Rosie nodded proudly. ‘The preservation charm is still going strong.’
‘You’re wearing a piece of history there, Molly.’ Mom was regarding me like she might a storyboard. Her mouth tightened slightly. Ah, she’d found fault. Of course. Her creative team never managed to present an ad campaign concept without a barrage of notes. And I, apparently, was no different.
‘Your nails,’ she said. ‘May I?’
I blinked. Mymom, offering to do my nails?
‘Sure,’ I said after a moment. ‘I’d love that.’
Mom had always been immaculately presented, and Tiff as well – both in a simple, no-nonsense way that conveyed to the world that they were excellent at what they did and should be taken seriously for it. I’d always embraced the casual and the comfortable, because watching a game for hours and then sitting and writing about it required elasticized waistbands and sensible shoes. And ample wrist support.
Guiding me back out to the living room, Mom held my hands up to the light streaming in through the stained-glass windows, considering.
‘Back in a moment,’ she said, then strode off to the enormous bedroom she stayed in whenever we visited. The few times that Dad had come along as well, I’d heard him testing whether it echoed (it did, and Mom had very quickly put a stop to his operatic efforts).
Momentarily, Mom returned with a wooden box that rattled with a selection of nail-polish jars. With a huff at the state of my nails, which were rustic, to put it mildly, she set my hand down on the table. Then she uncapped a russet-toned bottle and began painting.
As she worked, magic sparkled lightly around my fingers, tidying my cuticles and extending my nails to an acceptable length.
‘This is way easier than actually trying to look after them,’ I said, sipping at the Aperol Spritz that Rosie had kindly delivered. Although she’d hurried off again after, mutteringsomething about containers for leftovers. I don’t think she’d actually paused since we’d arrived.
‘Desperate times call for magical measures,’ Mom said, concentrating on the autumnal pattern she was carefully applying. ‘And you know that I don’t believe in magic as a quick fix.’
‘I for one think there’s merit to taking the easy way out,’ said Finn, who’d strolled back in from the back garden, where he’d been watching TV on his laptop. ‘You think I got these muscles the old-school way? Weights, cardio and protein shakes?’
He flexed a bicep, indicating that I should poke at it. I did, with the hand that Mom hadn’t yet worked her nail-polish spell on.
‘Magic, right?’ he said, blue eyes twinkling. ‘What do you think: is there room for a beautiful young woman on there?’
‘I’m sure there’ll be someone at the Summerween festivities happy to oblige you,’ I teased.
‘Her words cut deep.’ Finn pretended to be wounded. ‘Amelia, if you’re looking for a date tonight … I do come Rufus-approved.’
I chuckled. ‘Wow, Dad’s really lowered his standards.’
‘If I need my own personal court jester, I’ll come find you,’ said Mom, shaking her head. Although, from the slight quirk at the side of her mouth, I could see she was amused, despite herself.
Much like Lara’s, Finn’s flirtations knew no bounds: everyone from the grizzled fishermen on their boats to cheerful Lorraine at the coffee shop was fair game. He cast his attention over the world without restraint, but rather than coming off as sleazy, there was a certain comfort in it. The effusive words, cheeky smiles and magnanimous gestures were just Finn being Finn.
‘Shoo now,’ said Mom, waving a hand at Finn. Her vintage tennis bracelet sparkled. ‘I have nails to focus on.’
‘Let me know when you’re ready to do mine,’ Finn said easily. Taking a seat at the table, he pulled out a bottle of purple polish and waggled it. ‘What do you think, Molly?’
‘It really brings out the bruises I’m about to kick into your shins,’ I said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Oh, she’s a cruel mistress.’ Finn unscrewed the cap and carefully painted the nails of one hand, using his own magic to erase the bits that sloshed over his skin. He held the hand aloft. ‘There. Not too shabby. Where’s Noah?’
‘Painting,’ said Rosie, swinging by again, this time with a cooler bin loaded with drinks and snacks.
‘Ah, he’s trying to work through the whole Meryl heartbreak,’ said Finn knowingly. ‘I could’ve told him that she wasn’t the one for him. She’s no Molly, is she, Molly?’
He nudged me, making me grin.
‘Leave your poor brother alone, you,’ said Rosie good-naturedly. ‘Besides, he and Meryl have been broken up for months now. He’s doing just fine.’
‘Fine is subjective,’ whispered Finn to me as he blew on his drying nails.
Rosie set down the cooler by the front door next to the ever-growing collection of picnic items: two other coolers, a stack of blankets, several foldable chairs and a jumble of wildflowers to make crowns and bracelets from. ‘Anyway, I’ll knock in a few and make sure he doesn’t get left behind.’
