Page 68 of This Is How It Started
I pick a white wrap blouse that still has its tags from the mound. “This is cute. How come you’re getting rid of it?”
“I have too many white blouses. It was a freebie from one of the designers I rep. It’s all yours.”
I hold it against me and check it out in the mirror. “With a black pencil skirt, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. It’ll look great on you.”
I add it to my takeaway pile. This is better than Nordstrom and a hell of a lot cheaper.
While Josie ducks into the bathroom, I leaf through her closet. Her rods are so heavy with clothes, they’re warping. Her phone rings again, and I glance down at the nightstand to see Hannah and Stephen’s number flash on the display. They’re the only people I know besides my mother who still have a landline.
“Hannah just called,” I tell Josie as she comes out of the bathroom. My sister is probably having a fashion emergency. Or wants to go to the movies again without me.
Josie can tell I’m bothered. “I’ll call her later,” she says. “Are the mystery writers gone?”
“Yep, they left this morning. It’s so quiet now.” Except for Campbell and his power tools. “Brooke goes back to work tomorrow.” I let out a sigh. “And I guess I’ll have to try to sell real estate again.” It was great having an excuse not to make cold calls and all the other things I hate doing to scrounge up business.
“I still can’t believe she’s renting the house out.”
“She got a call for a bachelor party but nixed the idea. Not the clientele we’re going for.”
“We’re?” Josie cocks her head to one side.
“Yeah. It was fun. The group was as kind as it was appreciative of everything we did. And they had such great stories about their careers. Do you know some of them write more than two thousand words a day? Crazy, right? We have a couple staying in the guest cottage next week. In April, the pool house is pretty much fully booked. And I think for the right money and the right people, Brooke would definitely consider booking the big house.”
“What about a wedding? It just occurred to me that one of my clients is looking for a venue for her wedding. It’s her second marriage, and she’s planning something low-key, like just fifty or so guests. I told her about the Log Cabin where your mom had her birthday party, but it’s booked for the next year. Your parents’ place...I’m never going to get used to calling it Brooke’s...would be perfect. If she’s really serious about pimping the house out, I could see if my client is interested. But if you’d rather me not, then my lips are sealed.” Josie pretends to zip her mouth.
“Let me talk to Brooke first. But I bet she’d be into it. She might even be willing to cater it if your client doesn’t already have someone.”
“I’ll ask her as soon as you give me the word.”
On my way home, I think about my own wedding and how beautiful it was. How Josh had helped me plan it down to the linens and the silverware. He was a hands-on guy when it came to that kind of stuff. He wanted to be involved every step of the way. He wanted our big day to reflect all the pieces of us.
It’s a good memory, one I’ll cherish forever. Still, the dreaded Beth Hardesty is never far from my mind.
That’s why despite myself I make a pit stop in Laurel Heights and am lucky enough to find a parking spot across the street from Les Puces. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish by sitting here, but it doesn’t stop me from spying on the shop like I’m on surveillance duty. All I need is a white van and some bad coffee.
It’s getting late, but I suspect the store stays open at least until eight or nine to catch the dinner crowd. California Street has quite a few good restaurants. I wonder if Beth is inside or if she’s at the St. Helena store, or at her new home amid the vineyards, sipping a glass of cabernet on the veranda while her two little kids play in the front yard.
I wonder if she knows Josh is dead.
And then I’m suddenly sobbing. Bawling so hard that I’m making awful choking noises and there’s snot dripping down my nose. My whole body is shaking, and I’m unable to stop or even control myself. I’m literally hysterical, hiccupping on sobs, making animalistic sounds that are ugly to even my ears.
I want this all to be a bad dream. I want Josh to be alive and life to be the way it used to be. Before the accident, before I found Josh’s text messages, before Beth Hardesty. I miss him so much that I wish it was me in the driver’s seat instead of him. Why? Why was he taken from me? What did he ever do to deserve dying at thirty-five? It’s so fucking unfair.
There’s a tapping on my window, and I jump at the sound of my name being called. Then I look, and it’s Campbell standing there. I try to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, try to erase the tracks of my tears before rolling down the window.
“Hi,” I manage in a croaking voice.
“Rach?” He tilts his head to the side. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just sitting here having a good cry.”
“Unlock the door, okay?” He comes around to the passenger side and slides in next to me. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything, then takes my hand. “Something happen today?”
“Nothing in particular.” I sniffle. “Just the usual. What are you doing here...on California Street?”
He points to the bakery on the corner. “I’m meeting Jess to taste wedding cakes. And you?”
