She throws me a dark look that should have stopped my heart, but I just give a wave and say, “Have fun, Auntie Willow!”
“You’re going to get the house done in time, right?” Wendy asks, sounding desperate. “My mother-in-law barged into our bedroom this morning asking my husband what he wanted for breakfast, and she picked a very inopportune time.” Her face flushes. “Bottom line, I can never face my mother-in-law again, so I need to move into this house, like, yesterday.”
I release a sympathetic chuckle. “Well, I can’t make that timeline work, but we should be good for next week.”
“Thank you,” she says, launching herself at me. She wraps her arms around me and takes a deep breath. “You smell really good.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling uncomfortable, especially as her hand slides down toward my ass.
“We’ll just be outside,” Willow says at the back door. “You two have fun.” The look on her face is pure innocence, but I know she hung back on purpose. She saw this coming.
Stupid, shortsighted me hadn’t.
“Maybe you should show Bean his new room,” I suggest as I try to gently pry myself out of Wendy’s embrace.
“Nah,” Willow says. “It’s a beautiful day. Bean can see his room anytime. We’ll let you two get back to…?” Her brow lifts suggestively before she ducks out.
“I’m glad you’re excited, Wendy,” I say good-naturedly, finally breaking free and taking a step back, “but my girlfriend might get jealous of hugs like that.”
Her face goes blank. “You have a girlfriend?”
I only said it to get her to back off, but obviously Molly instantly comes to mind. We haven’t defined anything, but I’m shocked to realize that I actually want to be able to call her my real girlfriend. It seems like a total one-eighty in less than a week, but maybe I needed someone like Molly to shake me loose from my guilt spiral.
Renewal.
I’d tossed that word into the bowl because that’s the way I feel with Molly, like my life has been in hibernation for years and I’m finally starting to come alive again.
I’ve spent a good part of the day trying to figure out when the switch was flipped, when I stopped withdrawing from the world and decided to allow myself a life. I can’t pinpoint the instant, but I realize I’ve allowed myself to be in the moment with Molly. I haven’t been consumed with guilt or anxiousness. I’ve let myself just be.
How much self-punishment is enough for my part in Alice’s death? Am I selfish if I want to finally absolve myself of the guilt?
“I do,” I say. “It’s still pretty new, but she’s amazing.”
Jealousy fills Wendy’s eyes, and I have a moment of fear that she’ll make my life hell for the next week, but it fades quickly and she gives me a warm smile. “That’s great, Cal. You’re a great guy, and you deserve someone amazing.”
“Thanks, Wendy.”
For the first time in a long time, I think maybe I do.
The installers show up and put in the island counter, and Wendy is thrilled. After they leave, I take her outside and we discuss where to put a playset. I task Willow with sending Wendy photos of the many options Bean suggested and scheduling an install ASAP.
A quick glance at my phone shows me it’s nearly five. I need to get home to shower and change. I texted Molly this morning after my torture-at-tea session and told her I would pick her up at six thirty for our date. Thankfully, she responded with: Tell your dad not to wait up. I plan on keeping you occupied way past 10.
I wrap things up with Wendy, and she takes her kids and leaves. Willow and I eye each other and she sticks out her hand. “Truce?”
I give it a shake. “Truce.”
“Good. Now get out of here. I keep seeing you check your phone, so you obviously have a date tonight.”
“Am I allowed to have any secrets?” I ask with an exaggerated groan.
“Nope,” she says smugly, but I know that’s not true. I have a couple of big ones, and I plan on sharing them with Molly tonight. The only way we’ll work is if she knows the truth about me and Alice.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Molly
Surprises are best when you’re the person making them.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
It took Augusta less than an hour to answer me. I included my phone number in the email, and she texted rather than emailing.
Meet me at Wild West Wings Cafe, 4:30 p.m.
It’s an odd place to meet to discuss an article that will ruin her, not to mention a strange time to get wings, but it’s her funeral. I’ll let her choose her last meal.
I wonder if I should tell Cal first, maybe even text the whole Setting the Record Straight group so they’re on the alert that the wicked witch has been hiding in plain sight, but I’ve already committed the cardinal sin of falling for the subject of my article. I can do just this one thing by the book.
Besides, part of me fears he’ll tell me not to go.
No, what I fear is that he’ll ask, and I’ll do it for him.
Should I look for the woman with a copy of Bad Luck Club with a flower in it, I say, referring to the meet-cute in the Nora Ephron movie You’ve Got Mail. Honestly, Maisie might think that movie’s sweet, but I kind of hate it. The hero finds out who the heroine is long before he sees fit to tell her, and spends the rest of the movie gaslighting her.
Don’t be cute, Augusta responds instantly, everyone knows what I look like, and you’re naive if you don’t think I know what you look like.
It sounds like a threat, but I’m not scared of Augusta. If she has any sense at all, she’s scared of me, but from what I’ve learned of her—both from her book and my new friends—she’s the kind of person who’ll bite off her own hand to escape a trap.
Can’t wait!!!! I say, using plenty of exclamation marks to annoy her.
My decision made, I don’t tell Cal about the meeting when he texts me about tonight, and I go on not telling him as I sit at my laptop and review my notes about Mrs. Dahl and Husband #3, Henry. Their story is seductive, but their unhappy end still weighs on me.
His brooding silence drew her in and then alienated her.
Will Cal finally break his silence tonight?
Suddenly, I look up and it’s 4:00. Make or break time.
I don’t dress to impress, because I don’t care to impress Augusta. I stay in my morning writing outfit of a University of Washington T-shirt and jean shorts. But I slip on my strawberry Toms because they conjure good memories, and I need that going into enemy territory.
I have to smile when I walk in and see the clerk behind the counter is decked out like a cowboy. It seems weirdly appropriate that I’m meeting her here at a Wild West chicken wings café after chasing down her story like a lawman would an outlaw. It’s the right mix of conflict and absurdity.
She’s waiting for me at a table facing the door, and her eyes widen with recognition as I step inside. Her dress is a diaphanous green muumuu that looks pretty nice, actually, against her uncontrolled red hair, although her face carries the ridges of fifty-odd years’ worth of frowns and scowls.