“I’ll put it on the list of things to do once I get back,” I said, knowing that I never would, because I didn’t want to go into all the ways I didn’t want to reconnect with anyone who also knew Harriett. They’d either know she was dead, or they’d ask where she was since we’d been attached at the hip all through college.
And I really didn’t want to talk about it.
Because sometimes I imagined what life would be like in that other universe where Harrie survived. Or maybe the universe where she never went to the West Coast, and I never went to New York, and we opened up a little flower shop in Durham. I’m sure it would have been a lovely little life, our families telling everyone we were more like sisters than friends. I could see it, hazy, in my head: She would be married by now to Sanchez. We’d buy houses beside each other. Build a gate in the fence between our backyards so her dogs could run around in mine. We’d have game nights on the weekends, and pile into her minivan with however many kids she wanted to have and take summer trips to the ocean. And on perfect evenings, Harrie, with her dark braided hair and an infectious smile, would sit on her back porch while I sat on mine, both of us shouting gossip over the fences and lamenting over last night’s episode ofLove Islandwhile plotting next season’s bouquets.
Yes. It would have been perfect.
“But what do you imagine foryourlife?” the imaginary Harriett in that imaginary world would ask me. “Where are your dogs? Your partner? What’syourdream?”
Sometimes, when I closed my eyes, I could almost see it. Sometimes, if I concentrated, I could feel the tug of homesicknessin my middle—what had Harrie called it?Fernweh?—and if I was brave enough I’d chase that feeling wherever it led. But I never did.
And now I didn’t want to.
It felt pointless somehow.
I downed the glass of water and refilled it. The cup was decorated with little swirls of flowers. All the dishware and silverware were, apt for a gardener’s cottage, but it was a little too quaint and on theme for my liking.
Corny, even.
Harrie used to laugh and tell me I was allergic to corny. “But that’s what makes life magical,” she once said, when we’d rented out an Airbnb near Asheville, where everything was themed toLord of the Rings. “Wedeservea little corny sometimes, Soph.”
I wish I had done more corny things with her. I wish we’d stayed at more corny rentals, and watched more corny movies, and read more corny books. I would’ve bought a boom box and played “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” up at her bedroom window every night for the rest of my life if it meant that she’d still be in it.
Harriett would’ve loved this cottage. She would’ve loved staying here at Lilymoor. There was this . . .othernessto everything. As if the estate itself were alive and I’d stepped into a fairy tale, where everything was soft and slow.
I could lose myself to the patience of this place.
That was dangerous.
“How was Eddie’s budget meeting?” I asked, changing the subject as I refilled the pitcher of water in the sink. On the kitchen sill was a rather wilty fern that I watered again—Iwasn’t sure it’d make it, but I’d try. I always liked the hopeless cases, Harrie said. I plucked off a few shriveled leaves. In Victorian England, ferns represented magic, fascination, a secret bond of love.
Perfect for this cottage, really.
“He said everyone seemed on board with it, though that one council lady he always has problems with tried to pick a fight on the proposed penny tax. I know he’s looking forward to vacation next week.” And she rattled on about Eddie’s job. He was a county accountant, so wildly different from Mom’s job, and yet they fit together like peanut butter and jelly. I’d never seen Mom so happy. Even when they were bickering, they were happy.
When I was growing up, Mom and I moved around a lot. She was a travel nurse, so she pulled me all across the country with her and her small army of potted plants. She’d shove me, and her monstera and her pothos and her money tree, into the back seat and off we went. I never heard Mom talk to anyone the way she did her plants, loving and with the utmost admiration, until she met Eddie.
“I’m sure vacation will be great,” I said, putting the water pitcher back into the refrigerator, and opened the freezer. “Drink a margarita for me.”
“You could come,” she tempted.
“I can’t. There’s so much to do here.” Which was an understatement. There was a littletoomuch to do, but it was work that distracted me—and it was a lovely distraction. “And could you imagine me leaving amonthinto this job? I couldn’t do that.”
To my own reputationorto Lilymoor.
“You wouldn’t anyway, you’re too responsible,” Mom agreedwith a sigh. I heard her banging around the kitchen, probably making a late dinner while a recorded episode ofJeopardy!blared in the background. Eddie’s favorite. “I know that they are very glad to have you. I just wishIhad you, too.”
“I know.” I took out a TV dinner. “Anyway, I’m bone-tired and have an early morning.”
“Youalwayshave an early morning, sprout.”
“So I should probably fix myself something to eat and go to bed.”
“I hope it’s not another TV dinner,” she remarked, and I winced.
“It’s not.” I put the TV dinner back into the freezer and opened up the refrigerator instead, taking out a bag of salad.
“Good. Because you should not subsist on meat loaf and macaroni alone.”
