Page 163 of Sugar & Shadows

She hesitated. Far too long for my liking.

A cold knot of fear formed in my stomach.

But with a sigh, she nodded once. “Okay. I’ll come over once I wrap up here.”

Chapter 43

Sabrina

Itrudged through the snow, cursing. How the hell had so much accumulated so close to April? We’d just turned a corner. Now another storm? It had been falling steadily all day, fat flakes dancing in the air.

And now that the wind had picked up and the sun had begun to set, it fell faster and the temperature had turned bitingly cold.

While I was at the library, Mom had handed me a bag of books and a loaf of banana bread and instructed me to drop it off at Marigold’s house. She said she was “under the weather,” but she didn’t meet my eye when she said it.

Though she owned a farm and rented the house and land to Logan, she lived off Market Street in a wildly painted Victorian. The house was large and stately with an enormous door knocker, but the fuchsia and lime green paint softened the grandeur.

It was old money new England mixed with I don’t give a fuck attitude. In short, it oozed pure Marigold energy.

When she opened the door, I almost tripped over my own feet.

She was wrapped in a robe, pale and small, with dark circles under her eyes, her wrinkled cheeks sagging. The sight hit me so hard that I forgot how to speak for a moment.

“Come in. Come in.” As if she’d noticed a draft, she patted her bare head and grimaced. “Shit, forgot my wig.”

I was still stunned. Not because she was bald, but because for the first time, I realized that Marigold was mortal.

“Come on. Get moving,” she said.

Inside, I was met with bright paint, walls of family photos, and several wild pieces of art.

“Let me get my hair,” she said.

“No,” I said sharply. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I don’t have to stay. My mom sent these.” I held out the canvas tote bag.

She smiled. “You want a cup of tea? Come sit with me. I’ve been bored and I need to know what’s happening.”

Focus drifting from side to side, I followed her through a grand entryway with a stained-glass window into a massive kitchen. She flipped a kettle on, then turned and gave my hand an assuring pat. “I have cancer, sweetie. But I’m impressed you didn’t realize I was rocking a wig.”

My throat was tight. The small, stooped, frail woman standing in front of me bore no resemblance to the wild ball of stardust that was Marigold Shaw. Aside from her leopard-print cane, of course.

Grief hit me hard and fast, wrapping around me and making it difficult to breathe.

She poured water into fancy china teacups and handed one to me.

“Lemon?” she asked. “My Irish grandmother taught me that milk poisons tea.”

I smiled, shaking my head.

“Come along.” She took her cup and her cane and shuffled through an arched doorway. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to a sofa in front of an electric fireplace. “I’m so sorry about what’s happening. Do the TAP girls have everything under control? Give me a few more days, and I’ll be at full strength again. Then I can help out.”

I gave her a quick recap, explaining that our focus was fixed on getting the town to vote for the proposal, and I filled her in on the fear of losing Woodstock Insurance as a sponsor and how I felt someone was sabotaging us.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s those corporate fuckers. They always do. But you’ve got to keep your chin up.”

I sipped my tea. “What kind of cancer?” I asked over the rim.

“The bad kind. Started as pancreatic, and it’s been downhill since,” she said. “It’s a secret, though. Only a few people know.”