My heart isn’t as hard as I’d hoped.
“Tell me if she comments,” Kate says. “But I don’t think she’ll talk to you again.”
“Agreed,” I say.
Because Augusta already delivered the only bomb she had.
We hang up, and I email the story to Augusta, along with my Wild West Wings jab, just because.
I spend the next couple of hours prettying up the house, because I don’t want Maisie and Jack to come home to a mess. The dogs follow me around, excited to learn I didn’t actually meld with the love seat on the porch, where I’ve spent much of my time writing.
I arrive at the tea shop a few minutes early. Harry’s already there, of course, eyeing the bouquet of crystals like it’s about to turn into Nostradamus. Come to think of it, maybe bringing him to a place like this wasn’t the best idea.
His face lights up when he sees me, but it quickly slides into a frown.
“What’s wrong?” he says. “Did Augusta follow you here?” He looks around as if she might have slipped into one of the vases or perhaps hidden behind a pillar.
“No, nothing like that,” I say, sitting down across from him. “But I did just send her my story.”
He’s read it too—I sent it to everyone in the club, other than Cal, at the same time I submitted it to Kate—but his alarm amps up at that, and he glances around again, his gaze snagging on a red-haired toddler.
“No, Harry,” I say with a sigh. “She’s not hiding in here as a red-haired toddler. If anything, she’ll probably flee the country and move to Canada.”
“The Canadians have it bad enough with all that cold,” he said, acting out a dramatic shiver. “We don’t need to export our Augustas.”
“Fair point. Do you want me to see if she replied?”
He shrugs, tilting his head, and I pull out my phone.
There is a response, and I click through.
My only comment is this: my sources tell me you and Cal are through. I still won.
It’s petty and trite, but it still feels like she did to my heart what she did to those poor, unsuspecting chicken wings.
I slide it over and show him.
“That fucking bitch,” he says, and I sputter a laugh. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve heard him swear.
“You’re not talking about me, are you?” Tina says, lowering down next to him.
“Augusta,” I explain.
“Fair enough,” she says. “Proceed with the obscenities, Harry!”
“I’m tapped out,” he says, lifting his hands. “My mother raised me right.”
“So did mine, and that never stopped me. Not even my nonna can stop me from swearing, and I’ve featured in her nightly prayers since I was seven.”
I smile at them, soaking in this moment. I’m going to miss these two, if I don’t come back. They’re the type of friends you want to hang on to.
It’s then that Dottie comes by.
“I’m here for your orders, my dears!” she says, but she stops short when she sees me. “Molly, what happened to your aura?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” I say, a little taken aback. My sister and I have long suspected that Dottie feigns most of her otherworldly insights, but she’s not wrong this time—something is wrong with me.
“Why, all the lovely lavender is clouded up with blue-gray. Didn’t you notice, Tina?”
Tina’s eyes pop wide. “Um. Yes. It’s very noticeable.”
“Oh, dear. This calls for some drastic action,” Dottie says, and hurries off.
“Can I get some iced tea?” Harry calls after her.
But when she comes back, she only has one cup of tea. She shoves it in front of me forcefully. “Drink it up, dear. I need to do a reading.”
Harry’s muttering to himself about the iced tea, but Tina nods a little eagerly, as if she’s interested from a personal and professional perspective.
So even though it’s a particularly hot June day, I slurp down the near-boiling drink.
Dottie does the usual song and dance of pouring the leaves out onto my saucer and turning it.
“Ah,” she says with a small smile. “All is well.”
She gets up, as if she’s about to leave, and I have to ask. “What did you see?”
“An anchor.”
“Um, isn’t that bad?” Harry says. “Someone called me an anchor once, and he did not mean it as a compliment.”
But Tina’s already smiling. “An anchor means you have good and loyal friends,” she says, “which we already knew.”
“And constancy in love,” Dottie adds with a wide smile. “I noticed you and your young man a couple of weeks ago. Lust is a very obvious color, but there were subtle differences.”
I feel a pang of longing, because I’d like to believe she’s right. But I meant what I said to Bear. I won’t seek Cal out again. I owe him whatever peace he might find at the end of this thing—and the form that takes is for him to choose, not me.
Still, thinking of Bear, of his sweetness, I feel inspired to suggest, “You know, his father has a baking business, Dottie. You may want to get in touch with him if you’re still running low on petits fours. It’s called Bear’s Buns.”
Tina and Harry both giggle, but Dottie gives me an unabashed smile. “Why, I just might do that.”
Bustling away, she mutters to herself, “Bear’s Buns, I like that.”
“Can I get that iced tea?” Harry calls out again, but Dottie’s already gone.
“Forget the iced tea,” Tina says. “This is a sign, Harry.”
“I’m not supposed to believe in signs,” he grouses. “I’m finally graduating from the club next month. I don’t want to risk talking about anything that might lead back to tinfoil hats.”
“The only thing this might lead you out of is your basement apartment and me out of my brother’s spare bedroom. My room is right next to theirs, and now that they’re back from Italy, there have been sounds no sister should have to hear.”
I tilt my head to study them. “Have you two been scheming?”
Harry gives her an arch look, like maybe he questions her delivery. Then he gives a long-suffering sigh and says, “We think you should stay. We want you to live with us.”
I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no. Just like I couldn’t bring myself to give Kate an answer, I couldn’t turn them down. And tonight, for the first time in several days, I pore over my notes about Mrs. Dahl.
I find myself thinking about something Cal told me. He said I was a storyteller. I’ve been planning on writing a biography of Mrs. Dahl, but I suddenly understand why I was stymied.
The story I want to tell is different.
It’s a love story between a woman before her time and the man who teaches her to fly.
And I want it to have a happy ending.
I’ve never written fiction, and it’s probably a dumb idea, but it’s one that refuses to leave me, and I stay up late into the night writing notes. I won’t go much further without getting a blessing from Agnes and Mrs. Dahl, but I feel at peace for the first time in two weeks.