Page 53 of Dream House
I’m not sure we have any tea, but I can’t imagine Nanna stocking up on fair trade tea before she went into the nursing home.
“I’ll check,” I mutter, but Pen darts to the pantry.
“Allow me.”
I turn back to the stove to fill Maisy’s plate and indulge myself in an eyeroll of yogic proportions.
Pen sidles up next to me, Nanna’s copper tea kettle in hand. “Drop the attitude, Mouton,” she whispers.
“I don’t—”
“Hush now. Your aura’s practically pulsing with pique.”
I glare. “Say that three times fast.”
“Practically pulsing with pique. Practically pulsing with pique. Practically pulsing with pique,”she hisses, nostrils flaring.
“You just spit on me.” I pretend to dab my wrist against my eye.
“Did not.” She darts to the sink and fills the kettle. “All we have is Luzianne. Is that okay, Livy?”
Livy takes a seat at the table with a sigh. “I suppose.”
“I’ll pick up some Equal Exchange at the store,” Pen says, setting the kettle onto the stove.
Maisy runs back just in time to take the empty spot between Tyler and Livy. “You’re shiny,” she brays at Livy in obvious awe.
I tense, ready for Livy to say something judgy or chilly to my daughter. Instead she looks down at her and smiles her killer smile. “So are you. We haven’t met. I’m Livy.”
Maisy nods. “I know. I heard Pen tell Mama she wants to lie down in your garden,” she announces. “Where’s your gar—”
“Maisy!”
My shriek is only slightly louder than Pen’s wail and Nina’s choking fit.
Maisy looks up, her eyes wide with worry. Next to her, Livy’s eyes are wide too, but she’s not looking at me. She’s fixed her gaze on the back of Pen’s head.
My best friend is still facing the stove, unmoving, and if I know her, she’s scanning her mental library of spells in search of something that even remotely might help her turn back time or at least spontaneously combust.
“What, Mama?” Maisy asks, still looking alarmed.
“D-D-Do you want some chocolate milk?”
She beams. “Yes, please.”
“H-here. Eat your breakfast.” I set her plate down and wipe my sweaty hands on the apron tied around my waist, looking for any distraction. “Tyler, how are the biscuits?”
One glimpse at my brother, and I realize calling on him was a mistake. I’d hoped the conversation had gone over his head, but judging by his red face and watering eyes, it did not. He’s locked gazes with Nina down the length of the table and both are trying valiantly not to split apart laughing.
It is funny. It’s damn funny. But I can’t let myself think about that. Because Pen is boiling in embarrassment, and I think Livy is in some kind of shock.
I move briskly to the fridge for Maisy’s chocolate milk.
Pen is still standing rigidly at the stove. “Do we have any blueberries?” she asks in hushed tones.
I pull open the fruit drawer and grab the plastic clamshell. “Yeah,” I whisper back. I just don’t know why we’re whispering about blueberries.
When I hand her the carton, she pops the lid and takes out a blueberry. “I just need one,” she mutters. She closes the lid, puts the carton back in the fridge, and walks out of the kitchen toward the back of the house.
