Page 37 of Shit Happens in Ivydell

I can’t stop bringing my hand to my face as I walk back to Sparrow’s Song. Fresh mint smells so amazing. I snagged a few peppermint leaves to munch on before I left the greenhouse. I wanted to smell them as much as I wanted to taste them.

Josephine’s car is gone when I get back. She never stays put for long. I repaint her sign because I know she won’t mind, but I’m going to ask everyone else first.

Myrna steps outside and calls across the street, “Hey, doll! You cleared that with Petra, right?”

“All clear! I’m the official sign painter of Ivydell!”

“Well, of course you are! You are Patrice’s granddaughter, after all. Come and do mine next. Then let’s take a break together.”

“You got it!”

Myrna’s sign was so faded it was barely legible. I step back and admire my work. There’s no mistaking she lives in Wild Sage now.

I put away my supplies for the day, wash my hands, and go back to Myrna’s. She’s outside nodding her approval of my work. “You’re a natural. We should’ve known you’d be an artist.”

“Not like she was.”

“You’re not supposed to do everything just like she did. I guarantee Patrice intended for you to be your own person.”

“She did. You got wine?”

“Already opened the bottle. You got dirty stories to share?”

“You’d have to give me something stronger than wine for that.”

“I have tequila.”

I follow her inside. “I was joking. My lips are sealed.”

“Not for Stinger, I bet.”

“Well, you’ve seen the man, so . . .”

We laugh ourselves giddy. Drinking with her could be dangerous.

“Hey, before we get tipsy, I want to give you something.”

She pops the lid on a storage tub and pulls out a small black box. With a silver logo. Oh, goddess, please don’t let this be happening.

“If you don’t feel a connection to this piece, we’ll pick you out another one, but this felt right.”

I have never been more afraid to open a box in my life. A dozen images flash in my brain, each one more disturbing than the last.

The box is too small to hold a replica of the woman being mounted by a deer that comprises the pendant resting against her chest. Small mercies feel big sometimes.

With immeasurable trepidation, I lift the lid.

Oh. It’s small. I would wear something this size.

It’s a bird. An intricate little bird. And it’s not violating or being violated by anyone. It’s elegant.

And I feel the most unexpected connection to it.

“Myrna, this is beautiful.”

“It’s a sparrow. I knew I wanted to gift you one of my pieces, but I wasn’t sure which one until I opened that box. It just sang out your name the moment I uncovered it. Well, hot damn, I thought. Sparrow’s Song. Of course!”

I’ve never paid a moment’s attention to sparrows, to most any birds. I only ever notice seagulls because it’s impossible not to notice them.

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