Page 123 of A Heart So Haunted
“I’m sorry,” I offered. I took a long sip of my water. “I just don’t know …”
“What to say?”
“Right.”
The text I’d sent hadn’t been specific—just that I wanted to talk. To ask questions, more for my own peace of mind than anything, but how did you bring up an ex without sounding too forward? My brain hummed like an air conditioning unit in the middle of summer.
“About Cadence—” she started, just as I said, “I was wondering if you knew—”
The tension cracked. Pieces rained down on the table. Another chuckle, this time a deep one from both of us.
I tried a different angle. “Can you tell me about it? About my aunt, I mean? What exactly did she tell you about the house?”
Irene’s brow crinkled, thoughtful. “Not much. Each time she talked about it less. I did the digging on my own time after I went to see what she was talking about, but …” She gave a shrug. “She didn’t lose interest, but she seemed kind of—defensive about it. I’m not sure.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment.
Irene sucked on her bottom teeth. “She did talk about you, though. All the time.”
“She did?” My stomach bottomed out. Here it was: the moment of truth. Had she been upset I hadn’t visited? I wanted to bury my face in my hands.
Instead, I braced myself, ready for the guilt to resurface.
“She always showed me pictures of the houses you’d redecorated. You do, like, interior design?”
I nodded.
A shred of sadness crept into her eyes when she looked at me. “She always said you would make it intoHome Livingor something oneday. She tried to show me your website but couldn’t figure out how to get the newsletter pop-up screen to go away.”
A small smile pulled at my lips. “That sounds like her.”
The waiter came back with the garlic bread. We both gave plastic smiles, our orders, and thanked him before waiting for him to walk out of earshot.
“She said you grew up here?” she asked. “In Stetson, I mean?”
“I did,” I said, then launched into my abbreviated life story, similar to the one I gave Hadrian that one night, while skimming the painful parts. When I took a sip of my drink and asked, “And you?” I felt it.
Irene’s eyes were thoughtful.
Knowing.
Our waiter returned with our orders and centered a basket of fried pickles between us. I’d just gathered enough courage to beat around the bush, when she said, “You know Ivan Kenneth, right?”
I paused. Glanced up.
“Why?” Hundreds of bees came alive in the center of my throat. There was only one reason she would be bringing him into the conversation. “Did he say something about me?”
Was she still in his good graces? Surely, she wasn’t if she’d removed his pictures. But the towns were small, and it seemed like the circles were even smaller, which meant it was only a matter of time before he started sputtering on about what I’d said to him in the foyer, right?
What if he’d told people I was giving him the listing, only to back out? To flake? Use him for clout or attention or whatever—just like before?
She sighed. Her cushioned lips parted, closed, then parted again. A pink glow cast over her cheekbones, her nose, from the neon sign to my left.
“No, it’s just—you sent this to me.” She flipped her phone around.
My mouth opened in surprise.
A photograph of Ivan and I, together from years ago, had been sent from my phone to hersbeforethe text message I’d sent asking her to meet for lunch.
