Chapter 16

This is by far the most exciting thing that's happened to me since Nicole left. I went to the lawyer's office with Damien on Monday morning and learned that Nicole had been honest about the terms of the will, including the necessity of staying in the house for a month in order to inherit it. If we fail to comply, it will be donated to The Treasure Club, although we'll be allowed to keep all of his other belongings.

I googled The Treasure Club. It's a strip club run out of Asheville, which basically tells me everything I need to know about Dick Ricci. What a strip club would do with a shitty cabin in the woods, I honestly don't want to know.

I spent the other half of Monday polishing Mrs. Rosings's silverware. I'd thought she was fucking with me when she asked me to do it, but then she busted out the microfiber cloth, making it clear that even though she might very well be fucking with me, she still expected the work to be done. We've also done some prep for the wedding over the last few days, which felt strange since I have yet to meet or speak to either member of the happy couple.

"Are you sure they want us to do this?" I'd asked before our second trip to the flower shop on Main Street.

She gave me a cold, dead-eyed stare and said, "What they want is immaterial," so at least I'm not marrying her son, I guess.

Another plus: the internet was installed the other day, so I can now use my laptop in addition to squinting at my phone and trying to expand the text until it's readable—something I've had to do since there's still no sign of my suitcase. It's a situation that's been giving me a fair amount of anxiety, and the half a dozen phone calls I've made to the airline have done nothing to help the situation or abate the anxiety. I've had to continue borrowing clothes from Nicole's stash and supplementing it with a few things I bought on Main Street.

I've talked to Lainey multiple times and even consented to another Tarot drawing over FaceTime. I got the DEATH card again, which wasn't reassuring. She didn't get fired from her job, so I didn't push her about coming to Marshall, even though I really, really want to.

I've talked to my dad, to whom I've continued to sugar-coat this whole fucked up situation, telling him about the pretty sunrises and mountain views with one hundred percent less possible murder.

And I've glimpsed Declan in passing—storing up those little moments like I'm a squirrel with puffed-up cheeks.

Basically, time has passed, but nothing interesting has happened. It's like I"m back in my little cubicle outside Agnes Lewis's office. Passing time. Watching life go by. Existing. Only I find it much harder to tolerate it than I used to.

But now…

I've never baked with a man before. Honestly, I've avoided it in the past because I had a couple of ex-boyfriends who liked to watch me bake. I hated the feeling of being observed, which made me self-conscious of something that's usually natural to me. I burned cookies. I sunk souffles. I baked atrocities no one in their right mind would want to eat. And then there was the boyfriend who'd begged me to bake naked, as if there's anything sexy about getting flour and eggshells stuck all over your body…

But I want to bake with Declan—to share this thing I love with him. Watching him measure out ingredients with precision is making me gooey inside, like a perfectly baked cookie. Maybe I have a baking kink I never knew about.

While we prepare the recipe and then wash the dishes, Declan tells me more about his landscaping business. He also talks about his sister, but it's as if he's trying to hold the truth away from me and little pieces are falling off despite his best efforts. Rosie likes baking, yes. She learned from their dad. He ran a small construction company, but he loved watching baking shows, even though people gave him shit for it. She works at a bakery, but it's only one of her millions of interests.

I reciprocate by telling him about my dad and Lainey. About my Bronuts. About Mom and the Tribe of Light.

"So do they believe the world's about to end?" Declan asks, his gaze on the microwave timer. Four minutes left until the moment of truth. We're sitting at the kitchen table now, companionably, as if we've known each other for years. Except my body is achingly aware of every little thing he does—of the fine details of him. The way his hair hangs over his eyebrows a bit when he dips his head at a certain angle, or how his eyes aren't just brown but a little green.

"Of course," I say. "When it happens, they're going to ascend to the Great Beyond in a rainbow—seven of them for each of the colors. My mom's a purple. The rest of us are fucked, I regret to tell you."

He snorts, then shakes his head. "Sorry. You know, I get why people are drawn to cults. It's a messed-up world. There are so many things out there that can make a person sad and angry. Bitter. And none of us know if there's any point to any of it, or if we're just ants, trying to make it to the top of the hill. It feels like a kinder interpretation—that we matter, that we have purpose, that something good is going to come of all of it."

"If you're a member of the Tribe of Light," I say, raising my eyebrows. "Not so kind to the billions of people who aren't. Honestly, I don't know why you'd want to spend eternity stuck with a handful of the same people anyway. Don't you think you'd end up hating all of them?"

"I don't know," he says with a slight smile. "I wouldn't mind spending eternity with you if you keep making perfect madeleines and rejecting them for other people to eat."

"Don't you think every madeleine would be perfect in the Great Beyond?" I ask, getting up and putting on the oven mitt as the timer starts counting down the final seconds.

Declan turns in his seat to continue watching me. I can feel his gaze everywhere—every pore, every imperfection—but when he's looking at me like that, I don't feel imperfect, like a madeleine that hasn't achieved peak texture. I feel delicious. "A person can always find imperfections if they don't stop looking for them. I'd prefer to have imperfect madeleines here than to wait for a place that probably doesn't even exist."

I breathe in the hot, sugared air as I open the oven. They smell right. Then I carefully take out the pan, my eyes seeking out the right color. They look right. "So you think I'm a perfectionist?" I comment as I set the pan down on the stovetop.

"Yes."

I smile at his directness. "I guess. But I have to be. Do you know how many people want to open bakeries in New York? It's insane. I'd be better off trying to open one here." I poke a madeleine, burning the tip of my finger, and glance over at him, my eyes wide.

"What's the crumb feel like?" he asks, one corner of his mouth lifting. He's teasing me, but I don't care.

"Perfect," I say, feeling excitement bubbling up. "Your sister is a genius."

"They could taste like sawdust." His eyes are shining, and he looks so handsome, so gleeful and sinful, that I feel myself taking a step toward him before I remember he's off-limits. He's made himself that way.

"They won't," I comment. "They smell like the Great Beyond."

"I don't know," he says, his mouth twitching. "If the ascension happens in a rainbow of light, I'm guessing the Great Beyond probably smells like Skittles." He pauses, studying me. "You said you'd be better off opening a bakery here than in New York. Would you really stay here if you found a place?"

"You'd prefer it if I left," I say, sounding a little sulky to my own ears, like a teenager who hasn't gotten her way. I kind of dislike myself for it. But maybe it's only natural to experience some arrested development when you get plunked into the house of a father you didn't know existed.

"Never," he says, and seems to mean it. He gets to his feet and steps toward me. My breath quickens as he gets closer, because I don't know what he means to do, but I know what I'd like him to do. But he removes a hot madeleine from its mold and breaks it in half, making my breath come out in an aggrieved huff.

"Did I ruin everything?" he asks, mischief in his eyes.

"Yes."

"Let's try it at the same time. Open your mouth, Claire."

I could tell him he's being bossy. Aggravating. But suddenly my whole body is an aching, pounding awareness. Without thinking, I do as he's ordered.

His eyes take me in as he places part of the madeleine on my tongue, his callused finger brushing my lips, and it feels like an unholy sacrament. I almost whimper when he pulls his finger away and places the rest of the madeleine in his mouth. Then we both chew at the same time.

It doesn't taste like sawdust, but the balance isn't quite right. There's too much vanilla and not enough salt. But I can work with it.

"Yours tasted better," he says.

I don't mean to, but I grab a handful of his apron and pull him closer, the way I've been wanting to for the past hour or so. I look up at him, so much closer suddenly, and say, "You know exactly what to say to a girl, but then I guess you get lots of practice."

His eyes darken, and he leans down to me, his hair brushing my forehead, his lips so close they make me ache. "Maybe I'm naturally charming."

"I'll bet."

His hand drifts up to the small of my back. "And I'll bet you taste like your madeleines, Claire. Like vanilla and cream."

Then the door creaks open at the front of the house, and Damien calls out, "Claire?"

The magic leaks out of the moment, leaving behind several madeleines I don't want to eat. I can see sense restoring itself to Declan. Something like panic fills his eyes. We're not supposed to be doing this; we're still neighbors. He glances up at the kitchen clock and mutters under his breath as Damien steps into the kitchen.

"Ah," Damien says with a smile as Declan clicks off the oven. "I can see you have everything under control." His eyes alight on the madeleines, and his grin stretches wider. "Mind if I try one?"

"They're like the three bears' madeleines," I say. "The first batch doesn't have the right texture, and the second doesn't have the right flavor, but if Declan's sister and I baked some together, they'd be just right."

I can tell it was the wrong thing to say, because Declan immediately takes a step toward the door.

"Thanks for checking the oven, man," Damien says, his eyes sparkling, and it hits me that Nicole's not the only one who's in on the joke. He did this on purpose. Part of me is grateful, and the rest of me is livid, because no good can come of throwing me at a man who's made it very clear he doesn't want to date me. A man who has some secret buried in his past that's bad enough that he feels compelled to keep it there.

"Anytime," Declan mutters, then nods to me.

"The car," I blurt. "You said you'd help me with the Jeep."

His jaw flexes, but he nods. "I'll come by to talk to you about it. Look, I'm sorry to duck out like this, but I have to put in some bushes in Asheville."

I seriously hope that's not a euphemism for visiting one of his friends with benefits. Then again, I don't have any right to tell him not to. The line he established between us may have blurred to the point of disappearing today, but he just took a metaphorical Sharpie out of his pocket and re-traced it.

I watch, crestfallen, as he leaves.

Damien pops one of the perfect texture madeleines into his mouth, following it up with one from the first batch.

"You did that on purpose," I comment, once the front door has been closed. "Because Nicole wants me to be like Mata Hari."

He shrugs. "I like keeping my wife happy. But she's right more often than she's wrong. You two like each other. Before you showed up, that guy only said a couple of words in front of us."

That gooey cookie feeling takes over in my gut. "Really?"

His mouth twitches up. "He sure wasn't offering to stick around and make cookies."

I shift on my feet. "Well, it doesn't matter. He's not interested in a relationship…or anything."

He shrugs as if he couldn't care less one way or another. "Not the vibe I got."

"What vibe did you get?" I ask.

His grin expands, taking over his face. "That man is one forced meeting away from cracking."

I shake my head, feeling such a strange combination of emotions. Hopeful. Annoyed. Pissed off. Excited to see what happens next. Because I'm still on this roller coaster ride of things are happening again.

"I barely know anything about him. He has secrets."

Damien's expression is incredulous. "Don't we all?"

"I don't," I say with a sigh, taking some Tupperware containers out from the bottom cabinets for storing the madeleines. I don't want to eat them, but maybe Damien will. Or Mrs. Rosings.

Or Declan, a voice in my head whispers.

"I don't have any secrets," I reiterate.

"That so?" Damien asks, his eyebrows still hiked up. "I have this theory that everyone has at least one."

I set the Tupperware on the counter and consider his words. I'm about to double down again, to insist my life is an open book, start to finish, and the only secrets I have are my hatred of my dad's bran muffins and the fact that I never liked Lainey's former fiancé. But my mind hits a snag.

A late night in Agnes's office…

She'd gotten drunk at a happy hour and then holed up in her office for two hours while I wrote an editorial for her. She'd left to get dinner and insisted that I stay. I can't even remember what I was supposed to be doing other than that it was menial and unimportant, a power play. But she'd left a leatherbound journal out on her desk…

"Well, maybe one," I admit softly, my gaze distant. I can still feel the pages beneath my fingers as I flipped through it and realized what I was holding. The book was full of dirt on other lifestyle gurus and celebrity chefs. A couple of news anchors. An actor. I didn't know where she'd gotten it all from, or even if it was true, but I'd photocopied every last page, my heart racing, every ambient sound in the empty office making me flinch. Even though I knew Agnes didn't care enough about me to create a test so elaborate, it had felt like one.

The next morning, the book was gone. I didn't say anything to her, and she didn't say anything to me, and that was that…other than the photocopies in my possession.

Damien nods to the small table in the kitchen, and I find myself sitting down again. "You want to get it off your chest?" he asks.

I'm about to tell him no, to say it's none of his damn business, and if everyone else gets to keep secrets, then so do I. But I realize it's been bothering me, that book. It's been scratching at the backside of my brain. Because I haven't told a single soul. Those photocopies are part of why I'm so anxious about my lost bag, sitting somewhere in Charlotte, because they're tucked inside of it. I'd put them in there hoping that I might get the balls to use them.

That I might…get even, I guess.

I worshipped at the altar of Agnes Lewis for years, and she treated me like I was nothing. No, worse than nothing. Like I was dust on her shelf. Dog shit on her shoe. A dent in her car.

There's a part of me that wants to show her there's more to me, and a part of me that still questions whether there is in fact more to me.

"Yeah, maybe," I tell him softly.

And the story comes spilling out. He's a good listener, nodding in the right places.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," I say at last. "They're gone. I'm never going to get the bag back. I've called, like, a dozen times at this point, and they always say the same thing. Call back in another day. Bags turn up all the time. They're never bringing it here."

He hums under his breath. "Maybe not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't matter. You go around lighting fires, you're going to get burned someday. Agnes will get hers."

"I don't know about that," I say bitterly. "Seems to me there are plenty of people who get away with murder."

He watches me for a second before kicking back in his chair. "You're not wrong, but unless someone's a real psychopath, something like that sticks with them. It leaves a mark. You can get away with a crime, but it's not the same as being truly free of it."

"Speaking of psychopaths, where's Nicole? She's been gone for most of the week. I thought she was only leaving for a couple of days."

His flat look tells me he didn't appreciate the turn of phrase. "She'll be back," he says with certainty.

"You don't think she abandoned us?"

"She's not the abandoning type."

"Where do you two live, anyway?" I ask, realizing I don't even know that. I've been so overwhelmed with change that it hadn't occurred to me to ask.

He smiles again. "Asheville."

"You live less than twenty minutes away?" I ask in disbelief. "Why do you even need this house?"

"We don't," he tells me. "Don't particularly need the money either. You do."

Oh. Oh.

"You don't have to do all of this for me," I blurt, even though I sort of need them to. It's the people pleaser in me who's talking, the woman who's been primed to give but never receive. "You must have your business to take care of, and—"

"We're still taking care of it," he says. "Nicole's on a job we booked a while back, but she's also tracking down some leads related to Dick. He had a lot of female friends around the area."

"She said you were talking to someone about the stairs," I say.

"Sure. They're not up to code, surprise, surprise." Damien continues. "But the cops don't care. They say Dick might have messed with them himself. It's impossible to prove otherwise, although I'm inclined to believe he wasn't the kind of man who cared about routine maintenance." He nods to a piece of the wood siding, detached from the wall with an old, rusted nail protruding from it. "But Nicole's chasing down some leads, and you're working at the Rosings woman's house. We're doing our due diligence."

"We're not going to get the insurance money, are we?" I ask, feeling like a bit of an asshole for caring, but he's right. They might not need it, but I do.

He shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. If we don't, there's still the house."

I eye the piece of crappy siding, barely attached to the wall. "I have a feeling it won't get top dollar."

He snorts. "You'd be surprised. You got a postage stamp of property around here, you can sell it for something."

It occurs to me that I haven't even bothered to check what real estate goes for around here, which is a mark of how distracted I've been. "That's good, I guess." I pause, my mind whirling, then ask, "How did you and Nicole meet?"

This is a point Lainey and I have been debating in our phone calls. Was it at some private investigator's conference? Online? At a bar? Nothing seems wild enough to fit them.

He gives me a lazy grin. "She was following a guy I'd been paid to tail."

"Really? That's pretty romantic."

He laughs, his eyes glimmering. "That's one way to put it."

I'm about to ask follow-up questions, possibly several, but my phone buzzes with a text from Mrs. Rosings.

I glance at it and find a request for half a dozen random things I'll need a car to retrieve. Well, well, I guess she's feeling better.

Sighing, I ask Damien for a ride.