She started to feel light-headed. It was like being underwater, this pressure against her eyes and ears, always followed by sparkling confetti swimming along her periphery.
She’d been having these anxiety attacks ever since her mother died. It was easy enough to hide them from Merry, her mother’s best friend, with whom Emily had lived for the past four months. All she had to do was close her bedroom door. And at school, her teachers would turn a blind eye when she stayed in the girls’ restroom, sitting on the floor by the sinks trying to catch her breath, instead of coming to class.
The business end of Main Street was lined with benches, so she made it to the nearest one and sat. She’d broken out into a cold sweat. She wouldn’t faint. She wouldn’t.
She leaned forward and rested her chest against her thighs, her head down. The length of the thighbone is indicative of overall height. It was a random thought, something she remembered from physiology class.
A pair of expensive men’s loafers suddenly appeared on the sidewalk in front of her.
She slowly looked up. It was a young man about her age, wearing a white summer linen suit, the jacket pushed away from his hips by his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. He had on a red bow tie and his dark hair was curling around his starched collar. He was handsome in a well-bred kind of way, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play. She unexpectedly felt self-conscious in her shorts and racer-back tank top. Compared to him, she looked like she’d just come from a spin class.
He didn’t say anything to her at first, just stared at her. Then he finally, almost reluctantly, asked, “Are you all right?”
She didn’t understand. Everyone she’d met here so far treated her as if associating with her was going to hurt. She took a deep breath, the oxygen going to her head with the force of floodwater. “Fine, thanks,” she said.
“Are you sick?”
“Just light-headed.” She looked down at her feet, in ankle socks and cross-trainers, and seemed strangely detached from herself. Socks that only cover the ankle are not acceptable. Socks must be crew or knee socks only. So said the Roxley School for Girls handbook. She’d been at Roxley School all her school career. Her mother had helped found it, a school to empower girls, encouraging activism and volunteerism.
Silence. She looked up again and the young man was gone, like smoke. Had she been hallucinating? Maybe she’d conjured up some out-of-time Southern archetype to go along with her surroundings. After a few minutes, she put her elbows on her knees and lifted herself just slightly.
She felt someone take a seat beside her on the bench and she caught a nice, clean scent of cologne. The loud aluminum crack of a soda can being opened startled her, and she sat all the way up with a jerk.
The young man in the white linen suit had returned. He was sitting beside her now, extending a can of Coke.
“Go on,” he said. “Take it.”
She reached for the can, her hand shaking slightly. She took a long drink and it was cold, sweet, and so sharp it made her tongue burn. She couldn’t remember the last time something had tasted this good. She couldn’t stop drinking. In no time she had emptied the can.
When she finished, breathless, she closed her eyes and pressed the cold can against her forehead. When was the last time she’d had something to drink? When she thought back, it was long before she’d gotten on the bus in Boston yesterday.
She heard a crackling of paper. The young man said, “Don’t be alarmed,” and she felt something cold on the back of her neck. Freezing. Her hand went instantly to her neck, covering his hand with hers.
“What is that?” she demanded.
“I believe it’s a Creamsicle,” he said, leaning back to look at it. “It was the first thing I grabbed from the freezer in the general store.”
For the first time, she noticed that they were sitting in front of a deliberately old-fashioned place called Zim’s General Store. The door was propped open and Emily could see large barrels of candy near the cash register, and an entire wall of vintage reproduction tin signs in the back.
“It’s mostly for the tourists, so it’s been a long time since I’ve been in there,” he said. “But it still smells like cinnamon and floor polish. Are you still with me? How are you feeling?”
She turned back to him and realized just how close he was, close enough to see that his ivy-green irises were rimmed in black. Strangely, she thought she could actually feel him, feel a sort of energy emanating from him, like heat from a fire. He was so odd and lovely. For a moment, she was completely under his spell. She’d been staring at him for a while before she realized what she was doing. Then she also realized her hand was still on his on her neck. She slowly moved her hand and shifted away. “I’m fine now. Thank you.”
He took the paper-covered Creamsicle off her neck and held it out to her, but she shook her head. He shrugged and unwrapped it. He took a bite as he sat back and crossed his legs, studying the store in front of them. She almost wished she’d taken the Creamsicle now. It looked delicious—cool vanilla and sharp bright orange.
“I’m Emily Benedict,” she said, extending her hand.
He didn’t turn to her, nor did he take her hand. “I know who you are.” He took another bite of the Creamsicle.
Emily’s hand fell to her lap. “You do?”
“I’m Win Coffey. My uncle was Logan Coffey.”
She looked at him blankly. This was obviously something he thought she should know. “I just moved here.”
“Your mother didn’t tell you?”
Her mother? What did her mother have to do with this? “Tell me what?”
He finally turned to her. “Good God. You really don’t know.”
“Know what?” This was beginning to concern her.
He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time. “Nothing,” he finally said as he threw away what was left of the Creamsicle in a receptacle by the bench, then stood. “If you’re not feeling well enough to walk home on your own, I can call our driver to take you.”
“I’ll be fine.” She lifted the can slightly. “Thank you for the Coke.”
He hesitated. “I’m sorry I refused to shake your hand. Forgive me.” He held out his hand. Confused, she took it. She was immediately shocked by the warmth of him, stretching out to her like wandering vines. He made her feel tangled in him, somehow. It wasn’t exactly a bad feeling, just strange.
He released her hand and she watched him walk down the sidewalk. His skin almost glowed in the morning summer sun, which was slanting across the buildings in blinding golds and tangerines. He looked so alive, shining with it.
For a moment, she couldn’t look away.
“Emily?”
She turned and saw her giant grandfather walking toward her carrying a paper bag. People were parting on the sidewalk, watching him in awe. She could tell he was trying not to notice, but his enormous shoulders were hunched, as if attempting to make himself smaller.
She stood and tossed the can of Coke into a nearby recycling container. Vance came to a stop in front of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I thought I’d meet you so we could walk home together.”
The look on his face was almost indecipherable, but if she had to guess, she’d just made him sad. She was horrified.
“I’m sorry,” she immediately said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Was that Win Coffey you were talking to?”
“Do you know him?”
Vance stared down the sidewalk. Emily couldn’t see Win anymore, but Vance’s height obviously gave him an advantage. “Yes, I know him,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
“I’m sorry, Grandpa Vance.”
“Don’t apologize, child. You did nothing wrong. Here, I brought you an egg sandwich from the restaurant.” He handed the bag to her.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and put one impossibly long arm around her, then walked her home in silence.
Chapter 3
You’ll n
ever guess who I met today,” Win Coffey said as he stood in front of the large sitting room window and watched a whale of gray sky swallow the pink evening light.
There was a sound of ticking heels on the white marble floor of the foyer, and Win could see the reflection of his mother as she entered the room, followed by Win’s younger sister. His mother sat beside his father on the couch, and his sister crossed the room to the settee.
Win’s father, Morgan, folded his newspaper and set it aside. He took off his reading glasses and focused on Win, not his wife. It had been a long time since Win’s parents had really looked at each other. They seemed like ghosts to each other now, only ever seen out of the corners of their eyes. “Who did you meet?”
Right on schedule, the blinds began to automatically lower in the sitting room. Win waited until the window was completely covered, shutting out his view, before turning around. The room smelled of cold oranges and was filled with antique furniture—Federal-style highboys and couches tastefully upholstered in blue and gray florals. It was just so old, so familiar. Nothing ever changed. “Emily Benedict.”
Her name was instantly recognized. His father’s anger was sudden and tangible. It charged the air with hot currents.
Win silently returned his father’s stare, not backing down. It was something Morgan himself had taught him. And they had been butting heads enough lately that this was a familiar dance.
“Win, you know my brother would be alive today if it weren’t for her mother,” Morgan said tightly. “And our secret would still be safe.”
“No one in town has ever said a word about that night,” Win said calmly.
“But they know. That puts us at their mercy.” Morgan used his reading glasses to point at Win. “And no one should be more angry than you, the first generation to grow up with everyone knowing, with everyone looking at you differently.”
Win sighed. It was something his father could never understand. Win wasn’t angry. If anything, he was frustrated. If everyone knew, why did no one talk about it? Why did his family still stay in at night? Why did they cling to traditions that simply didn’t make sense anymore? If people looked at Win differently, it was because of that, not because of the story of some strange affliction the Coffeys had, seen only once, over twenty years ago. Who was to say things couldn’t be different now? No one had even tried.
“I don’t think Emily knows,” Win said. “I don’t think her mother told her.”
“Stop,” his father warned. “Whatever you’re thinking. Stop. Emily Benedict is off-limits. End of discussion.”
A woman in a white dress and apron entered the room, carrying a tray with a silver tea service. Win’s father gave him a look that meant Be quiet now. They rarely talked about it among themselves—in fact Win sometimes thought his mother had even forgotten and she seemed strangely happier that way—but they never, ever talked about it in front of the help.
Win turned and walked over to where his sister, Kylie, was sitting in the far corner of the room. She had her phone out and was texting someone. This was traditionally reading time in the Coffey household, at dusk, just before dinner. It was an old family tradition, dating back hundreds of years, structuring their time at night when they were all forced to stay inside because of their secret, even on beautiful summer nights like this one. Win didn’t see the point of it now, and he was itching to go outside. He’d felt this building for months now. He didn’t want to sneak around like there was something wrong with him anymore.
He sat beside his sister and watched her ignore him for a few minutes. Win was almost two years older than Kylie, and when they were kids, she used to follow him around relentlessly. She was about to turn sixteen and she still followed him, either to vex him or to protect him. He wasn’t sure which. He wasn’t sure she knew, either. “You shouldn’t test him,” Kylie said. “If I were you, I’d stay far, far away from that girl.”
“Maybe I’m just getting to know my enemy.” It was unsettling, his unexpected fascination with Emily, with her unruly blond hair and the sharp edges of her face and body. When they’d shaken hands that morning, he hadn’t wanted to let go. There was something vulnerable about her, something soft under those sharp edges. He’d been thinking about her all day. It had to be more than a coincidence, Dulcie Shelby’s daughter coming to town at the same time he was having issues with the way his family chose to live. Maybe it was a sign.
Yes. That was it.
It had to be a sign.
“I’m going out again tonight,” he said suddenly. “Don’t tell Dad. And don’t follow me.”
Kylie rolled her eyes. “Why do you keep trying? I can tell you from experience, it’s not all that great.”
“What?”
“Being ordinary.”
“JULIA! WILL you get the door please?” Stella called from downstairs that same evening, just as Julia was taking her second attempt at madeleines out of the oven. She frowned at the pan. Still no good.
Stella bellowed again, “Julia! It’s Sawyer, and I’m in the bathtub!”
Julia sighed. She’d already seen Sawyer once today. That was enough. The key to getting out of this stay in Mullaby un-scathed was not associating with him.
Julia wiped her hands on her jeans and went downstairs with hard, Godzilla footfalls on the steps to annoy Stella, whose bathroom was directly under the staircase. Through the sheer curtains on the front door window, she could see a figure haloed by the porch light.
She took a deep breath and opened the door. But she smiled in relief when she saw who it was.
Emily shifted from one foot to the other. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing that morning, black shorts and a black tank top, and her quirky blond hair shone like meringue in the light by the door. “Hi, Julia,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No. No, of course not.” She stepped back and waved Emily in. When Julia had told her that she’d be here if Emily ever needed her, she didn’t think she’d take her up on her offer so soon. Still, as Julia watched the girl look around awkwardly, her heart went out to her. It was never easy being the outsider, especially when it wasn’t by choice.
“You have a nice house,” Emily said. Stella’s part of the house was warm and lovely, thanks to her decorator mother—golden wood floors, lively flower arrangements, original artwork, and a striped silk couch she wouldn’t let anyone sit on.
“It’s not mine. It belongs to my friend Stella. I have the apartment upstairs.”
As if on cue, Stella yelled, “Hello, Sawyer! I’m wearing nothing but steam, want to see?”
“It’s not Sawyer,” Julia called to her. “I can’t believe you’re waiting for him in the bathtub. Get out before you turn into a prune.” Emily’s brows rose and Julia said, “That’s Stella. Don’t ask. Come on, I’ll show you my part of the house.” She started up the stairs and motioned Emily to follow.
At the top of the staircase, Julia had to step back in the narrow hallway to let Emily enter, then she reached around her to close the door.
“Just let me turn off the stove,” she said as she walked to the bedroom that had been turned into a tiny kitchen. There was a mood of magic and frenzy to the room. Crystalline swirls of sugar and flour still lingered in the air like kite tails. And then there was the smell—the smell of hope, the kind of smell that brought people home. Tonight it was the comfort of browning butter and the excitement of lemon zest.
The window in the room was wide open, because that was the way Julia always baked. Bottling up the smell made no sense. The message needed some way out.
“What are you making?” Emily asked from the doorway as Julia turned off the stove.
“I experiment with recipes here before I make them for the restaurant. My madeleines aren’t up to snuff yet.” Julia picked up a madeleine from her first batch. “See? Madeleines should have a distinct hump on this side. This is too flat. I don’t think I refrigerated my batter long enough.” She took Emily’s hand and plac
ed the small spongy cake in her palm. “This is how the French serve madeleines, with the shell side down, like a boat. In America, we like to see the pretty shell side from the shape of the madeleine pan, so we serve them this way.” She turned the madeleine over. “Go on, try it.”
Emily took a bite and smiled. She covered her lips with her hand and said, her mouth full, “You’re a really good cook.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice. I’ve been baking since I was sixteen.”
“It must be nice to have such a gift.”
Julia shrugged. “I can’t take credit for it. Someone else gave it to me.” Sometimes she resented the fact that she never would have found this skill on her own, that she had only discovered what she was truly good at because of someone else. She had to keep reminding herself that it didn’t matter how the skill got there, it was what she did with it, the love that came out of it, that mattered. Emily looked like she was going to ask what Julia meant, so Julia quickly said, “How was your first full day here?”
One more bite and Emily had finished the madeleine. She took a moment to chew and swallow, then said, “I guess I’m confused.”
Julia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a hip against the ancient, olive-drab refrigerator. “About what?”
“About why my mom left. About why she didn’t stay in touch with people here. Did she have friends? What was she like when she lived here?”
Julia paused with surprise. Emily had a lot to learn about this town, about the havoc her mother had wreaked. But Julia certainly wasn’t going to be the one who told her. “Like I said, I didn’t know her well,” Julia said carefully. “We weren’t in the same social group in school, and I had my own problems at the time. Have you talked to your grandfather? He’s the one you should ask.”
“No.” Emily tucked back some of her short, flyaway hair. Her whole demeanor was so achingly sincere. “He’s been hiding in his room all day. Did he and my mom not get along? Do you think that’s why she never came back?”
“No, I don’t think that’s it. Everyone gets along with Vance. Come sit down.” Julia put her arm around Emily’s shoulder and led her out of the kitchen bedroom and into the living room bedroom. This room contained the only nice thing in her apartment—a royal blue love seat Stella’s mother had given her from her decorator’s showroom. There was also a television on an old coffee table and a rickety bookcase full of pots and pans—overflow from the kitchen. Julia had put most of her stuff in Baltimore in storage when she’d moved here, and brought only her clothes and her cooking supplies, so there wasn’t much to the apartment. It was shabby and sparse, which was fine with her. There was no sense in getting comfortable. When they sat down, Julia said, “All I can tell you is that your mother was the most beautiful, popular girl in school. She made it seem effortless. Perfect clothes. Perfect hair. Supremely confident. She was in a group that called themselves Sassafras, made up of girls in school whose families had money. I wasn’t one of them.”
Sarah Addison Allen Page 3
