“There’s a good girl,” I told her, dragging the shovel toward me. It made metallicplinkson the ground as it slid over the rocks on the dirt path. The goose hissed, pink tongue darting out, and snapped at the shovel.
Then she pecked at the shovel again.
Slowly, I led her away from the bench.
Cyrus wilted with relief.
“I don’t want to hold this over you or anything, Rus,” I said as I led Damnit back toward the door, “but youdefinitelyowe me.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Name your price.”
I raised my gaze for a gambling moment and locked eyes with him. “Anything?”
His eyes glittered. It sent a shiver down my spine. “Withinreason, Sophie.”
I liked the way he said my name, soft at the front, a rum-bling breath at the end. I wished I could have lingered on the sound, but Damnit apparently hated the idea, because she hissed again and spread her wings and—dear god, she remembered she couldfly. With a scream, I dropped my shovel as the terrible goose chased me out of the doorway again and into the gardens.
“I’ll come back soon,” I promised, shouting over my shoulder, hoping he heard me.
Damnit gave up halfway across the lawn, but by the time I dragged myself back to the Moon Bridge, the door was gone.
19
mångata
I missed my emotional support shovel, especially when Wykofski and I decided to roll up our sleeves on Monday and start on the Willow Grove in earnest.
I didn’t realize how much leaning I did on that shovel. How much I used it to turn over rocks. To poke at the ground. To thwart Damnit. Wykofski let me borrow his, but it had a red handle and the weight was all wrong. I dragged it around with me anyway, because a shovel was a shovel.
Wykofski drove the lawn mower in large circles, cutting down all the weeds and brambles, while I tended to the willow trees and the overgrown flower beds they sat in. The beds were full of soft blue lupines and yellow buttercups that grew close to the ground.
Toward lunch, Wykofski and I took a break over at the shed. It was another hot day today, so he’d made a big pitcher of lemonade and sank down in his fold-out chair with a long sigh.
“This is the life, Sunny,” he declared.
Even with the goose glaring at me, I had to agree. Juliette wandered back as I was pulling out a chair and I gave it to herinstead. She sank down into it, flats off, and put on her large square sunglasses, looking every bit as done with society as I was done with onion sprouts in the flower beds.
“What’s, uh, up?” I asked awkwardly.
Juliette sighed. “Oliver.”
Wykofski poured her a glass of lemonade. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”
“How can someone so handsome be such aheadache?” she whined.
I took another fold-out chair from beside the shed, flicked off a little spider from the arm, and sat down beside her. “What’s he up to now?”
“Whatisn’the up to?” she lamented. “Ever since Eula sent out the invites for the bicentennial, he’s been poking around intoeverything. He’s even asked to see my catering list!Catering!”
Wykofski said, “We’re gonna have those little finger sand-wiches, right?”
“Yes,” she replied, defeated. “We are.”
“Okay, good.”
For someone who didn’t want to keep the estate, Oliver sure sounded invested in the party, at least.
But Wykofski’s lemonade fixed everything—including Juliette’s mood. Today, the drink was sweet up front, tart on the back, and made me involuntarily shiver.
