“The nightmares started a few months back,” she says, licking the buttercream off her fork. “I kept seeing myself in the car with them. Though in real life, I wasn’t. I’d been unwell that day, so a neighbor came over to look after me. Mom and Dad sang in a choir. They had a concert that night.”
“Your mom and dad sound nice.”
She wipes away a stray tear. “At the time, I didn’t really think too much about it. We were just, you know, normal. Mom worked at an insurance company. Dad taught music at the school. We weren’t rich or anything. But family was important to them. I mean, we used to have dinner together every night. Mom cooked. Nothing fancy—just stuff like potatoes and chicken, or shepherd’s pie. On the weekends, she’d bake bread, and sometimes she’d cook roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. That was my favorite.”
“Wow, Violet, to me they don’t sound normal; they sound amazing.”
Violet laughs sadly. “Before, I’d have said you were wrong. I got crabby over my homework, or the fact that they wouldn’t let me have a phone, or stay up late and watch TV. But now…” She trails off. “I just miss them.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. The words sound useless.
“She also made macarons…” She sighs wistfully. “Mom and Dad both loved macarons. Do you know what they are?”
“Um—they’re cookies, right?”
“They’re little French sandwich cookies, made with almonds and egg whites. You can make them with different colors and flavors in the middle. Though, I’ve never tried.”
“We should make them.”
“Maybe sometime.” She shrugs noncommittally. “Anyway, then over the last few weeks, the dreams changed. To the ones where I was in my old house but my parents couldn’t see me. The counselor thinks that I’m having the dreams because it’s been almost two years. Friday’s the anniversary of the accident.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. I mean, it hurts so much—every day.”
She stands and takes her plate to the sink. She seems to be feeling a little better after the cake, but hearing what she’s saying, I feel a whole lot worse.
“So what did the counselor tell you to do?” I ask, worried that I might say the wrong thing.
Violet’s eyes grow huge and haunted. “She says I have to face up to what happened. Face the fact that there are new people living in my old house now. So, I’ve decided that I need to go back there.”
“Go back? Won’t that make it even worse?”
“I don’t know. But it’s the only way I can think of to get closure.”
“Oh?” I puzzle over this. “And what does your aunt say?”
“I haven’t told her. Aunt Hilda struggles to talk about what happened—she tries, but it’s not easy. I mean, Mom was her sister. She’s taken me to put flowers on the grave a few times, but that was hard for both of us. I know she wants me to be happy living with her—and most of the time, I am.” She wipes away a stray tear. “I just want the dreams to go away. I want to be able to focus on the good memories, not the bad ones. I don’t know if going back there will help, but I’ve got to try something.”
I look away, concentrating on washing up our plates with sudsy warm water. It’s taking all my effort to be strong for her. “I want to help, Violet,” I say finally. “If there’s anything I can do, then you have to tell me. I mean, I had no idea. Maybe I should have…” The guilt floods into my chest but I force it away—this isn’t about me. “But really, I didn’t know you were going through this. I just thought it was ‘boy trouble.’”
“Oh, don’t worry, there’s that too,” she says. “So if you really want to help, then let’s make that shortbread.” There’s a tiny flicker of light back in her eyes. “I may as well find out sooner rather than later if there’s any hope of getting Fraser to notice I’m alive.”
“He’ll notice.” I put away the plates and go over to get our aprons.
Or else he’s toast, I don’t add.
Chapter 23
Icing Kisses and Chocolate Hearts
In the end, Rosemary’s kitchen works its magic, or maybe it’s the special recipe book, or just the fun we have making the orange and cranberry shortbread with piped-on white chocolate smiley faces (and a few hearts that I insist we do in spite of Violet’s reluctance)—but somehow, the hours go by, and it doesn’t even feel like time has passed at all. Violet seems back to her normal self, as if the “worry monsters” have stopped sniffing around for the moment.
We chat and laugh and lick the spoons and the bowl, and Violet draws a heart on my cheek with chocolate and I pipe some X’s and O’s on hers for luck with Fraser. We make a batch of millionaire’s shortbread, with a dark chocolate top and a thick layer of sea salt caramel. When I take a bite, I can’t believe how delicious it is—the shortbread flaky and the caramel rich and velvety.
“Is this the best we’ve ever done?” I ask Violet.
“Mm-hmm.” She nods, chewing and smiling at the same time.
By the time the shortbread is finished, and we’ve cleaned up the kitchen, it’s after nine. We go through the hole in the wall back to the kitchen in my house and, all of a sudden, it’s like a chill wind from the real world has come rushing back.
“Uh-oh,” Violet says, checking the screen of her phone. “I have to get home. Aunt Hilda’s sent me three texts asking where I am.” She quickly types a reply that she’s on her way.
“Yeah, sorry. Do you want to take the cookies with you, or do you want me to bring them to school tomorrow?”
“I…don’t know.” Violet blinks, looking flustered.
“How about we invite him over tomorrow after school? You can surprise him.”
“Okay, maybe.” She gets her school bag and puts on her cardigan.
“You okay getting home?”
“Yeah. And Scarlett…” Her eyes are once again glassy with tears. “Thanks for everything. You know, especially for listening. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I feel a little better.”
“Good. I’m here if you need me.” I squeeze her hand. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Outside the warm glow of Rosemary’s kitchen, the words sound less certain than I’d like.
When Violet is gone, I take out my phone. In helping Violet with her crisis, I’d forgotten about my own problems—and forgotten to call Producer Poppy.
My sister is in the front room watching TV with Mom—some show about saving a vintage clothing shop somewhere. I pop in and bring them a plate of millionaire’s shortbread, leaving them in chocolate heaven while I go up to my room.
When my door is shut, I go to my desk and turn on my new computer. I deliberately avoid checking my emails—I’d been planning on writing a blog post on “cookie flavors for spring” and posting the photos of our scrumptious shortbread. But the words won’t come. Not until I know for sure what’s lurking in my inbox.
I click on the mail icon. Although I was expecting it, my throat constricts, making it hard to breathe. I open the new message from Dad:
Hi, Scarlett,
I hope you’re well. From the sound of things on your blog, you seem very excited about your mom’s wedding. I’m so pleased that everything has worked out for you all, and that all of you will be very happy. Maybe you think I’m just saying it because I should. But the truth is, I do wish you every happiness now and in the future.
Now I’m starting to sound like a greeting card, so I’ll stop. But speaking about your future, I want to set the record straight on something else. I know you saw the video your mom posted on her blog at the beginning, saying that I asked her for money. The way she said it—well—I know she was angry and out to gain a following, so maybe things were made to sound a little bit different than they really were. We’ve discussed it now—ask her if you don’t believe me.
Anger bubbles in my veins and I want to slam down the lid of t
he laptop. How dare he leave Mom, then try to make excuses so that he sounds like the person who was hurt by what happened! I want to write back—tell him to stop bugging me—to get out of my life. But instead, I keep reading:
Before you slam down the lid of the laptop, let me get to the point. I did ask her for money—I wanted to make sure we both put some money away for you and your sister. When her blog got going, I suggested that we each put money into an account. I told her to send me a check, and I’d take care of it. She decided to do the vlog—telling her followers that now that her blog was successful I wanted a share of the money.
I don’t blame her. She was angry. I’d hurt everyone. She found a good way to get back at me. In the end, I opened savings accounts for you and your sister, and I put a little in each month. If you ever want or need money for anything, just ask and we’ll talk about it.
Love, Dad
The message ends and I do slam down the laptop lid. I’m crying and fuming, and I’m not really sure why. I don’t need to know the details of the money stuff—I get the idea. Dad wants me to think that he’s in the right, and Mom did something bad to him on her blog.
As if!
I put my head in my hands, and instead of sobbing, I start to laugh. Because the sad truth of it is, I can well imagine that every word Dad wrote is absolutely true.
Chapter 24
Twisted Truths
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I think about Violet and her nightmares. How brave she is to want to confront the bad things head-on. I think about “closure,” and the “worry monsters” and wonder if this whole thing with Dad is something that I—and maybe Mom too—need to confront before we can move on. But try as I might, the fear won’t go away. Fear of all the changes and the stuff I can’t control.
At some point, Kelsie comes upstairs for bed. She sticks her head into my room and asks if she can have another piece of shortbread tomorrow for her lunch. Her chin has a little smear of chocolate on it.
“Sure,” I mutter, wishing I was as clueless as my sister, who just seems to bump along with everything that happens, enjoying the presents and the attention from our long-lost dad.
When Kelsie’s in her room, I swing out of bed. There’s nothing I can do—I have to talk to Mom. I pace my room, trying to gather my courage and think about what I’m going to say. That for all these years I’ve been hating Dad in part based on the lies Mom’s told me. How many more truths did she twist for the purposes of her blog and her followers? I thought that was all behind us now, that we’d worked through how we both felt about what she did—my feeling that she was wrong to write about me in a way that embarrassed me and made me lose confidence; her view was that she did it to earn money for the family—but I see now that I wasn’t the only person who was hurt by what she did. Is this newfound “friendship” with Dad her way of apologizing for the lies she told? Or is she trying to turn back the clock and get back with him? How many more people will she end up hurting in the process?
I slip out of my room and start going down the stairs. But halfway down I hear voices coming from the kitchen. Mom—and Em-K. I hesitate, not wanting to get in the middle of a lovers’ tiff—or reunion.
“And you’ve seen him since he’s been back?” Em-K’s voice sounds unusually high-pitched.
“Oh, once,” Mom says breezily. “Maybe twice.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“What’s the matter? Are you jealous?” Mom’s voice is low, almost like she’s purring.
“Should I be?”
Mom laughs. “A little competition is healthy, don’t you think?”
“With the wedding coming up so soon, I’m not sure.”
“Hey…” Mom stops laughing. “Don’t be like that.”
I creep down another step.
“He hurt you, remember?” Em-K says. “You told me you were glad he was gone—that you never wanted to see him again.”
There’s the sound of a cork popping out of a wine bottle, and the glug of liquid pouring into two glasses.
“He’s back in town. Living here,” Mom says. “I can’t just pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s their father.”
“He wasn’t too interested in all that when he left, was he? Or in the years afterward. So why now?”
“He’s from here—knows people. Besides, he’s a grown man. He’s got the right to live where he wants.”
“I just don’t want him spoiling things, that’s all.”
“He just wants to see the kids—that’s it.” Mom sounds desperate to convince him. “And I owe him that, surely.”
“Do you? Why?”
The breath freezes in my chest.
“Well, I didn’t exactly paint him in the best light on the blog, did I? You know, I sort of embellished the bad stuff.” A glass clunks down on the table. “I told him that if he wants, he can set the record straight with Scarlett. Let her know the truth.”
There’s a silence for a few seconds. Then Em-K speaks again, his tone lighter, almost playful. “Remind me never to cross you. I wouldn’t want your followers sending my career down in flames.”
Mom laughs. “Don’t worry. I plan on reminding you…as often as I need to.”
The conversation stops as the glasses clink together. I’ve heard more than enough. Way more. I creep back up the stairs to my room and bury my head underneath the pillow.
Chapter 25
Facing Up
When I wake up the next morning, my head hurts. Mom feeling guilty for what she did to Dad. Dad wanting to “set the record straight” and come back into our lives—just before Mom’s wedding to Em-K. And Mom twisting the truth to Em-K about how often she’s been in touch with Dad.
Then, as I’m walking to school, Producer Poppy phones again. I stop and look down at the lit-up screen, listening to it ring and ring, until finally it stops. I know I need to speak to her, but I just can’t face it right now. And then there’s Violet…she’s left me a message too.
Not feeling so good. Can you ring me?
I scroll through my contacts past the numbers for Alison, Gretchen, Nick…and Violet. The cursor hovers over “Fraser S.” I hit the call button.
“Hello,” he answers on the fifth ring. There’s the sound of traffic in the background. “Scarlett, is that you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wanted to catch you before school. Can you come over after school, around four thirty? It’s…kind of a special thing.”
“Well, yeah, I guess so.”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay? It will be our secret.”
“Sure, but…”
I end the call. Let him think what he likes. The only thing I really need is for him to turn up.
* * *
But when I get to school, I worry that I’ve made a mistake. Violet looks a mess. “I didn’t sleep,” she admits. “I woke up again with nightmares. Mom was in the house, opening all the cupboards, looking for me. I tried to call out, but she couldn’t hear me. And then when she turned around, her face…it was…” She shudders. “It was so awful. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even feel like drawing. I just lay there, staring at nothing. I kept thinking about Fraser—how he probably doesn’t even know what happened to my parents. When he finds out, he’ll think I’m some kind of nutcase or something.”
She breaks off, her eyes clouded with tears.
“Hey, look,” I say, “you don’t have to tell him anything if you don’t want to. And we’re going to sort it out. I promise.”
“I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t see how…”
“Go home first. I’ll see you about five.”
Just as well I told Fraser to turn up at four thirty.
* * *
In the end, Fraser is late and Violet is early, so they both arrive at the same time. Violet looks a little
better—there’s a surprised glow about her as she stands next to Fraser on the doorstep and I let them both in. We go through to Rosemary’s kitchen, where I’ve laid out both types of shortbread cookies we made for Fraser on a plate, and have poured milk into three tumblers.
“Cool,” Fraser says. “When did you make these?”
“Yesterday. We thought we’d try a Scottish recipe,” Violet says. I’m relieved to see that she’s not tongue-tied with nerves. In fact, she seems calm and in control—much more than usual.
“It was practice for the wedding menu,” I add quickly. “Mom likes shortbread, so I thought we could make them for the tea cookies.”
Fraser looks at Violet and takes one of the orange and cranberry cookies with a chocolate smiley face. “Delicious.” He smiles. Her pale face flushes as she quickly hands him another one.
“We thought you’d be the best person to judge them,” she says. “Because you’re Scottish and all.”
The conversation isn’t exactly flowing, but the fact that Alison isn’t here means that at least Fraser is focusing on Violet.
“Are you up for trying to make macarons today?” I say to Violet. “I found a recipe.”
She gives me a long look. “Yeah, I think that would be…good.”
“Those are the French cookies, right?” Fraser says. “I’ve never had them before.” He reaches for another shortbread.
Violet takes her sketchbook out of her bag and opens it. The page is covered in little round cookies in all different flavors and colors. “They were my mom’s favorite,” she says softly. “Maybe we can make them for the school cafeteria. In memory of her.”
“In memory?” Though he’s about to bite into the cookie, he lowers his hand. I look at her in surprise.
Violet inhales deeply. “Two years ago, something really bad happened…”
Fraser stops eating and listens as she tells him a short version of what happened. I watch his face—and I know she was right to tell him. It’s something that’s part of her, and will either scare him away, or prove that he’s more than just “nice” on the outside. Still, I can’t believe she’s being so brave—I certainly wouldn’t be.
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