If It Makes You Happy(13)

I remember her from Birdie’s wake. She looks the same. Confident. Stunning. Tense. But also alone. I check for a ring on her fourth finger. There isn’t one.

Huh.

I assumed she was married to the equally stiff man standing beside her at the wake. Then again, she slapped him, and the impact echoed through the whole chapel. No love there.

“She’s so cool,” Emily breathed afterward.

The drama distracted Emily from tears for just a moment, so I’ll need to thank Michelle for that at some point.

Michelle’s lips part as she looks around our kitchen. I follow her line of sight. Our house is nothing fancy. There are probably too many magnets on the fridge, holding up graded homework, finger paintings, and glossy photos smeared with fingerprints. Our kitchen nook is piled high with books and mail, and our hutch is stacked with Emily’s CD collection. But Michelle looks at all of it with some type of awe.

I’m in some type of awe too.

There are lots of beautiful women in Copper Run, but I can’t remember the last time I saw someone as breathtaking as her. Even now, out of her black funeral dress and in a more casual—notably, black—outfit, Michelle commands the space. Her brown hair, blown out below her shoulders, looks straight out of a catalog. A lighter brown colors her eyes, but they’re shadowed by long, dark lashes. Sure, she has soft features—a curved jaw, delicate cheekbones, and smooth pink cheeks—but this gentleness is contrasted by the intensity of her arched eyebrows and full lips, straightened into a single line.

“Can I guess?”

Michelle blinks at me. “Can you guess what?”

“The city,” I continue. “I’m assuming Baltimore.”

“What?”

“Where you’re from. Boston, then?” I squint. “No … Seattle. You work in Washington, where your mom is from.”

She’s quiet for a moment before confirming, “Yes. Seattle.”

She seems like a city girl.

I bite back my grin in satisfaction and call out, “Emily, how’s that soup lookin’?”

“I threw in some extra squash for you.”

A shiver rolls over my spine, and I exaggerate it to get the point across. Brittany beams from the floor, hands now coursing through the dog’s black-and-white fur.

Michelle walks toward the window over the sink, parting our frilly curtains between two fingers.

“You guys can see into my bedroom,” she observes.

“Birdie liked to put on a show for us.”

Her eyes snap to mine. I laugh.

“Kidding.”

Then I realize maybe that was insensitive. I know Birdie would have laughed though. Her daughter? Clearly a more serious sense of humor. Her deadpan attitude and dark polish are so different from Birdie Cadell’s laugh lines and pastel floral dresses.

I cross the kitchen to the cabinets. “So, you’re taking over your parents’ bed-and-breakfast?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but Emily interrupts, “Wait, are you Birdie’s daughter?”

“Yes,” Michelle answers.

Emily instantly frowns. “I’m really sorry about … y’know.”

I think I see Michelle swallow. “It’s all right.”

“What about Mr. Cadell?” Emily continues.

“My dad’s living with my sister at college for now.”

“Oh …” Emily’s words fade away.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t deflate as well. Birdie’s husband was a common presence as much as she was. Sure, he didn’t talk much, but he made up for words with actions. Waiting at the bus stop for Brittany when I was running behind at the bakery, grilling out in the summer, sitting on the porch with us in the evenings …

One look at Michelle reminds me that, while we lost our neighbors, she lost her mom. It’s not even remotely the same. When Michelle’s attention is turned away, I mosey to the stove and lean toward Emily.

“Hey, maybe let’s not interrogate her,” I whisper.

“But you just did.”

“Yeah, but I’m a dick, and you’re not, kiddo.”

I creak open the cabinet above and pull down a stack of plates. Michelle suddenly crosses the kitchen tiles with little claps of her black shoes. She extends a hand.

“So, you’re going into the busiest season alone, huh?” I continue as if our conversation didn’t have an awkward pause.

“I’ll manage,” she answers, flicking her fingers toward herself.

I grin, looking at her hand and back up. “You’re our guest. You’re not gonna set the table.”

She moves her fingers again, silently arguing my point.

I slowly smile wider, finally placing the plates in her hands. “All right, then. Thank you.”

“Where do they go?” she asks.

I nod toward the dining room through the closed doorway. “We’ll set up in there.”

But I can’t stop staring at her and grinning from ear to ear. She’s so bold and unapologetic.

Emily snickers. “We never sit in the dining room.”

“Well, we have a guest now, don’t we?” I say.

“So, the dining room?” Michelle clarifies.

“Yeah, through there.”