As she put them on, Helen appeared with soup.
Displeasure pleated her mother’s forehead. “Where did you get those?”
“The gloves? In that suitcase.”
“I didn’t say you could go through my things.” Helen’s lips thinned. “Put them back.”
“But my hands are cold,” Marigold lied.
“I’ll buy you a new pair.”
Words her mother had never spoken before in her life. Being the second daughter meant Marigold’s entire closet was Peony’s hand-me-downs. Marigold’s curiosity was piqued.
She pretended to shiver. “Can I wear them for now? I’m cold.”
“No.”
“Please?”
Normally no amount of pleading would crack Helen’s resolve. But inexplicably she relented: “Only for today.”
Helen snapped the suitcase closed. “Finish your soup. I’ll be back soon.”
A few minutes later, Peony padded up to the attic. It was obvious that Helen had sent her, but Marigold didn’t mind. Her eldest sister could be trusted.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually like it up here,” Peony said. Concern laced her usually bright tone. “Why is Mom making you wear those gloves?”
“She’s not making me wear them, I want to. My hands are cold.”
“Bull. You’re sweating. What’s going on?”
Marigold took off her glasses and rubbed the bumpy scar near her eye. “Don’t tell Rosie, but—”
“Don’t tell Rosie what?” interrupted their youngest sister from the stairs.
Marigold sighed. It was an irrefutable law that the sisters could never keep a secret from one another, even when they tried. They were like a three-way call—every word that came in through one receiver went through the other two as well.
“The old lady says you’re not allowed to come down,” said Rosie. “What’s she raggin’ on you for this time?”
“I’ll tell you, just get in.” Marigold ushered her youngest sister into the attic, then closed the door. She reached under the books for where she’d stashed her notebook. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but sometimes when I touch things, I can see...”
Feelings. Secrets. Memories.Marigold struggled to land on the right word. Nothing felt exactly right, especially after what touching Helen had shown her.
“Ghosts?” suggested Peony.
“Please say lottery ticket numbers,” said Rosie. “I’m tired of being poor.”
“We run a bakery and we’ve got a car and TV,” Peony pointed out. “We’re not poor.”
“We’re too poor to go to the movies or buy popsicles with cream inside. We don’t even have a piano,” Rosie said, the yearning deep in her voice. Uncle Francis had given her his old guitar, but Helen never let her play it. Their mother hated music. “Look at Marigold, she never gets to buy any books of her own.”
“I don’t mind,” Marigold spoke up. “I like going to the library.”
“When I’m rich, I’ll buy you your own library,” Rosie declared. “And P, I’ll get you a pink Cadillac. We can drive it to Blum’s for coffee crunch cake like all the rich ladies.”
“Can you see me driving a pink Cadillac?” said Peony dryly. “All I want is to keep Three Flowers running.”
“And I don’t need a library,” Marigold said.
