Page 3 of Henhouse
“Thanks, love. Have a good day.” Pamela paused, looking at Hope’s door. “Let her know we’re just giving her space. It’s a good thing. An exciting thing. Another Thatcher baby!” Pamela smiled. It was such a rarity for Pamela’s smiles to be real that Effie savored each one. Pamela ran off to spend her day in the NICU, where Effie imagined she must exhaust her daily allotment of compassion and selflessness.
Rolling her head against Hope’s door, Effie lifted her arm and lightly rapped her knuckles against the worn walnut.
She heard the doorknob turn in time to avoid falling back as the door opened. Effie jumped up and scooted inside.
Hope plopped onto the bed made up with a violet duvet and fluffy, fringed pillows while Effie lowered herself onto the window seat bench. Both Effie and Hope had rooms on the front of the house that faced the brick-lined sidewalks of Austin Street. Estates across the paved road and on either side were built in the same New England Colonial style, but only the Thatcher’s had been painted a daffodil yellow—to stand out, as Grams always said.
Effie pulled her gaze from the apple blossoms that were budding on the neighbor’s tree to assess Hope in her cave of emotions.
“She didn’t know what to say,” Effie offered.
“I heard. This old house may be built like a fortress with those heavy doors, but they’re not soundproof.”
Effie smiled. “Do you want to talk about it?” Hope shifted in her seat. Effie tried to imagine what she must be feeling, but she never was good at future casting. Dreams and plans and imaginings abouther life were unknown to Effie. She knew she wanted to find a love like Grams and Gramps, but she knew little else. Especially what it felt like for a full person to be growing inside of you.
“Louisa better bring me a large bouquet of flowers tonight,” Hope said as she typed furiously on the laptop that rested on her crossed legs.
“Is that really why you blurted it out?”
“What does the name Evangeline taste like?”
Effie sighed. “Honestly? Sour grapes.”
Hope grimaced. She often asked Effie what flavor a name gave. She liked knowing if the characters she wrote in her now bestselling books tasted good or not. It was always an odd question when asked out in public, but Effie didn’t mind. She just couldn’t explain to everyone they met that she had lexical gustatory synesthesia and therefore could taste words. Names especially gave her very strong flavors.
“Hopefully, Evangeline isn’t set in stone?” Sour grapes and a mineral earthiness splashed over Effie’s tongue. Her lips puckered of their own free will.
Hope huffed and closed her laptop. “Nope. Nothing is. I have the third book releasing soon, but I’m waiting on notes from my editor, so I thought I’d get started on my new series, and I . . . well, it’s not working at all.”
That made sense. Life-changing news had a way of wreaking havoc with routines. “Maybe you’re a little distracted?” Effie suggested. She rose from her perch by the window and joined Hope on the bed.
“I wish you had told me,” Effie whispered. “How far along are you?”
Hope closed her eyes as tears threatened to fall. “Almost five months.”
“Five months!” Effie exclaimed, nearly falling off the bed. “How?”
“Well . . . I—I don’t know. Most people don’t even know until five or six weeks, and that’s when they’re waiting for it. I suppose I didn’t realize I missed my period until I was a month late? So I was already ten weeks along when I went to the doctor. Then it seemed like it made sense to wait the whole first trimester before saying anything, in case something happened. And ever since I’ve been worried about telling everyone.”
Effie’s stomach churned. It wasn't just the family she worried over. “How did you not realize you skipped your period?”
“You know my cycle can’t be trusted, plus I was locked in here careening toward drafting deadlines on book three! The release is forthcoming, and it has to be immaculate or the publisher won’t want to pick up my next series . . . and thenthatpitch has to be perfect.”
Effie saw her spiraling and placed a comforting hand on Hope’s knee. It was as much for Hope as it was for Effie to avoid an onslaught of mashed-up flavors.Careening,for example,had the unfortunate association withcarrion. Not that Effie had ever tasted dead flesh, but her brain was more than happy to try to fill in that blank.
“Okay . . .” Effie understood to an extent, but she’d never lost herself to a project or a person or anything that way. Hope tended to go all in though. Effie envied her that.
“And you haven’t told him, why?”
“We’ve only been together for a year, but he’s been busy lately, and he had this work training thing, and then he went on a trip with his moms, and I just . . . I haven’t had a chance.”
“You haven’t created a chance,” Effie corrected at the risk of getting her head bitten off.And they’d been together a year?Effie only firstheard about him six months ago. Maybe the rift between them was already bigger than she knew.
“You’re right,” Hope confessed. “I’m scared. I know he’s nothing like our dads or your sisters’ exes, but—”
“You don’t want him to prove them right.”
“Exactly.”
