Page 5 of Henhouse
The way he said it was a pledge. A promise. Brayden stood, straightening his shirt. Hope found the words she wanted to say stuck between her teeth. They were gone altogether as she watched him move for her bedroom door. “Where are you going?”
“To use the front door?” he teased. “You love me. I am no longer a lowly townie pining for your affections from the street. My boombox can be retired, right?”
“Wrong!” Hope laughed as she pointed to the open window. Brayden checked his watch, a bit of remorse tugging one corner of his mouth down.
“Oops. Guess I’ll be a little late.” He crawled over the bench hesitating long enough to peck Hope on the cheek before escaping through the window and down the porch post to the van Hope knew he parked around the corner.
Hope sighed as she breathed in the crisp April air. A pool of guilt settled in her gut.I’m pregnant,notI love youshould have been the words she shared, but she let herself believe that it set them up all the better for the news when she finally revealed it.Later that day, she decided. Or else she’d never write another word for all the butterflies and distracting thoughts.
3
It was finally nice enough to walk to work, which Effie appreciated after the bombs that were dropped at the breakfast table. Walking helped settle the flutter in her chest. Not only was there to be another Thatcher baby—Effie wondered how many more bodies would feasibly fit in the aging mini-mansion—but Ellen and Louisa’s dad would be in town soon.
Effie always struggled with his visits. Though Louisa was frequently mindful of Effie’s feelings surrounding their parentage, it usually resulted in Effie feeling guilty. Which was absurd. She shouldn’t feel guilty for garnering affection and concern from her big sister.
But she didn’t want it.
Effie didn’t want to pull from anyone else’s joy—however fleeting—because her grief was so big. It didn’t seem fair to them, and yet it wasn’t fair in the slightest that Effie wouldn’t get the chance for Pamela to reject a visit fromherfather. That was a total impossibility. Unless, of course, Hope dove full-on into the occult and was able toconverse with the dead.
Effie sighed as she took another cautious step on the uneven bricks of the sidewalk. The neighbor’s apple tree wasn’t the only thing daring to blossom in the spring sunshine. Soft white blooms caught the rays. Tiny red buds promised verdant leaves while triumphant stems of daffodils and tulips surged from the thawing earth by front stoops and stone walkways.
Soon, Louisa and Dorothea would start planning the annual ball they hosted at their historic home every August to support funding for the arts. Vivienne and Lilah would be counting down the days until pool parties and long afternoons in the flower garden. Tibby would be readying for another riding season at the stables off Peverly Hill Road, while Pamela would be spending her evenings on the beach with romance novels as the sun set over the Atlantic. Beatrice would be working on her collection of watercolors on the back patio. Louisa would likely be auditioning for the summer musical at the community theater on Bow Street. Hope would be growing a full human in her belly and releasing another installment of her fantasy epic.
And Effie? What would Effie be doing?
It wasn’t a question that usually plagued her.
She was content with her life. Cooking with Grams gave her companionship and fulfillment. Baking treats all week long delighted not just her but her entire family. She enjoyed her walks around town with Aunt Bea talking about art and science and life. Countless nights were spent with Hope at the local Book and Bar snuggled in with mulled wine or Aperol spritzes—depending on the season—and a good book. Effie found pride in her work at the craft store as a clerk and as an instructor of classes from embroidery to floral arrangement. She neverwanted for more. Wanting only ever led to disappointment.
But that morning had set everything in motion. A countdown had begun for the days she had left of the life she’d been living. Sure, things changed when Hazel, Vivienne, and Lilah entered the world. Things always shifted whether Effie wanted them to or not. But this felt different. This was cataclysmic. Hope’s life was filling out while Effie’s remained attainably tame.
She wasn’t sure that’s what she wanted. In fact, she knew it wasn’t. Effie wanted her life to take on the roundness of experience. She started to wonder if it could be achieved within the walls of her family home or if, to break from the thawing ground, she needed to be rooted in less crowded soils.
Effie used the rest of her walk to try to quell the rising need to be more than she already was
“And you wouldn’t want a crafty side hustle?” Basil asked as he knit a rather loud scarf that was about three inches too wide. He raised his thick, manicured brows over the rims of his thin gold glasses. Effie leaned against the counter by the register that looked out over the aisles—bolts of fabric, skeins of yarn, paintbrushes, canvases, and all manner of hobby crafts.
“No,” Effie replied. “It would be too weird trying to make a buzz online or selling to faceless many.” What Effie didn’t say was that she battled her brain enough with comparisons to those in her immediate presence. She didn’t need to include everyone online too.
“Keep it local as it were?”
“Precisely,” Effie gabbed. “Why do you seem skeptical?” The biteof Sour Skittles made Effie’s jaw ache. Phantom flavors still packed a punch.
“I don’t know. You’re always fiddling, making new recipes, dabbling. Seems like maybe you’re not satisfied with just this?” He gestured to the store around them and the notes Effie made for a new recipe she wanted to try.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Effie drawled, but felt less confident than usual.
“If you grew a backbone and opened your own damn bakery, you could find fulfillment,” Basil challenged. The twinkle in his eye told Effie he was baiting her. He may have been younger than Effie, but he always seemed so much older when he made that all-knowing face.
“Not every passion needs to be monetized. Maybe you’re the one lacking fulfillment,” Effie argued.
“Touché,” Basil said, finishing a row. Effie didn’t feel like she’d truly won the argument though. It wasn’t the first time she took advantage of the lull at work to devise a new raspberry tart recipe or make a shopping list for pastries for the weekend. It also wasn’t the first time that someone had suggested she open a bakery. Basil himself had to be up to a dozen mentions. She’d considered it but hadn’t acted on it, not yet . . . maybe not ever. She liked things the way they were. Even if they were quiet. Even if they weren’t full.
They hadn’t had a customer in over an hour, and they were quite prone to debates, crafting sessions, and existential musings when the store quieted. Shoulder seasons were especially bad. It wasn’t nice enough for Boston tourists to flock to the seaport town, and it wasn’t snowy enough for winter retreats and candlelit dinners at the noteworthy eateries around Market Square. Mondays especially were quietwith a few locals coming in to restock on yarn or pick up a gift from the kid’s craft boxes. Effie never truly minded, though, because the space brimmed with creativity. It buzzed with the excitement of unrealized art, and she loved to be surrounded by it.
Basil was also a good friend and nice to be around. She loved that his name was so easily digestible. It had been a burden trying to befriend people her entire life when their names tasted anywhere on the spectrum from decadent, complex desserts to literal shit. Effie rolled her neck, stretching out the sore spots from her yoga practice that morning.
A box of chocolates entered the frame of her eyeline. “Want one?” Basil asked around a mouthful of nougat.
