Page 5 of Edge of Whispers

I loosened the emerald necklace from its velvet nest, reached around Vivi’s slender neck and fastened the clasp. I dropped a kiss onto my sister’s tear-dampened, freckled cheek. I did the same for Nell with the ruby pendant, struggling a bit to push my sister’s thick mass of curly dark hair out of the way. Then I pressed a kiss to my own sapphire pendant before reaching behind my neck to fasten it.

The necklace felt heavy, significant, full of portent around my neck. We stood there silently, our hearts full, holding Lucia’s final, lovely gifts to us in our hands.

“Let’s wear them always,” I said, my voice a shaky croak. “Whenever we can. In Lucia’s memory.”

Vivi made a choked sound and ran toward the kitchen.

Nell rubbed her own pendant gently between her fingers, blinking tears from her long, dark lashes. “She saved our asses, you know,” she said. “At least mine and Vivi’s. Maybe not yours, Nance. You were born already grown up. I bet you could have saved yourself from the cradle.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Hardly. I needed just as much saving as anybody.”

“I swear to God, it’s a compliment,” Nell insisted, her dark eyes indignant. “Really! I respect and admire you for it. In what universe is that not a compliment?”

“Stolid old Nancy,” I said sourly. “Hit me with a brick, bam. I don’t even blink.”

“No, no. That’s not it at all. You’re not stolid, Nance. Stolid is thick, insensitive, dull. You’re solid. A qualitative difference. You’re tough, Nance. Strong. Not flaky. Tough and strong is a sexy combo.”

I grunted. “Like boot leather? Useful, maybe. Not sexy. Ask any of my ex-fiancés.”

Nell pantomimed spitting on the ground. “Not unless you want me to slug them out for you,” she said tartly. “I admire many things about you, but your choice in men is not among them. Not that I’m in any position to criticize.”

Vivi burst out of the kitchen, her eyes lit up with excitement. “I found it!” she said, waving a limp, yellowed scrap of paper. She hefted a wine bottle in the other hand.

“Found what?” Nancy asked.

“The recipe for that grape thing! Schiacciata all’uva! We even have the grapes! Elsie left some with the casserole. The recipe’s in Italian, but you read Italian, right, Nell?”

Nell adjusted her glasses, took the paper out of Vivi’s hand, and peered at it. “Sure. The measurements are metric, though. We can find a conversion table online, I guess.”

I was baffled at Vivi’s enthusiasm. “I thought you hated Lucia’s schiacciata!”

“Oh, I do,” Vivi assured me. “With a passion. But it’s the perfect thing for Lucia’s wake. Just us three sniveling together, a couple of bottles of port, and a panful of Lucia’s weird Tuscan grape focaccia. In her honor. For tradition. For family. For her.”

I pulled my sister into my arms and held her. Vivi felt so delicate to me, vibrating with emotion. She’d always felt that way—like a baby bird. I wished I had Lucia’s easy skill to comfort my sensitive little sister. Lucia had pulled it off with effortless grace, perfectly chosen words. I’d always marveled at the way she could make anything feel meaningful and magical just by looking at it in just the right way and saying not too much, not too little. Just what was needed. The perfect thing, reverberating like a gong.

But I would do my best. Maybe I wasn’t as good as Lucia had been, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying, or lack of caring. That I could promise.

None of us were good cooks, but we did our best for Lucia’s sake. Our raggedy-ass schiacchiata all'uva was a far cry from Lucia’s elegant traditional Tuscan sweet. The oven timer did not go off. The smoke detector did. But the port we guzzled made us indiscriminate enough to actually eat some of it.

It was wonderfully awful, especially burned.

Chapter Two

Nancy

The first thin blade of light that pierced between my gummy eyelids jabbed into the center of my brain.

Ouch. That got my attention. I rubbed my eyes as my belly did a slow, queasy flop. It took a second to orient myself in time and space.

It appeared that at some point we had migrated into the living room, bringing the last bottle of port with us. The bottle lay on its side, conspicuously empty. Three of Lucia’s beautiful cut-crystal liquor glasses were tipped over on the floor, each stuck in its own small, dark puddle of port.

I had slept sitting up and had that resulting stiff, scrunched-neck feeling. Vivi’s head was on my lap, and Nell was curled up on the love seat across from us, her thick dark hair draped across her face. I patted Vivi’s shoulder, and she stirred, murmuring in a questioning tone. “Wha…?”

“Morning,” I said, my voice thick and froggy. “Unfortunately.”

Vivi struggled up into a sitting position with a hiss of pain, putting her hand to her head. “Oh boy,” she croaked. “I don’t even remember making it into this room.”

Nell stretched, yawned, and winced. “Ow,” she murmured. “I vaguely remember half-carrying you. We did a lot of toasting. Now we pay the price. Yay, us.”

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