Will took the book from her and looked it over. “The ABC Murders, huh? Is it a good one?”
“One of my favorites.”
“All right. This is on me if you’ll let me borrow it first.”
“Sure,” Jane said. “It’s a deal.”
They walked over to the coffee counter. Will put the book behind the desk and got her a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote down her number as he poured a cup of coffee.
“Do you have any barista experience?” he asked, fitting the lid on the cup.
“I make a mean latte.”
“That’s half the battle.” He laughed. “Well, welcome to Bells Hollow, Jane.” He slid the coffee across the counter.
“Thanks. And thanks for the coffee. It was nice meeting you.”
“You too.”
Jane slipped a dollar into a tip jar with a sign that said SCARED OF CHANGE? LEAVE IT HERE, then found Ruth waiting on a bench outside.
“Mmm, thanks,” Ruth said, taking the coffee. “How did it go?”
“Cute barista.”
“Not a bad little morning we’re having—good pancakes, cute barista.”
“Free coffee,” Jane added.
“Free coffee? Does life get any better than this?”
But she said it with a sad half smile, and Jane knew exactly what she meant.
Yes, life got a lot better than this.
If Greer were still alive, he’d have ordered the silliest thing on the menu. He unironically loved weird drinks, like marshmallow and crème brûlée and gingerbread lattes.
Jane looped her arm through her mother’s and leaned into her and didn’t reply. She didn’t have to.
After a quick trip to the mall to buy new winter coats and a little box that was supposed to make their phones work in the house, they returned home and spent the rest of the day cleaning. They focused on the downstairs while the window company worked upstairs, replacing the rest of the windows before doubling back to fix the one in the mudroom.
“Let me know if you have any more trouble,” the foreman said as Ruth signed the invoice. Jane peeked over her shoulder and saw the price—what had been paid already and what was still left to pay. And on top of it all, an extra cost for the Saturday work. Who knew windows were so expensive?
They had never been rich in California—not like some of the students at Jane’s school, who drove Porsches and Teslas to class—but Jane had also never really had to think about money before. Now, though, it was creeping up on her: the price of things.
“Thanks,” Ruth said. “I will.”
After the window people left, Jane installed the booster from the cell phone store. As soon as she plugged it in, her phone lit up with six messages from Salinger:
Hello I miss you more today than I have ever missed anyone in the history of the world
Janiieeeeeee
are you dead
WHERE ARE YOU
You know that store near my house that sells the really good smoothies, they’re going out of business so not only is my best friend all the way across the country, now I don’t even live near a good smoothie place
Are you actually dead I miss you
“Tell Sal I said hi,” Ruth said. “I’m going to start dinner.”
Jane collapsed onto a freshly vacuumed sofa and texted her back:
RIP to the good smoothie place. I miss you more than I can possibly express in words
my mom says hi
it’s cold here
ILY
When Sal didn’t text back right away, Jane wandered into the kitchen. Ruth was finishing up the salad she was making; she placed the bowl down while Jane stared out the window, remembering the morning slaughter of the poor roses.
“Set the table, will you?” Ruth asked.
“Sure.” Jane got plates and silverware as Ruth took two potatoes out of the microwave. “Salad and baked potatoes. I think this is the most New England meal you’ve ever cooked.”
Ruth shrugged. “When in Rome.” She put the potatoes on two plates and brought them over to the table. Jane sat down across from her and started dishing out the salad. “We can start cleaning upstairs tomorrow so we can finally sleep up there.”
“It’ll be nice to get off the floor,” Jane replied.
“Agreed. We’ll go to the outlets next weekend, maybe. They’re two hours away, but they have great stores. We can get new bedding, new pillows. A few things to make this place a bit homier.”
“Sounds great.”
Jane looked past her mother, out the windows again. The sky was already dark. She didn’t like this house at night, when the shadows grew longer, the air grew chillier.
“Honey? Is something wrong?”
“What? No. I didn’t know windows were so expensive.” She didn’t know what made her say it, but at least it was easier to explain than her sudden fear of the dark.
Ruth laughed softly. “Of all the things I thought you might say, that wasn’t one of them.”
“I saw the invoice.”
“Oh, Jane. You do not have to worry about stuff like that.”
“But you have to worry about money now. You have to, like, budget and stuff. Didn’t Dad do all the budgeting?”
Ruth laughed—a short, bitter laugh that Jane didn’t like. “Your father did all the budgeting, yes. And look where that got us.” A long quiet. Ruth reached across the table and took Jane’s hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay.”
“But please, let me worry about money. You just worry about making friends and doing your homework. Okay?”
Jane shrugged. “Okay.”
“How’s the potato? You know Maine is famous for potatoes, right?”
Jane took a bite of the potato, chewed, and swallowed. “What a weird place,” she said.
Ruth snorted softly. “You’re right about that, sweetie.”
That night, after dinner and a game of Scrabble, after brushing her teeth and washing her face, Jane slid into her sleeping bag for what she hoped would be the last time in a long time. Maybe it would be the last time ever. Maybe, tomorrow night, they would burn the sleeping bags in a ceremonial bonfire in the backyard, along with the maps that had gotten them here in the first place, along with the entire car and the greasy fast food they’d eaten and the clothes they’d worn that, Jane imagined, would never not smell faintly of gasoline.
In her own sleeping bag, Ruth was already breathing heavily, a faint rattle in the back of her throat as she left Jane alone in the quiet, too-big house.
Even closing the pocket doors didn’t really help to lessen the feeling of being lost in a vast forest. They’d taken the sheets off all the furniture, but the antique high-backed chairs and tall lamps and bookcases and fancy hutches seemed to tower over Jane, casting strange shadows across the room. It didn’t help that the only light source was the fire, which seemed to have a mind of its own, its flames dancing wildly every time a draft blew across the floor.
Jane stared into those flames and tried to turn off her brain. The day had seemed to pass in a blink of an eye, and Jane felt tired and achy from so much cleaning. Not just tired—exhausted, really—but it was the type of exhaustion that didn’t lend itself to immediate sleep. It was the type of exhaustion that inexplicably kept you up, that kept poking and shaking you awake, just to remind you, again, of how tired you were.