It was a simple enough statement, but it cut Nora to the quick. She was the listener. The confidante. The quiet, behind-the-scenes best friend and fixer of all things broken. Hadn’t she been cleaning up after Tiffany since high school? Back then, Nora let Tiffany copy her homework assignments and cheat off her test papers. She took the rap when Tiffany’s aunt found a pack of Camel Lights in the pocket of her jean jacket. And when things got really out of hand, Nora had given up everything—including her own family—to stand by Tiffany’s side. To cover for her and help her, to make sure that Tiff and Everlee were provided for and together and safe. And now? Tiffany was gone.
“Thank you,” Nora whispered. But she was so used to listening that she found that when the tables were reversed her tongue felt thick and feeble. What could she say? She settled for a sliver of the truth. A beginning. “I’m worried about Tiffany.”
Of course Ethan knew who Tiffany was. Tiff and Everlee had come into the coffee shop regularly. He knew them so well that when her rusty red Ford truck with the white racing stripe pulled into the parking lot he started to make their drinks. A weak, white chocolate mocha with a drizzle of caramel for Tiffany and a hot chocolate, extra whipped cream, for Everlee. Nora had thought something might spark between Ethan and Tiffany—she was long and lean and angled like a runway model—but Ethan treated Tiffany with kid gloves. He was gentle with her, almost paternal in his concern for her and the girl who followed her as close as a shadow. Tiff had that effect on people.
“What do you mean you’re worried about Tiffany?” Ethan asked. His eyes hardened and his fists clenched. Nora could almost hear his thoughts and they had everything to do with Everlee. If there was something up with Tiffany, what about the pretty little slip of a girl who called her Mommy? For all her fierce beauty, Tiff had the look of a former addict. Nora knew it was one of the reasons people were so soft with her. Or maybe careful was a better word.
“Everlee’s safe,” Nora said, answering the question before he voiced it. “She’s okay. But . . . Tiffany’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
Nora laughed, but it was joyless and cold. “She left. Abandoned us. Disappeared. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. How I’m going to keep Everlee away from him.”
“Him?”
“Donovan. The guy who showed up at the Grind yesterday.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he got to do with Everlee?”
“He’s the closest thing she’s got to a dad. And if Tiffany is gone, he’ll fight for her.”
“And?”
“He’ll win.” It was barely a whisper, but Nora knew it was true. Donovan got what he wanted. And he wanted Everlee.
It looked like Ethan knew the answer before he voiced the question, but he asked it anyway. “That’s a problem?”
“You have no idea.” Nora squeezed her eyes shut and rested her head in her hands for a moment. And then, before she could stop to consider what she was doing, she started to talk.
She told him everything. Almost.
LIZ
AS LUCK WOULD have it, Lorelei Barnes’s funeral visitation was from three to six on Friday afternoon. Liz only knew this because she slept well past her alarm and woke with the local news setting a drowsy soundtrack for her disjointed dreams. Usually when the old clock radio clicked to life, Liz was already wide awake and watching the pastel sunrise flirt with her sheer curtains. But after her late-night Walmart run, Liz had slept through the familiar click as well as an entire hour of Hawk Country radio programming. Lady Antebellum, Sugarland, The Band Perry, and a little throwback Sawyer Brown mixed in for variety (the morning host obviously lacked both imagination and the desire to diversify).
At the top of the hour, nine to be exact, the Key Lake “Community Minute” cut through the sleepy fog and Liz heard, clear as day: “Lorelei Barnes’s visitation will be at the Thatcher Funeral Home this afternoon, from three p.m. until six p.m.”
Liz dragged herself out of bed with a feeling of cotton in her mouth and a knot of consternation in her chest. She couldn’t decide if knowing about Lorelei’s visitation was a good thing or just a stroke of very bad luck. Poor timing? It didn’t really matter. She knew, therefore she felt obligated. And there was nothing so motivating in Liz Sanford’s world as a healthy dose of obligation.
People would start to arrive at the house around six, but at 2:00 p.m. Liz found herself slipping into the black sheath she had worn to Jack Sr.’s funeral. It seemed indecent somehow that she was wearing the same dress to mourn both her husband and a woman she barely knew. But black wasn’t a color that Liz frequently wore. It was too boring. Too drab and depressing and dark. Her closet was a soiree of fuchsia and cobalt, persimmon and turquoise. When it came to sober occasions, she didn’t really have a choice.
The dress had three-quarter-length sleeves and an itchy lace overlay, and Liz looked longingly at her cute party sundress even as she fastened the clasp on her single-pearl necklace. “You had flowers delivered,” she reminded herself. “You didn’t really even know Lorelei.”
But it was no use trying to talk herself out of going. She had bumped into Tiffany, which had set off a chain reaction that culminated with Liz believing she could right past wrongs with a suitable mix of contrition and social convention. If only she could fix the brokenness in her family so easily. The flowers she ordered were exquisite, the few lines on the card inspired. And yet it wasn’t enough. Liz felt that she had to be there. To press Tiffany’s bony hands between her own and say, with heart, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
It wasn’t a lie. She was very sorry for loss of any kind because Liz Sanford knew what it meant to lose something. Each loss was a thorn in her flesh, a wound that pierced like a needle at first then faded to a blunt, insistent ache. When Liz was little, her mother taught her to cover up her wounds with a Band-Aid and a smile, and though such shrouding worked to hide pain from the rest of the world, it only taught Liz how to live with the hurt. Sometimes, when she was tired or sick, fragile or just incapable of keeping her smile sweet and straight, Liz was stunned by just how much her heart throbbed. She was the walking wounded.
Oh no. Speaking of misty eyes . . . Liz snatched a tissue from the bathroom counter and dabbed carefully beneath her eyelashes. She didn’t have time to redo her makeup, and it wouldn’t do to host a party with blotchy skin and puffy eyes. No time to cry. And certainly not about Lorelei Barnes. Or Tiffany or whoever or whatever had set her off. Liz had things to cry about, but strangers were not one of them.
Put the tomatoes on the counter, Liz texted Macy as she hopped into her car. The door is unlocked. I have to run an errand.
Today?!?!?!
Macy was all about lavish punctuation. And emojis. Liz particularly hated the one with the little yellow face grinning and crying at the same time. She couldn’t think of a single instance in her life when she had laughed so hard she cried. Did people actually do that?
Yes, today. There’s basil on the counter and mozzarella in the fridge if you want to be helpful.
I’m on it!!!!!!