Page 17 of What August Heard
She was slicing cucumbers. I was tearing lettuce. Our arms were close enough that I was aware of every time she reached across me for something.
Margaux was fluttering around the kitchen doing nothing in particular, refilling her wine, occasionally asking Mom questions about the house that weren’t really questions so much as observations about the decor.
“So what do you do?” Margaux asked.
I looked up. She was looking at August.
August set down the cucumber. “I sell flowers. I have a van, and I do the Millhaven Farmer’s Market, and some private arrangements for events. That kind of thing.”
Margaux’s hand stopped moving toward her wine glass.
She looked at August. Then she looked around, like she was checking if someone else had heard this. Then she looked back at August.
“You sell flowers,” she said.
“I do.”
“Like — from a van.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re—” Margaux pressed a hand to her mouth like she was physically stopping herself from spilling something. Her eyes were wide. “You’re a flower girl.”
The kitchen got slightly quieter. Mom kept her eyes on the grill. Dad put the barramundi down.
“I started from nothing,” August said. Her voice was easy. She picked the cucumber back up. “I came out of the foster care system with no safety net, so I built one. It took a while but Gerald and I figured it out.”
“Gerald?” Margaux looked confused.
“Oh, Gerald’s my van.” August said.
I went very still.
I knew what was coming. I could see it on Margaux’s face, the calculation behind her eyes, the way she tilted her head slightly when she found the angle she wanted. She’d had three glasses of wine and August had just handed her the one piece of information she’d been waiting for all day without knowing she was handing it over.
“The foster system?” Margaux said. “You grew up in foster care?”
“Most of my life, yeah.”
“So you’ve never—” Margaux gestured vaguely around. At the kitchen. At the house. At all of it. “You’re not used to any of this.”
“Margaux,” I said.
“I’m just saying, this must be such a treat for her. A beach house like this. After— I mean, the contrast must be quite something. Especially on a flower girl’s salary.”
The cucumber in August’s hand kept moving. Slice, slice, slice. She didn’t stop.
“It is a treat,” August said. “It genuinely is. But it’s because of Callie and this family. Jennifer and Douglas have always made me feel like I belong here.”
“Aww.” Jennifer turned from the grill. She pointed her tongs at August. “You do belong here. You have since the first summer Callie dragged you up here and you reorganized my entire garden shed without being asked and then apologized for it.”
“I got carried away,” August said.
“She has always belonged here,” Douglas said. He picked the barramundi back up and went back to checking the gills. “I have three daughters. People just don’t always know it.”
August looked up at him.
Her eyes went bright, very fast. Just for a second, the shine of something she was blinking back. She pressed her lips together and looked down at the cutting board.
