly, making a show of it.
I can’t help the laugh that it pulls out of me, and it feels good to loosen up and let them in a little. “Fine, fine. Tell me why I’m wrong.”
“Not wrong, just not as aware as we may have assumed,” Stevie says at the end of a hearty laugh. “Everyone thinks that astrology and palm reading, hell, even tarot, for that matter, are these woo-woo witchy practices, but the core of each are rooted in the stars and planets. Details like where the Earth was in its rotation when you were born. The astronomy that existed in the place you were brought to life. It’s like any other practice rooted in truth; it’s about interpretation and how much belief versus common sense you’re willing to put behind it. Flipping a card that gives you permission to look at yourself and your choices from a different lens. It’s as subjective as art—what’s beautiful to one person could be totally absurd to another—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real or doesn’t exist. It’s okay if you don’t believe in it, just don’t knock it.”
I can see the differences between them, each Crowne sister, but they each look the same when they talk about something passionately.
Jo folds her arms over her chest and tilts her head to the side. “If you find yourself here longer than expected, Julian, I wouldn’t mind sharing some of this creative space. There’s plenty of room down that way for another artist.”
This could easily be transformed into a gallery space—display and offices. There’s great lighting, and it’s framed by the windows overlooking a town that could use something new.
“If you can handle the little quirks of a small town, that is,” she says, peering out the front window. The tinny sound of harmonicas travels from the far side of the street as we step outside toward the truck.
“That’s Skip practicing for this week,” Jo says as she moves around quart-sized paint cans.
“Whispering Fool performer?” I ask with a smirk. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be in a band on stage at the rowdy bar. I’ve spent plenty of time in small-town Kentucky. Fiasco always has festivals and live music. I know a harmonica in the summertime could very well mean a performance and a party.
“No,” Stevie laughs out, furrowing her brow. Like I should already know this information. “Starting in May, all the way through November, there’s live bluegrass,” she explains as she finishes her orange. “Near the town line, there’s a spot on the other side of town called The Lucky Hole. Every full moon, they have bluegrass on Sundays, but in the summertime, it’s a bigger deal. More people. Tons of barbecue. Dancing and singing under a full moon...” She audibly sighs. “It’s one of the few charming things we have left around here.”
Jo widens her eyes. “You think Wyn will go?” She looks at Stevie, as if she’ll know the answer to that.
“Might be worth asking her,” Stevie says, shrugging her shoulders and looking at me, even though I didn’t ask.
If it wasn’t already obvious at their family dinner or in the way the Crowne sisters orbit around one another, these twowomen love their older sister, and it isn’t lost on me that they like the idea of me spending time with Wyn.
Glancing at Jo first, Stevie adds, “Wynnie survived things that most people...” She shakes her head, trailing off. “She’s trying to be less careful, ignoring the noise this place likes to make, and just enjoy life.” She pauses, lost in her thoughts for a brief moment before she looks up and smirks at me. Wyn makes a similar face when she’s about ready to tell me like it is. “My sister will be fine, no matter what; I’m going to just put that out there. We’re Crowne women, we survive at all costs. But you’re still here. And I’m guessing it’s because you want to be more than just a good story.” She glances at Jo, and then down at her phone. “She’s in classes today until at least four o’clock.”
She still hasn’t answered my last text, but I wouldn’t mind seeing what Dr. Wynona Crowne looks like in front of a lecture hall filled with students.
“Where?” I ask. I need to talk to Birdie about my dad, but it’ll have to wait.
Jo smirks at Stevie, like they’re reading each other’s minds. “The university. Chemistry building.”
Chapter Nineteen
Julian
I expectedto see ivy lining the brick walkway, or at the very least, draped along the Gothic arched windows. But the university where Wyn taught and researched organic chemistry was anything but predictable. The buildings are busy with students making their way to classes and others leaving for the day, but none of them gives me a passing glance as I walk by. It’s a stark contrast to the small town of Rumor, where people casually pay too close attention and are ready to offer a quick bite of gossip, even to a stranger like me. This place feels much bigger and far less personal.
I shoulder past a student coming out of the first open office door inside of the chemistry building.
“I swear, if I hear one more of our students getting bulldozed,” a woman behind a row of desks says quietly as she hangs up her phone. “The sheriff has already been here, and I don’t think it was about any of those things that’ve been swirling about you know who.”
“I don’t like any of it,” the woman wearing pink glasses beside her says on an exhale. “Thank goodness Dr. Crowne came back, I mean, I’m all for hiring young professors like Dr. Andrews, but?—”
“You’ve heard the rumors ’bout that . . .”
Maybe I was wrong about the gossip piece.
“The one about his TA? Sure did,” pink glasses says, shaking her head. “Not sure what to think.”
“And then that cop down in Rumor? Been hearing all sorts of things about how he was supplying drugs to our student population.”
I lean against the doorway, wondering if they’ll take a breath and look up.
“That whole town is a cesspool of unfortunate events,” she continues.
“Excuse me, may we help you?” pink glasses rasps with a Southern twang, finally interrupting her colleague when she glances my way.
