Page 136 of Dream House
“Amen,” Nina mutters.
“Mmm,” Tyler grunts.
I look across from me to see Lark’s glass lifted, his eyes burning into mine. “To Stella,” he says, his voice deep and clear. “Who took us all in, against her better judgement in some cases—like mine,” he adds to a ripple of laughter, “and gave us all a chance to build the lives we want.”
I open my mouth to protest, but five other voices, even Tyler’s slow and struggling one, echo,
“To Stella!”
“To Mama!” Maisy chips in.
And this time, the tears get the upper hand, and my dinner napkin has to rush to the rescue before I ruin my makeup.
The food is good. The deer sausage spicy, the braised kale savory, and the acorn squash buttery.
But the mulled wine is better.
I’m on glass number three when Pen gives a dramatic yawn and looks down at Maisy with a pointed expression.
Ah. It’s time for the bedtime bluff.
It takes a little longer to get Maisy settled in than usual. She can tell it’s a special night. The house hums with a thicker energy. But after a couple of Halloween-themed bedtime stories, her sugar-rush wears off and she’s out.
And I join the party outside.
I was too caught up with our Iris Adams sighting to notice the set up in the front yard. The “bonfire” is Lark and Tyler’s creation. It’s illegal to light a bonfire in the middle of town without a permit, and, of course, we don’t have one. So ours is a bonfire in spirit.
In reality, it’s a cast iron fire pit stacked expertly with split logs and kindling. And Lark must have been a Boy Scout in his youth because the teepee structure first glows and then blazes almost as soon as he lights it.
We’re in the front yard for two reasons. One, the oak trees in the back yard—with their draping and ground-scraping limbs—would make a fire like this a little sketchy. And two, because Maisy’s bedroom butts up to the back yard.
And Pen correctly predicted that we’d be loud.
I’m on my fourth glass of mulled wine, sitting in a camp chair in front of the fire. We’re all out here, encircling the blaze. Pen has traded herwoo-wooSpotify playlists for Spooky Chill. The night is cool, but not cold, and I’m staring into flames, willing myself to focus on them and not the heat coming from across the circle.
I’ve felt Lark’s eyes on me all night.
He’s staring at me outright. Maybe he thinks the dancing flames hide his gaze. They don’t. They just magnify the heat soaking into my body.
Pen rises from her chair beside me. “Who needs a refill?”
Empty punch glasses go up around the circle, and as she collects them, Livy shoots to her feet. “I’ll help you.”
They steal inside, leaving four of us around the fire. But Tyler and Nina are holding hands, heads dipped close. In their own world.
So, it really feels like there’s just the two of us. The smoldering steel guitar notes of “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaac come over the speaker.
My eyes meet Lark’s over the fire bowl. Without looking away from me, he rises and stalks over.
My heart is hammering by the time he drags Pen’s chair even closer to me and sinks into it.
“You having a good time?” His casual question is at odds with the gravely pitch of his voice.
“Great time,” I squeak.
A reckless grin overtakes him.
Yeah, neither one of us is fooling the other. Our words might be casual, but nothing else is.
