The old-fashioned screen door with scrolled aluminum and embossed letter L makes me grin. This place is a trip. When I raise my knuckles and rap on the door, the thing rattles like someone playing a washboard.
Clopping footfalls and the jangle of locks announce the arrival of a tall Black woman with startling eyes and skeleton earrings that dangle to her shoulders.
“Are you Stella Mouton?”
“No, I’m Pen, her personal attaché and spiritual advisor—” She delivers with no trace of irony. “But more importantly, who are you?” Her smile is surface only but her eyes are expectant.
“I’m Lark Beinvenue—” At my name her costume lashes shutter like a high-end camera. “And I’m interested in the room—if it’s still available.”
Her face illuminates and a genuine smile stretches wide. “Of course, you are,” she purrs in a way that’s slightly frightening. “Do come in.”
But instead of letting me enter on my own, she grabs me by the forearm and hauls me inside with surprising strength.
“Stella’s not here at the moment, but she’ll be back soon.”
I find myself at the foot of an imposing staircase in an entry hall that opens to the second floor. Pen’s words echo in the vast space, but it doesn’t feel empty. The house smells like Lemon Pledge and gumbo filé. Homey and lived in.
“This is some house.”
“Mhm hmm.”
Instead of admiring the high ceilings and tall windows like I am, Pen is clocking me. At first, I think she’s checking me out, and I fight to harness my grin, but then I realize she’s not looking at me. She’s looking… around me.
“Is something wrong?” I have the sudden urge to brush off my shoulders and check my hair for spiders. Or dandruff.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Pen says, still tracing my outline with her strange stare.
“O… kay…”
I shift on my feet. Clear my throat.
“Um… is there still a room available, because if not, I need to—”
“There’s still one available. It has a great view of the cemetery.”
“Uh… That’s…” I close my mouth because I have zero response. This Pen woman may be attractive—even beautiful—but she is fucking weird. “Do you live here?”
She nods briskly, finally bringing her gaze back to mine. “In the attic.”
“Right.”
Silence.
“Does anyone else live here?”
She bursts out laughing. “Of course. There’s Tyler who’s on the other side of the kitchen.” She gestures over her shoulder with her thumb. “Don’t be offended if he doesn’t say much. It’s the head trauma—”
“Wha—”
“And Nina moved in Tuesday.” She points upstairs, and her expression sobers. “I’m a little worried about her. Well, not her, but whoever gave her that black eye. She won’t talk about it, but I think she’s afraid he’ll come looking for her.”
“That’s—”
“Livy moves in this weekend.” At this her amber eyes soften, but then she whips out a scowl. “But hands off. I called dibs on her already. Besides, she’ll probably yell at you because you’re white.”
“I—”
“Maisy’s an angel—most of the time.” She looks down her nose to give me a pointed look. “Unless she’s being a little hellion and using your Tarot cards to play Go Fish.”
“Tarot cards?”
Pen narrows her eyes at me. “Have you ever had a reading? Because I’m getting a distinct Eight of Cups vibe.”
“I think I should go,” I say, backing toward the door.
Pen frowns. “But you haven’t even seen the room yet.”
“Yeah… you know...” I reach back and grip the door knob. Maybe Maggie has gotten over the haircut fiasco. I should at least check on her. Bring her some flowers. “That’s—”
An electric whir vibrates through the air. Pen gasps with excitement.
“That’s Stella. She’s home. C’mon.” She grabs me by the wrist and tugs. When I don’t budge, she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Don’t you want to meet her? Her grandma left her this fabulous house, which is the universe’s way of maintaining equilibrium because Stella’s life has been pretty shitty up to now.”
“I think I’ll pa—”
“She’s my best friend in the world, and luckily, she’s nothing like me.”
This is the first thing she’s said that’s not mildly terrifying.
“Oh?”
She nods. “Like I said, equilibrium.”
I need to figure out what I’m doing tonight. Would it be financially irresponsible to stay in a hotel? Bear suggested driving to New Iberia and crashing at Mom and Dad’s, but there’d be no peace.
Since Bear and I moved out, Fawn claimed our old room, arguing that since she’s in college now too, she needs a quiet place to study. That left Kit and Starling rooming together and Pony and Drake still sharing a room and pissed about it. The way they see it, if two boys moved out, the empty room should’ve been passed to a boy.
So, if I go home, which would be insane, I’d still be sleeping on the couch. Except Mom would be there. I’ve managed to keep the breakup news from her, so I’d be sleeping on the couch in between interrogation sessions. Interrogation that would more closely resemble the Spanish Inquisition.
Pen’s still gripping my wrist, waiting.
This is a nut house. The home I grew up in is also a nut house. At least here, I’d have my own room.
“Okay.” I give a resigned nod and let Pen lead me through an old fashioned dining room with a formal dining table into a spacious kitchen. A barefoot kid a little older than Grayson sits at a table, swinging her legs as she colors. She’s eating a bag of Cheetos, and her fingers and the drawing are marked with orange dust.
Then again, she may actually be coloring with the orange dust.
The whirring sound starts up again, and I realize it’s a garage door.
“Maisy, say hi to Lark.”
The kid looks up and stares at me through thick glasses. They make her look bug-eyed, but even bug-eyed, she’s pretty cute.
“Lark sounds like bark.” She makes this pronouncement and stares at me, waiting.
“Maisy sounds like daisy.” Let it be noted for the record that I could have said crazy, but she’s just a kid. Besides, it’s not her fault she lives in a nut house.
“Everybody says that,” she mutters, unimpressed.
Damn. I should have gone with crazy.
“Either that or lazy,” she adds, sounding bored. Then she perks up. “Can I call you Bark?”
“No.”
Her brown eyes spark with mischief. “Okay, Bark.”
Sounds of a door opening and closing from the back of the house lead to heeled footsteps. The swinging door near the far corner opens, and—
Damn.
Green eyes the color of prehnite hit me as hard as the silicate itself. For a second, they are open, as translucent as green bottle glass, and then they focus on me and shut down.
“Who are you?”
Chapter Six
LARK
The drop-dead gorgeous woman is glaring at me, and I’ve just forgotten my name.
“This is Bark.” Maisy giggles. “Arf-arf!”
If she were Grayson, I’d give her a noogie, but at least her teasing jolts me out of my stupor.
“I’m Lark. I left you a message—”
“You left me two messages,” she says coolly. “Aside from blowing up my phone three other times.”
Sweat prickles the back of my neck.
“Stella—” As weird as she is, Pen’s horrified reaction is a comfort.
“Yeah, I did. Sorry about that.” I palm the back of my neck and discover that my pits are sweating too. I drop my arm. “This was a waste of time. Sorry to disturb.”
I’m aiming for the front door when Pen blocks my path, shooting her arms into a T.
“Wait. Don’t go yet.” Sh
e peers over my shoulder, glaring at Stella behind me. “What are you doing? Why are you being so rude?”
“That weren’t good manners, Mama,” Maisy tacks on.
“Those. Those weren’t good manners,” Stella corrects with a huff. She looks at her daughter for a good three seconds and then sighs. “But you’re right. I wasn’t using my manners. I’m sorry.”
I notice she says this more to Maisy than to me, but that’s okay. I see what she's about. She can keep her apology. And her room.
But then she holds up her hand to me as though she’s making a pledge. “I am sorry.” And this time it sounds like she might mean it. “Would you excuse us for just a moment, please?”
Before I can answer, she grabs her friend Pen by the arm and drags her toward the front of the house.
“Don’t move,” Pen calls back to me.
I’d rather not stick around, but they’re blocking the path toward the front door. Maybe the kid knows another way out.
When I glance at her, I find her staring at me with those brown bug eyes.
“Mama doesn’t like boys,” she says. Then shrugs. “Except Uncle Tyler.”
I wonder if Uncle Tyler is really her uncle or—
“And Nunu,” she adds, breaking into an adorable grin.
I can’t help myself. “Who’s Nunu?” My money’s on a cat.
She turns her attention back to her coloring. “He’s in my class.”
“You have a classmate named Nunu?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“Nunu.” I mutter, marveling. “And I thought Lark was bad.”
“His real name is Newton.”
“That’s not much better.”
She peeks back up at me, and I recognize the disapproving look she gave her mother. “My Nanna said it’s not nice to make fun of somefin’ if somebody can’t change what it is.” She wipes her nose and waits for a response. Those big eyes make me feel a little guilty for saying anything against Nunu, a.k.a, Newton.
“You’re right,” I say with a nod. “You’re Nanna sounds smart.”
Maisy bunches her lips and lowers her gaze. “Yeah, but she died.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
The kid doesn’t say anything. Instead she turns back to her drawing, but I notice bright spots of color on each cheek. I sure hope she doesn’t start crying. That would be hard to explain.
“Pen says Nanna’s in heaven, but Mama says no one knows what happens after we die.”
I almost choke.
Wow. That’s some harsh reality to lay on a kid her age. I can’t imagine Maggie and Bear saying that to Grayson. Of course, they never would since they’d never question resurrection.
The kid keeps coloring like she didn’t just gloss over the most defining mystery of human existence.
“Uncle T says that when he hurt his head, it was aaaaaallll black,” she babbles, stretching out her arms as she draws out the word. “Like in hide-and-seek when you go to the closet under the stairs.”
Out of nowhere, I hear Dad telling me that in the moments after the blast in the salt mine, everything was just darkness. Darkness and terror.
She looks back up to me like she knows she’s lost my attention, so I nod, ignoring the echo of unease in my gut.
“And then there was one star.” The kid holds up her pointer finger with the seriousness of someone forty years older than she is. Her big eyes widen even bigger. “And it grew and grew and grew and grew and Uncle Tyler floated up to the ceiling.” She ends this dramatic testimony with a casual shrug.
“And then what happened?” She may be a preschooler, but she sure knows how to build suspense.
She eyes me with impatience. “He saw Mama crying, so he came back down.” With that tone, she might as well tack on a Duh for good measure.
I wonder if her uncle has nightmares like Dad. If he wakes up screaming.
I don’t wonder long because I pick up a scrap of talk from the front of the house.
“But his name is Lark Bienvenu.” Pen’s voice rises. “It literally means welcome bird. You can’t ignore that.”
“I don’t care what it means. I don’t want a man living here.”
Someone blows a raspberry. “Tyler lives here.”
“That’s different. He’s my brother.”
“What if Uncle Booty needed a place to stay?”
“Again, that’s different. He’s your uncle.”
Pen snorts. “Are you telling me you’d let my Uncle Booty—my UNCLE BOOTY—move in here before that college kid?”
College kid? Is she talking about me? I may be in college, but I’ve never been a college kid. Not even freshman year. I’d already put in twelve months in the salt mine.
Twelve months in a mine is like six years above ground.
“He’s been arrested three times,” Pen says, her voice climbing.
“All misdemeanors.” But I can tell that Stella Mouton isn’t even convincing herself. “Okay, fine. I don’t really want Uncle Booty—I mean your Uncle Lawrence—living here.”
Pen snickers, and it sounds like victory.
Stella’s voice lowers, but I can still make out what she says. “That doesn’t mean I want him here, either.”
“Because he’s hot,” Pen retorts.
My chest swells.
“Keep your voice down,” Stella hisses. “And he is not.”
I keep my shoulders back. I refuse to let them dip.
Pen snickers again. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember what I said.” Her tone is teasing.
“Nonsense? As usual?” Stella fires back.
“Hey. You don’t have to get mean.”
Silence.
“Sorry.”
More silence.
“I mean it. I’m sorry.”
Even more silence.
“Are you sure you mean it?” Pen’s question is like a loaded gun.
Even from this distance, I catch the sigh. “Yes. I mean it.”
“Then answer me one question.”
“Yeah?”
The silence stretches so long, I think I’ve missed something.
“The guy said he needs a place to stay. What would Nanna do?”
“Goddammit.”
Heavy stomping follows this curse, and then Stella Mouton is standing in front of me again, glowering.
She whips her shining mane of honey brown hair over her shoulder. Her green eyes snap. “You want to see the room?” She might as well be kicking my kneecaps. I should tell her what she can do with her room.
But I don’t. Maybe I can’t.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. And then because I cringe at how eager I sound, I tack on, “It’s gotta be better than my brother’s couch.”
Stella Mouton’s glowering eyes narrow to slits, and I can tell she doesn’t appreciate my attitude.
Good.
For whatever reason, I rattle her. If I lived here, I could rattle her all the time. The scowl she’s giving me right now makes that oddly gratifying.
“Follow me.”
She leaves the kitchen without another word, so I follow. We pass Pen who’s still standing by the front door, surprised triumph written all over her face.
Stella takes the stairs at just under a jog. I’d be lying if I denied that I feel an animal’s instinct to give chase. But since I do, I deliberately drag my feet as I follow. I also keep my eyes on the steps beneath me instead of her bare legs that flash at me from the hem of her dress to the heels of her shoes. Her calves look like they could cut glass.
But I’m not looking.
She’s at the landing before I’m halfway there, and I can practically feel Pen breathing down my neck. She’s about as subtle as a landslide.
The stairs open onto a balcony lined with shut doors before banking left and ascending to a third floor. Stella stops right in front of the first door. “This is Nina. She’s not to be disturbed.”
I nod, but when she stares at me, clearly waiting for verbal acknowledgment,
I mutter, “Got it.”
“Bathroom,” she says, pointing to the middle door. I nod again.
Stella opens the next door. The bedroom is bigger than I expected. Brighter too. A white, wrought iron double bed is centered in front of two windows. At its foot is a cedar chest with a flat, polished lid.
My first thought is that my specimen collection would fit on it just right.
A tall dresser, a night stand, and a pale peach antique-looking chair don’t do much to fill up the space, so there’s room for at least some of my things that are still at the apartment.
My weight bench. It won’t complement the decor, but screw that.
My bookshelf. My microwave.
My TV. Zoe might pitch a fit, but I bought that 55-inch Vizio last summer, and I’m not about to leave it there.
We got the couch and the coffee table together. She can keep that. She can have everything else in the kitchen too.
“Breakfast is covered in your rent,” Pen says, breaking the silence.
I look back at her and find Stella giving her the evil eye.
“Really?”
The two women have a stare-off before Stella rolls her eyes.
“Yes.”
“What about the kitchen? Is it communal space?”
Stella nods slowly, but I can see she’s thinking. “I’m buying a second fridge for my tenants. They’ll each have a shelf and a drawer in it.”
Pen’s surprised look of appraisal confirms that Stella just came up with this idea.
“And designated pantry space,” Stella adds.
It’s my turn to nod. “And laundry?”
“Included,” she says without hesitation. “Everything on the first floor except our bedrooms is communal space.”
That doesn’t matter so much to me. I don’t really see myself hanging out with any of these people just for the hell of it. I need a place to sleep and study. I just need it now.
“Is there a lease? Or can I rent month-to-month?”
Stella’s eyes brighten. “You only need a month?”
I shrug. “For now.”
I have mixed feelings about her grin. It’s damn pretty, but it makes my stomach hurt. She doesn’t want me here, and she’s not trying to hide it.
Dream House Page 7
