“Well, that was fun!” Josie says, bouncing up from her chair, giving Cal’s leg a little pat as she does so. It’s completely inappropriate, but Cal isn’t paying attention. He’s focused on me, shooting me a daggered look as he picks up his phone and stops the timer. One minute left, but he doesn’t care. He’s ready to go. He was ready to go fourteen minutes ago, and it’s obvious Josie’s words cut into him too.
I’m not the only one who’s been running from something, but then I already knew that. It’s one of the reasons I’m so interested in his story. In him.
As he continues to study me, something in his expression shifts, anger giving way to confusion.
Understanding dawns. He thought I set this up—another little game to try to get him to spill his secrets—but he can tell her words affected me too.
Now, he doesn’t know what to think.
That’s when Tina comes bounding up to our table. “I thought you might prefer it if I read your leaves,” she says with a grin. “Josie always chooses the darker interpretations. If the shape could be a cloud or a clover, it’s always a cloud with her. You don’t want clouds, by the way. They’re like stormy weather.”
She stops at the side of the table, facing Cal. “Hi,” she says. “I hope your dog’s okay. I wanted to apologize again for Ghost. His behavior was totally uncalled for, and I gave him a talking-to in the car. He grunted, which I take as an acknowledgment of wrongdoing.”
Fury lights Cal’s eyes again, hotter than before, as he glances between Tina and me in disbelief.
“You set all of this up,” he accuses, his gaze landing on me and sticking.
Shit, it would seem like that, wouldn’t it?
The three of us met at the dog park yesterday, and now here she is again, just over twenty-four hours later.
“Are you that desperate for information about the Bad Luck Club?” he asks, his expression dark. Then he glances at Tina, whose expression has turned queasy. “Did you sic that dog on Ruby?” he says, practically growling.
“What?” she asks in horror. “I would never! I like dogs. Even Ghost, and he’s a dick.” She pauses, her brow furrowing, then asks, “What’s this about the Bad Luck Club? My sister-in-law was in that.”
“What?” he asks, as flummoxed as if she’d just announced the meaning of life, the universe, and everything was forty-two. And he’s not alone. Tina knows someone who was in the Bad Luck Club? Dare I hope she was part of the original crew? It would have to be Dee because Nicole’s not married. I may have been sitting on a gold mine without realizing it.
“My sister-in-law. Dee,” Tina confirms.
My heartbeat speeds up. Maybe it’s just because I’m sitting in Tea of Fortune, but this feels like kismet. It feels like the polar opposite of bad luck. Of course, Cal would disagree.
“It’s why she met my brother, Dylan,” she continues. “They’re the cutest, but they’re also totally disgusting. You know how it is.”
“Oh, I do,” I say, grinning at her. “And that’s kind of the best news ever, Tina, because I happen to be writing a story about the Bad Luck Club.”
“Dee’s not going to tell you anything,” Cal says darkly. “She believes in the rules.”
“Yes, clearly she does,” I say with a grin. “The fact that Tina knows they met through the club totally indicates Dee doesn’t talk about it. Rules #1 and 2 broken.”
Tina tips her head and lifts her shoulder as if to say she agrees. “They’re in Italy on a family vacation right now, but they’ll be back in another week. I’m sure she’d swing by the shop to talk.”
Cal gets up, and I feel a weird little push toward him, like I want to stop him from leaving. Maybe take his hand like he did mine. But that’s nuts. He wants nothing to do with me. He may be attracted to me, but it’s clearly against his better judgment. Besides, this story about the Bad Luck Club just keeps getting better. I’d be a fool to let it go, or to risk my scoop by getting too wrapped up with one of the subjects of the story.
I’m no fool.
“Back off, Molly,” he says. Although from the way he says it, it’s clear he’s realized I’ll do no such thing.
“I haven’t only contacted the men from the original crew, by the way,” I say. “I’m meeting Blue…excuse me, Cerulean…for dinner tonight, and it seems Dee is just a phone call away.” I’ve called Nicole at least five times too, but no bites. “Rogue Word is interested in the story, Cal. It’s not some fluff piece for a dating site. And when I make this scoop, they’re going to hire me. As a journalist.”
I’m not sure why I’m antagonizing him, especially since I do want him to talk to me. Maybe it’s that I want other things, things I have no business wanting, and it makes me angry. At him and at me. Maybe it’s because I’m sick of not being taken seriously by anyone, myself included.
He waves a hand, not like he’s saying goodbye, but like he’d prefer to be rid of me, and stomps off.
“What in the world is going on?” Tina asks, her eyes wide.
“Do you have a break coming up? This might take a while to explain.”
“She can take as long as she wants, dear,” Dottie says from a nearby table.
It’s only then I realize that people are staring at us. Everyone in the shop, actually. I suddenly feel like I’m the subject of one of my own vlog videos, and I’ll admit that I don’t love the feeling.
But I suck it up, because this whirl of confusing feelings might pull me under otherwise, and I sit down with Tina and tell her everything.
Chapter Eight
Cal
Some of us like to wallow in our pasts because living in those lies is easier than dealing with the truth.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
I’m drawn to the cemetery as though the grave is a magnet tugging me. Alice and her death are now the center of my world, and I’m powerless to do anything but orbit like a satellite. I try to come at least once a month, and always with fresh flowers, but today I bring nothing but my guilt and fear that the truth will come out.
Another bunch of flowers lies on the ledge of her tombstone—pink carnations, her favorite—and I know her mom must have left them. They look fresh, like she was here this morning, and a grim smile tugs at the corner of my lips. We rarely talk, but the flowers are their own form of communication. Alice was the link that bound us, and her death severed the cord. After the funeral, her mother helped me clean out her closet and sift through her things, and a few times I caught her watching me, like a detective studying a suspect, and my heart seized, wondering if she knew the truth. Had Alice told her?
The headstone reads, Alice Elizabeth Reynolds, Devoted Wife and Daughter. The inscription stabs me in the heart every time I read it. Her parents chose the wording, and when they insisted on it, I was too numb to stop them.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
That night replays in my head, just like it has nearly every day since the accident. Our argument. The secret exposed. Alice storming out in the rain. The police showing up at the entrance to my woodworking shop in the garage, their uniforms dripping wet. “Mr. Reynolds, we’re sorry to inform you that your wife was in a car accident. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”