Des doesn’t correct her, even though literally no one else calls her Desdemona.
It’s the third week of June, and the whole summer stretches out before her, lonely as hell, except for her endless to-do list. Her best friend—former best friend?—is too cool for watching old British murder mysteries or decorating their planners or anything else they used to do together. She’s barely texted Des since she’s been home from college. What is there to look forward to? Everything—all the work at Arden and at home—will keep falling on Des, at least until Gram can get around better.
Des bites her lip, remembering the conversation they had about Gram’s living will and her funeral wishes. Just in case, Gram had insisted. The doctor and the physical therapist say she’s making good progress. But Des can’t help worrying. Gram has always seemed young and strong and indomitable. It’s been hard to see her weak, in pain, looking…old. It hurts Des’s heart, and it makes her wonder how their family will function, moving forward.
What if all her new responsibilities aren’t temporary?
The Garrett girls’ roles have long been established among themselves and around town. At fifteen, Vi is the sensitive, bookish one. At sixteen, Kat is the diva: emotional, theatrical, and never afraid to make a scene. Eighteen-year-old Bea is the brilliant, ambitious one, off to Georgetown in the fall. And Des? At nineteen, Des is the oldest. The responsible one.
The boring one, maybe. Next to glamorous, artistic Paige, she felt hopelessly dull.
But Des wants things for herself beyond running the bookstore. Beyond taking care of her sisters. Maybe she needs to try to carve out more time for her illustrations. For making new friends. For figuring out who she is now, a year after high school graduation.
What if she isn’t boring, responsible Des this summer?
What if she tries being Desdemona? That’s what Mom named her, after all. Maybe it’s past time she tried it on for size.
Chapter Two
BEA
Dread slows Bea’s footsteps as she approaches the Daily Grind. She scuffs her sensible black flats against the brick sidewalk, glancing in the window of the Tabby Cat Café to see how many cats she can spot. It’s a game she plays with herself on anxious days; if she sees five or more cats, it’s good luck. It means that whatever she’s worried about will work itself out.
The original tabby, Cinnamon, is snoozing in a puddle of sunshine on the flowered love seat, flanked by pillows bearing his likeness. Snowflake, the floofy Persian, is perched on a bookshelf like a watchful sentinel, tail twitching. A small black cat is in the process of batting a figurine off a high café table. Two calicos are curled together on the back of an overstuffed armchair. One, two, three, four, five. Bea takes a deep breath and waves at Mason Kim, the sulky fauxhawked waiter, who’s messing around on his phone behind the counter. Mase waves back half-heartedly.
“Bea! Yoo-hoo! Bea Garrett!” Mrs. Lynde calls down Prince Street. “That was a real nice story in the Gazette yesterday!”
Bea considers pretending that she didn’t hear her. Maryanne Lynde is a talker, a notorious busybody, and this short walk—the five blocks between the offices of the Gazette over on Queen Street and the Daily Grind—is the only time Bea will have to herself all day.
Instead, she takes a deep breath and heads down the street toward Mrs. Lynde. That is what’s expected of her, after all, and that’s what Bea does: she takes what is expected of her, and then she exceeds those expectations. She pokes her rectangular black glasses back up her nose and gives the older woman a practiced, polite smile. “Thank you, Miss Maryanne. I’m really grateful that Charlie gave me the column. It’s a great opportunity to spotlight local women-owned businesses.”
“Well, you earned it, didn’t you? It’s about time you got to do more than book reviews,” Miss Maryanne says, and Bea feels a rush of satisfaction. She did earn it. Unlike some people. “So Charlie’s treating you all right?”
Charlie—Charles Lockwood, the editor of the Remington Hollow Gazette—is treating Bea just fine. He’s a great boss, encouraging but challenging. His daughter Savannah, home from Vassar for the summer, is another story entirely. She’s a gossipy, entitled, brat who’s writing the Gazette’s new Around Town blog and competing with Bea for features.
“Charlie’s great.” Bea keeps the smile on her face. Nepotism aside.
“How’s Helen?” Miss Maryanne stretches out one thick leg, clad in purple linen trousers, and massages her knee. “Dr. Kim says I might want to start thinking about a knee replacement myself.”
Bea smooths her gray pencil skirt. “Gram’s better, thank you. Still having a little trouble with the stairs. She’s doing physical therapy twice a week.”
“With that good-looking Jacob Kim, huh? I tell you, I wouldn’t mind seeing him twice a week!” Miss Maryanne cackles. “It’s nice that one of Doc’s boys followed in her footsteps. And Emily’s studying criminology, isn’t she? That’s a sort of science. Now, Mase, who knows what’s going on with him these days.” She shoots a disapproving look down toward the Tabby Cat Café. “Spends all his time frowning at that phone of his. He’s going to give himself wrinkles. And did you see what he did with his hair? It’s so spiky.”
Bea smiles for real this time. “It’s called a fauxhawk.”
“Well, it doesn’t do him any favors, if you ask me. And neither does all that eyeliner. Gay or not, in my day, young men didn’t wear makeup!”
“Mase is bisexual,” Bea says, “and it’s called guyliner. It’s very trendy.”
“Is it now? Well, speaking of handsome guys”—Miss Maryanne gives an exaggerated wink—“how’s that young man of yours?”
Bea’s smile goes sour. Gram’s friends love to tease her about Erik. She didn’t used to mind. It used to make her blush and giggle, but lately…lately she wishes they would mind their own damn business.
“Let me see your hand,” Miss Maryanne says.
Confused, Bea holds up her right hand, aware of her ragged nails and chipped peach polish. Biting her nails is one of her worst habits.
But Miss Maryanne shakes her curly gray head. “No, no, the other one. Your left hand.” Bea holds her left hand out obediently, and the woman cackles. “No ring yet, huh? What’re you two waiting for?”
Bea’s stomach lurches. “What? Um—we—” she mumbles, flustered. Why doesn’t she have some kind of witty comeback? Kat would. Her younger sister is stupidly self-possessed. Kat would probably give Miss Maryanne a speech on feminism, maybe rant about how marriage is an antiquated notion based on property laws and dowries and how her worth cannot be measured in goats. It would be ridiculous and dramatic; the old lady would be confused but admire her spirit. A real spitfire, that girl, she’d say.