I rolled my eyes once when I was a sophomore in high school during the abortion prayer, and Mom has glared at me every time since, as though daring me to do it again.
Thank God—or whoever—that we have a lot of property and a walk along the Teche after Sunday dinner has been my saving grace for as long as I can remember. The Sweet Olives along the bank are just starting to bloom. Their scent isn’t strong yet, but it still was enough to make me think of Stella.
When I pull into her drive, I notice the garage is open and her beat up Accord is gone. I shouldn’t notice this. Like not at all.
But I do. I also notice that it sucks.
Maybe I just need a workout. I drag myself inside and make out the unmistakable soundtrack of cartoons when I cut through the kitchen to grab a vitamin water.
Upstairs, Livy and Nina’s doors are closed, but their lights are on, so I’m guessing they’re both home. Some kind of rhythmic thumping overhead tells me that Madame Weird is home too.
Okay. I can deal with this. Drum circles and Cartoon Network are way better than Drake whining at the dinner table because he can’t have another serving of bread pudding. Or Kit and Starling hissing at each other about whose turn it is to empty the kitchen composter. Or Mom’s interrogation about all things cathedral.
It was pretty hard to elaborate on Father Carmichael’s homily when I took in barely a word of it. I wasn’t about to confess that this was because the taste of Stella Mouton’s buttery biscuit lingered on my tongue and the sight of her in those skin-tight yoga pants made my tongue ache to linger somewhere else.
Every time I’ve seen Stella this week, she’s been so put together. Hair shining like ribbons of chocolate and toffee. Makeup like she’s about to pose in front of a light ring. Dark patterned swing dresses and low heels showcasing lethal legs.
Like she’s a walking advertisement for the salon where she works. Want to set men’s heads on fire? Call Stella for a smokin’ new look.
But this morning?
With her hair twisted up in a messy bun, wavy tresses spilling out and framing her face, her skin soft and bare, her green eyes a little sleepy?
It was like a WELCOME sign when you’ve gotten used to seeing KEEP OUT. Like getting backstage passes to a kickass show you didn’t know you wanted to see. Like reaching out to touch a marble statue in a museum and finding it as warm as living flesh.
She looked so soft and touchable, I thought my knees would give.
This is the nonsense I’m thinking about while doing chest presses and dumbbell flyes. Stuff I should not be thinking about period, but especially not when I could lose focus and brain myself with a weight.
When I finish my sets, I grab the towel at the foot of my bench and wipe the sweat off my face.
Or I try too. But the towel is overdue for a wash.
Okay, maybe all of the towels I have to my name are a little overdue.
I pick through my dirty laundry for what Zoe would call my “whites,” toss everything in my canvas laundry bag, and head downstairs.
While the washer is filling with hot water, I hear the rumble of the garage door. My pulse quickens. I ignore it. Probably just a combo of workout fatigue and steam from the washer.
The door to the garage swings open, and Stella jumps when she sees me. “Oh! Hey.”
“Didn’t mean to spook you,” I say. Salon Stella is back. That’s not really a complaint. But what happened to Soft Stella?
She shuts the door behind her and frowns. “Something wrong?”
“Why are you dressed like that?” The question, blurted out in the tiny space of the mudroom shared by two virtual strangers sounds as ridiculous as it possibly could.
Stella’s perfect brows soar. “Excuse me?”
Sense opens my mouth to attempt something reasonable, but my brain isn’t up to the task. If I’ve let on that I just spent the last twenty minutes enumerating the superiority of Soft Stella versus Salon Stella, I’m going to have to move out. Or at least find a truck to step in front of.
“I… You look like you’re dressed for work.”
She pastes on a flat smile, one I’m sure she reserves for idiots. “Because I was at work.”
“Oh.” I manage to stop myself from asking why. I should probably also stop looking at her.
Stella frowns at me like I’m not okay. Maybe I’m not. And maybe asking is better than staring.
“You made that big breakfast for seven people and then went to work?” Because that seems like a lot.
Her frown eases, and she blinks. “Oh… yeah.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal but the corners of her mouth lift.
I grew up watching Mom feed our party of nine twice a day when school was in and three times a day on weekends and holidays. She wasn’t always solo. When she could wrangle us, we helped, but she never had to feed us and then go to work. Feeding and keeping us from killing each other or burning down the house was the work.
Still is.
But Stella is a single mom who’s also taking care of her disabled brother. And, clearly, she’s working on a Sunday.
Damn.
Her cheeks go rosy. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Just sounds like a busy day.”
Her laughter is a little manic. “Is there any other kind?”
Before I can respond, her phone trills. She snags it out of the pocket of her dress—the dress that keeps tugging my gaze down its length to those legs.
“Nina,” she mutters, reading the screen. Concern knits her brow, and she looks back up at me. “Sorry. I need to check on something.”
“Sure.” I watch her go, coming in from working on a Sunday and heading immediately to see to a tenant. It dawns on me that even though I’ve noticed her eyes, and her legs, and her dresses, I’m seeing Stella Mouton for the first time.
Five minutes later, I’m setting my foot on the bottom stair when I hear a familiar sound.
Girl-crying.
Shit.
I should just keep right on climbing—with three sisters, I’m immune to the sound—but I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’m pretty sure the crier is Nina, my roommate with the fading black eye who seems terrified every time I glance at her. Maybe it’s because I’ve brought two women to tears in the last week, and I should try to help someone stop crying for a change. Or maybe it’s because my guess is that if I don’t do something to help, then Stella, the woman who cooked me a breakfast I didn’t eat on a Sunday morning when she had to work, is going to be the one on cleanup duty here. All on her own.
Whatever the reason, I pause on the third step and listen.
“You’ve blocked him on your phone and on social media?” This is Stella, and it’s clear she’s talking about the asshole who gave Nina that shiner.
“Yeah.” The word is more wet breath than voice. “But he has friends who know me.”
“Hmph. If they’re sharing any of your business with him, they aren’t your friends.” Stella’s voice is steely. The wisdom in her words sounds an awful lot like personal experience.
My left hand might tighten on the banister.
“You’re allowed to block them too, you know.”
This comment is met by a hiccupping exhale.
“We’ve been together so long, all of my friends are his and all of his friends are mine.”
“Not me. I’m just your friend,” Stella says, her voice somehow light and strong at the same time.
I smile.
And then guilt gnaws a hole in my conscience. I’ve stood here just a minute, but it’s beginning to feel like spying and not so much like helping.
Chances are, any offer of help I give Stella will rebuff. And she’ll have to be the one to rebuff because Nina will just look at me like I’m the Big Bad Wolf, so I might as well just head back up to my room.
But I don’t. Instead I find myself stepping loudly down the bottom two stairs so they know I’m coming before I lean into the archway of Stel
la’s little vintage sitting room off the entryway.
Both women eye me, Nina with wet cheeks and nose, eyes full of apprehension. Stella with open annoyance.
“Apologies for eavesdropping, but is there anything I can do?”
Surprise overrides Stella’s look of irritation for a second. But I don’t miss the fact that her gaze flits down and then back up my torso. I’m still in my workout shorts and cut off shirt. It’s a little sweaty. Is she grossed out? Turned on?
Her expression reveals nothing.
Damn.
“Like what?” she asks pointedly.
It takes a second for me to remember what she’s responding to.
“You mean… what can I do?”
Her annoyance returns, and I’m not loving the way she cloaks it with a paper-thin smile.
“Yeah. If you’re offering to help, what can you do?” An edge of challenge hardens her voice.
And at the challenge, I decide to show her exactly what I can do. I shift my focus to Nina.
“You got a restraining order on this guy yet?”
Not only do her eyes widen more—which I didn’t think was possible—but she pales.
“Oh God,” she utters. “He’d get so pissed if I did that.”
It’s the look on her face that makes me finally get it. “Nina, are you afraid for your life?”
She licks her lips and presses them together. Fresh tears well in her eyes.
Frowning, I push off from the doorframe and sit my ass down on the recliner across from her and Stella. Nina actually flinches at the movement, but Stella takes her hand.
“It’s all right,” Stella mutters, and even though half the time she’s looking at me like I’m a leper and the other half I think she’s checking me out, I feel an immoderate swell of pride that—for whatever reason—Stella might think I’m trustworthy.
I push the feeling aside and meet Nina’s frightened stare. “Has he threatened to kill you?” The question is as blunt as a hammer, but I know exact language is important. Maggie’s taught me that much. You can’t ask a domestic abuse victim if her partner has threatened to hurt her. He’s already hurt her.
If you mean kill, you have to say kill.
But the word has the expected effect. Stella flinches, and Nina sort of implodes.
It’s like her ribs collapse, and everything folds in on itself as she sobs. She pulls her hand from Stella’s and covers her face.
“Jesus Christ,” Stella gasps, wrapping an arm around Nina’s back and tucking her into her side. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I-I’m…” Nina hiccups between sobs, “sorry… I’ll… g-go.”
Stella’s eyes bug. “What?! No, you will not.” Her tone is so stern even I snap to attention. “You’re not going anywhere, and we’re not going to let anyone hurt you.”
We’re.
Stella just said we’re.
That swell of pride is back in triplicate.
But when I look at the two of them, Nina a wreck of tears and terror and Stella wrapping her up, green eyes calm but burning with a rare kind of determination, I know she’s right.
We’re not going to let anyone hurt Nina.
“I know someone who can help.”
Both women look up at me, one with hopelessness and the other with curiosity.
“My sister-in-law works for Faith House.” I shrug in concession. “She’s on maternity leave right now, but she’s a social worker in their Outreach Center. I can give her a call.”
I don’t mention that I’m currently at the top of Maggie’s shit list. Even today at Sunday dinner, she refused to crack a smile at any of my jokes, and she let the screen door slam right in my face when I was carrying a cup of hot coffee out to the back porch.
I had to perform a decidedly unmasculine dance move to keep from wearing the overflow.
Bear laughed like a hyena on amphetamines.
But I can ask Maggie to help out a girl in need.
I think.
“She could advise you on your options, and you could trust her,” I say because this, if nothing else, is true.
Nina blinks through her tears. “Faith House. I thought about going there.” She swallows before looking down at her hands. Then she shakes her head. “I just couldn’t make myself. It’s too humiliating.”
I’ve heard Maggie talk about this too. That so many women are too ashamed to ask for help. They don’t want to admit they’re living in a domestic violence shelter.
“That’s why they have the Outreach Center,” I say quickly. “It’s not for the women who live at Faith House. It’s for people like you.”
Her chin wobbles. “People like me?”
I glance at Stella, and I can’t help my genuine grin. “People who have a safe place to stay but need help getting out of a bad situation.”
“Oh,” Nina says, sounding a little more at ease. She sniffles. “So… I wouldn’t actually have to go there?”
I shrug. “We can find out.”
Nina sits up a little straighter, seeming to re-emerge from her skeletal collapse. She wipes her eyes and takes a couple of stuttering breaths. Stella straightens with her, never taking her eyes off her. She’s running a comforting hand up and down Nina’s back.
That’s got to feel good, I think with a pulse of envy.
“Yeah, okay,” Nina rasps. “Just not today. I can’t handle any more today.”
I nod. “Right. Sure. Whenever you are ready.”
She chews her lip and turns to Stella, saying nothing.
“What are you thinking?” Stella asks.
“Kaleb can’t come into the restaurant. My boss made sure of that,” she says, relief clear in her voice. “But that won’t stop him from following Aggie, my boss, when she drives me home. I don’t think he knows where I live yet, but it’s just a matter of time.”
Stella’s brows draw together. “That asshole has the time to stake out the restaurant?”
“He knows my schedule.”
“What about changing it?” Stella asks, eyes brightening.
Nina blinks. “I might be able to do that. But he’s off on Thursdays. That’s when he came by the restaurant. Other than Saturdays, Thursdays are my biggest tips because of the plate lunch special.”
“Where do you work?” I ask.
“Scratch Kitchen on Garfield.”
I nod. Tuesdays and Thursdays are my late days at school. “What time do you get off on Thursdays?”
“Around five,” Nina says with a shrug. “Aggie has to clean the grease trap before she can give me a ride, so I help her now that she’s driving me. We usually leave about five-thirty.”
“I can pick you up at five on Thursdays.” That’s easy. Even on days when I have to meet with my project group in Stratigraphy.
Both women jolt at my offer.
“Th-That’s okay,” Nina stammers. “Aggie says it’s no trouble.”
“If you think your ex might be there on Thursdays to give you a hard time, it shouldn’t just be you and your boss he has to deal with.” If he’s the kind of shitbag I think he is, he’s probably already looking to teach Nina’s boss a lesson for kicking him out of her restaurant.
Nina seems to consider this. And, unless I’m wrong, Stella looks impressed.
Yeah, that doesn’t suck.
“That your phone?” I nod to the cell on the coffee table in front of Nina.
“Yeah.”
I give her my number. “I got you covered on Thursdays, but if you need help any other time, just call.”
Judging by the glint in Stella’s eyes, I’m not wrong. She’s impressed.
Nope, that doesn’t suck at all.
Chapter Eleven
STELLA
Tyler’s usual Wednesday OT appointment gets pushed to Thursday. This normally isn’t a big deal if I’m not booked solid, and today I’m not. So I pick up Maisy early from aftercare so we can spend some time together at the park while Tyler has his appointment. But as soon
as I see her, I know it’s going to be a rough afternoon.
“She didn’t take a nap,” Riley, the preschool aid, tells me as she’s putting Maisy in the car.
“No nap?” I ask my daughter.
Maisy’s sullen shrug is all the confirmation I need.
“Want to go to the park while Uncle T does his exercise?”
She perks up a little. “Can we feed the ducks?”
“Sure.” I make a mental note to nab some bread from the house when we pick up Tyler.
Of course, Maisy falls asleep on the ride to the occupational therapist’s, and when I have to take her out of the car to get Tyler checked in, she’s a whimpering, fussy mess.
While she’s whining in my ear, the receptionist informs me that Tyler’s usual therapist, Bobbi, is still out, so he’ll be working with Tod today.
My brother grunts beside me. He hates Tod.
Shit.
I glance over at him, swaying Maisy on my hip to try to soothe her. “Want to reschedule?” I ask under my breath. Even as I ask, I have no idea when that would be. He doesn’t need to miss a week, and my next few days are jam packed at the salon.
Tyler’s brows are lowered in irritation, but I see when his thoughts go inward. He meets my eyes and shakes his head.
“That’s the spirit,” I say, grinning.
“Hmph,” he mutters sourly, making me chuckle.
Maisy and I head off to the park for an hour of duck-dominated disappointment.
The first ten minutes are grand. Maisy is a hit at the duck pond—the only person in the whole park with a fat bag of sandwich bread. We are in the epicenter of a quacking, gently quarreling flock, Maisy giggling and me snapping pictures on my phone. And then—
“INCOMING! AAAAAAAGH!”
Two boys who can’t be older than fourteen charge the flock. Ducks honk, splash violently, and flap their way into flight, barely missing our faces in their escape.
“Jesus Christ!” I shriek, yanking Maisy against my chest and shielding her head with my arms.
Her screams reach a pitch I’ve never heard, but I know instinctively she’s just scared—terrified, maybe—but unharmed.
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