“She’s inspired!” Dottie announced joyfully. “I can’t wait to see what comes of this!”
She seemed genuinely excited, like she cared not one bit that the buffet table looked like a swarm of locusts had descended on it. People hadn’t even started arriving for the party yet.
Josie sat silently in her booth, staring into the fishbowl as if studying all of the secrets of the universe.
“Dottie, do you have any clothes Jack and I can change into?” Maisie asked. “And maybe somewhere safe we can stow the goose?”
“Oh, Diego can go anywhere,” Stella said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s sweet as can be.”
“That poor goat would beg to differ,” Maisie said, although perhaps she was just arguing for the sake of arguing. The “poor” goat in question had bitten her leg.
Stella glanced at them and then tipped her head. “Oh, don’t be surly. Just look at the way he’s cuddling with that fine man.” She lowered her paintbrush, her gaze narrowing on Jack. “You know, I had my heart set on the other one—the one named after a fish—but his girlfriend is a harridan.” The harridan being Adalia, and the “fish” being Finn, Adalia’s boyfriend. “You’ll do just fine. You’re the Buchanan bastard, aren’t you?”
Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Probably he’d been called that before.
But he just said calmly, “I prefer to be called that for the content of my character, not the circumstances of my birth.”
Which was just about perfect as far as responses went.
“Stella,” Dottie snapped in what was maybe the only time Maisie could remember hearing her lose her temper. “That’s an awful thing to call my grandson. Now, I don’t want you to leave, not when you’re clearly in the throes of inspiration, but you should apologize.”
Jack wasn’t her grandson, not really. But Dottie had been Beau’s partner for something like twenty years, and it was clear she saw his grandchildren as her responsibility.
Stella let the paintbrush fall—literally fall—into the grass, spraying red.
“I am sorry,” she said, walking toward Jack with arms extended. He took a step backward, almost tripping on the baby gate, and Maisie moved in front of him.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said. “If you think Adalia’s a harridan, you’ll find my bite is much worse than my bark.”
The goose in Jack’s arms nudged Maisie with his beak, but she didn’t yield any ground. Jack had apparently shifted the bird into the crook of one arm, because she felt his other hand wrap around her hip. Maybe he was just trying to keep her from walking into the goose’s danger zone, but his firm touch was putting her into a whole different danger zone.
“Oh, so he’s yours, then,” Stella said with a pout. “I never get to have any fun.” But she paused, then said, “Like I said, I’m sorry. I have an artist’s temperament, I suppose.”
Maisie didn’t attempt to hold in a guffaw. “And I’m sure it allows you to get away with all manner of things.”
Lurch looked up at them, head sopping wet from his dip in the bucket, water dripping all over his shirt. “I sensed that when I first saw you,” he said to Stella. “The artist thing.”
What gave her away? The paint all over her clothes and hair, or the fact that she had a literal easel out on the lawn?
“Oh, aren’t you a big, strong man?” she said.
Maisie was half tempted to stick around to watch what was sure to be the strangest mating dance known to humankind—or animalkind for that matter—but the other guests would be here soon. Even if she was mostly resigned to the whole Georgie and River thing, she didn’t want to have food on her dress in front of Georgie, who never seemed to have a single hair out of place.
“Dottie?” she pressed.
Dottie had been watching the whole Lurch–Stella exchange with fascination, but she shook it off and gestured for them to follow her into the house. “It’s those pheromones Stella wears,” she said in an undertone. “They bring men to their knees.”
Jack shot her a dubious look, but his next comment was for Maisie. “Thanks for saving me back there.”
“No problem,” she said, her mouth tipping up at the corners. He still had the goose cradled against his chest, his grip gentle but firm. She wondered if he’d hold a woman like that too. “You let Adalia get away with fostering a dog while you were away for the weekend. Stella would have eaten you alive.”
“Now, children,” Dottie said, tutting her tongue. “That artist’s temperament does get Stella into trouble sometimes, but she’s a good-enough sort. I wanted to do a little something for her since Adalia was hesitant to allow any of the goats at the Art Display.”
Maisie snort-laughed. She could imagine it now—the puppies barking at the goats, the goats chowing down on paintings. It would have been chaos.
“So the after-party was her consolation prize?” Jack asked. The goose in his arms looked cozy enough to take a nap. Who was this guy?
“And so are you, apparently,” Maisie said with a wink. “Sounds like she had her heart set on Finn.” Finn was handsome, but to Maisie he’d always been “just Finn,” the way she hoped River could someday be “just River.” She wasn’t quite there yet, but she was trying.
Dottie pointed down the hall. “Help yourself to anything that appeals to you, dear. You know your way around. I’ll get Jack and Diego here sorted.”
Maisie met Jack’s gaze, taking in the amused tilt of his mouth, the dark wells of his eyes. “Good luck,” she said. “You might just need it.”
Once in Dottie’s room, she let herself into the closet and flipped through the clothes, feeling the bittersweet wash of memories. How much time had she spent here over the years? Dottie was River’s great-aunt, but she’d raised him since he was a teenager, and Maisie and River had been so close growing up that this house had been like a second home to her, just like the O’Shea house had been a second home to River. Most of these outfits were ones she’d seen before. Birthday parties. Halloween parties. Just-because parties. Dottie Hendrickson was a woman who liked to celebrate.
She found a green summer dress, one that would be a little long on Dottie and maybe just a tad short on her, and took off her ruined dress and put it on. It fit, and when Maisie looked in the mirror, she wasn’t ashamed by what she saw.
But you’re not blond, and your hair will never be orderly, and most of all, you’ll never be her.
Which she was okay with, really. She didn’t want to be someone else. She liked herself just fine the way she was, and to hell with anyone who didn’t. But she couldn’t help feeling a little heartsick. Because for years she’d thought her life would be one way, and now she knew she’d been lying to herself, which was the worst kind of lying a person could do.
“Get it together, Red,” she told herself, tapping the forehead of her reflection. It was a nickname her dad had given her for her hair, which had been fiery since birth. Out of three O’Shea sisters, she was the only one who was a true redhead, although her younger sister had strawberry blond hair.