“Annette’s here,” I say. “I’ll text you after my appointment.”
I end the call and meet her at the door.
“Good morning, Mrs. C,” she says, placing her gas station coffee cup on the marble console, and when she isn’t looking, I check to ensure it doesn’t etch the stone. “And where’s our princess this morning?”
I loathe how she calls my daughter a princess. It insinuates she’s spoiled, but I’ve never said anything because Annette means well and she adores Elsie. That’s all that matters. Finding good help in this town, people you can unequivocally trust, is hard, so I choose my battles. Now, if she were plunking my child in front of a television set all day while mindlessly scrolling through her phone, I’d speak up. That’s a hill I’d be willing to die on.
A squeal from the kitchen is followed by Elsie’s bare feet padding against hardwood. A second later, she charges toward Annette, who scoops her up with open arms. A tight twinge situates in my middle every time I spot the light in my daughter’s eyes when she sees her nanny. Sometimes I’m certain it’s a hair brighter than the light she gets when she’s with me. Then again, it could be my imagination.
It’s human nature to assume the worst.
Someone once told me that I’d only be my husband’s favorite until we had our first child, and that I’d only be my daughter’s favorite until she becomes a teenager and decides she hates everything about me. But I don’t think it has to be that way.
I intend to be everyone’s favorite until my dying breath.
“I’ll be back in the early afternoon.” I sweep my hair into a high bun, securing it with the elastic on my wrist. I swear it grows an inch a week lately. Coupled with these third-trimester hot flashes, I’m a walking, talking human sauna. “Three o’clock at the absolute latest.”
Annette bounces my daughter on her hip. “We’ll be here . . . having fun. Right, Princess?”
I restrain a full-body cringe.
“It’s supposed to warm up a little today.” She speaks to me but looks at my daughter. “Thought we’d play outside a little bit if that’s okay?”
Normally I’d agree to that without a hitch—but given last night’s events, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.
“Actually, Annette.” I clear my throat. “If you wouldn’t mind staying indoors today, that’d be great.”
She frowns. Confused, disappointed, or both, I’m sure. But it’s understandable—this isn’t normal for us.
“There have been some solicitors going door-to-door out here,” I say. “I don’t know if they’re from the commune, or if they wandered up the coast and wound up here. Either way, I think we should keep Elsie inside until these people are gone.”
Her lips press flat as she digests this. “Why would they come all the way out here?”
Her question is valid—we’re miles from town with sparsely placed vacation homes and no actual neighborhoods. True solicitors would have better luck in Bent Creek proper.
“I saw one of them last night.” I knead a kink in the small of my back. “Knocked on my door after dark. She was a little rough looking. Kept asking to speak to my husband. It was very unsettling.”
Annette shakes her head, validating my concerns. She gets it. “What are they peddling now?” Lines spread across her freckled forehead.
“God only knows.” I turn, heading to the kitchen to grab my purse and keys. “All right, I can’t be late. Call me if you need anything.”
I wait until the two of them are in the family room before double-checking the lock on the front door. And on my way out, I secure the garage entry as well and ensure all our security cameras are online and active enough to pick up the slightest movement. Normally I wouldn’t be this vigilant, but after last night, I’ve no choice but to turn my peaceful oceanside abode into Fort Knox.
I’d rather be safe than sorry.
CHAPTER FOUR
LYDIA
“Home sweet home.” Delphine flips the switch by the door of her apartment. A fluorescent light above her kitchen island sparks to life, illuminating a more livable version of her shop.
Same earthy, organic scent.
Same new-age themes.
Less crowded, which is a relief, as I fully anticipated a borderline hoarder situation.
Without question, this place is the Ritz-Carlton compared to the dirt-floor cabin-shack I called “home” for nine years. And it beats sleeping at the post office any day of the week. Anything with running water and an HVAC system is a win at this point.
“It’s pretty straightforward.” She sweeps a fluffy white cat off the kitchen counter and gently places it on the ground. Without missing a beat, it sashays to me, offers a quiet mew, and stares up with striking yellow eyes. “That’s Powder. He was my daughter’s cat. Older than dirt now but sweet as can be. You like cats, Lydia?”
I scratch the tip of my itchy nose and pray I’m not allergic. I’ve never had a cat. Never had a dog either. Not even a guinea pig. I tried to keep a field mouse I found in our walls one time—until it bit my finger when I tried to feed it a moldy Kraft single. I never saw it again after that.
I nod, stooping down to scratch behind Powder’s ears. He rubs his head against my hand before weaving between my legs and wrapping his crooked tail around my ankle.
Then he’s gone.
“So we’ve got the kitchen, living room, and dinette here.” Delphine makes a sweeping motion as she presents the open floor plan, which includes cabinets painted an unexpected shade of teal and a redbrick fireplace filled with various sizes of white candles. “And down that hallway are two bedrooms and a bathroom. Here, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
I follow her to the far bedroom, a space big enough to hold a twin bed and a chest of drawers. A single window lets in enough light to distract from the low, water-sagged ceiling. The faintest smell of what I can only assume is cat litter lingers in the air. But despite it all, this place is paradise compared to my last accommodation—or any of the ones that came before it. When I was a young girl, home was often a dank basement apartment. A cigarette-scented, roach-infested rental. A storage unit. Most recently, home was a ramshackle cabin. A paint-chipped park bench. The post office . . .
A handmade quilt covers the bed, accented with two fluffed pillows and a mustard-colored afghan throw at the foot. A small lamp with pale-blue fringe gives the room a muted glow, and lacy sheer curtains offer the lone window some dignity.
I’d have loved a place like this when I was younger.
That’s all I ever wanted—a mom who could hold a job and a cozy little place of our own. I’d wanted a father, too, but I never wasted too much time wishing for something that was never going to happen. According to my mom, my father didn’t know I existed. I was the product of some affair she had with her boss at the Jonesburg Oil and Lube. And that’s what she called me: a product. Wasn’t even worthy of a “love child” moniker.
A framed photo by the lamp displays a younger-looking Delphine, her arms wrapped around a gangly teenager with an embarrassed smile.