Happy Place(28)

I frown. I’ve been so self-absorbed (and/or drunk) that somehow I missed the way her face has thinned, and the faint purple blots beneath her eyes. “Hey,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” That’s a weirdly evasive reply for Cleo.

“Because you run a whole-ass farm,” I say. “And you are but one dainty five-foot-two-inch woman.”

Her smile brightens her whole face. “Yes, but you forget: my girlfriend is a five-foot-ten-inch Scandinavian American goddess who can drink four barrels of moonshine and still win a grocery store race.”

“Clee,” I say.

She checks over her shoulder, then drops her voice. “Okay, yes, I’m stressed,” she says. “The truth is, Kimmy and I went back and forth about bowing out of this year’s trip for the last three weeks. When I told Sabrina we might have to miss it, it did not go well, so we decided we’d come for a couple of days. Only now we can’t head back early after all, so we’re scrambling to have neighbors go take care of things for us at home.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “How can I help?”

“It’s okay. It’s one week of stress. Well, and the full week it will take us to catch up on the time away.”

“Hey!”

For some reason—quite possibly all the subterfuge I’m currently engaged in—I jump when Sabrina pops her head in between us.

Cleo does too. “Don’t sneak up on us.”

“Um, I literally just walked up,” Sabrina says. “Did I catch you two in the middle of a drug deal or something?” She reaches between us to grab Cleo’s book, scrutinizing the cover. “Mushrooms? Again?”

Cleo’s lips thin. “They’re fascinating.”

“What about you, Sab?” I cut in. “Did you find anything?”

“Oh my god, yeah,” she says. “This book is a fictional take on the Donner Party.”

“How . . . nice,” I say.

She cackles, grabs the book out of my hand. I didn’t realize I was holding one—I must’ve yanked it out when she surprised us. “Harry,” she says, reading the back of it. “This book is every bit as fucked as mine.”

“I guarantee it’s not,” I say.

“An interior designer finds a hand behind a wall,” she says.

“Yes, but it’s cozy.” I take the book back.

“How is that cozy,” she asks.

“It’s a cozy mystery,” I say. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Oh-kay.” Her voice wrenches up into a wordless yip of surprise as Kimmy appears at her shoulder. Beside me, Cleo grabs for the edge of the bookshelf, as if for support.

“Why is everyone so jumpy?” Kim asks.

“Sabrina’s reading about the Donners again,” Cleo says.

“It’s fiction,” Sabrina says.

Cleo asks, “Where are Parth and Wyn? Are they finished?”

Kimmy shrugs. “I passed Parth by the fancy books.”

“What are the fancy books?” I ask.

“She means he’s looking for something the New York Times has described as ‘revelatory,’?” Sabrina says.

“Actually . . .” Parth walks up with a paper bag already in hand. “I picked this because the Wall Street Journal gave it such a cranky review I needed to read it myself. It’s by this married couple who usually publish separately. One of them writes literary doorstop novels and the other writes romance.”

“What!” Kimmy snatches the book. “I know them!”

“Seriously?” Parth asks.

“I went to college with them in Michigan,” she says. “They weren’t together yet, though. Her books are really horny. Is this one horny?”

“The Wall Street Journal review didn’t touch on the horniness,” Parth says.

“Is Wyn done?” Sabrina asks.

“Checking out now,” Parth confirms

“What’d he get, a Steinbeck novel?” she asks.

Parth shrugs. “Dunno.”

There’s no way Wyn’s getting a Steinbeck novel. I’m surprised he’s buying a book, period, since we never have time to read on these trips and he’s cautious with his spending. But if he was going to get a book, it wouldn’t be about the American West. He would’ve felt like too much of a caricature.

Parth and Sabrina herd us toward the register. Cleo gets her mushroom book and I buy Death by Design, and then we step out onto the cobbled street. The sun is high in the sky, no trace of mist left, only dazzling blue. Across the street, Kimmy spots a flower cart in front of the florist and, with a squeal of delight, pulls Cleo after her.

“Parth and I are gonna grab more coffee.” Sabrina tilts her head toward the Warm Cup, the café next door with the awning-sheltered walk-up window. We’ve already been twice today. Once before the market, once after.

“Want anything?” she asks.

“I’m good, thanks,” I tell her.

“Wyn?”

He shakes his head. As they wander off, we stand in silence, avoiding gazes. “I meant to tell you,” he says finally. “I talked to Parth last night.”

“And?”