“Thank you. And also. I know you’re not formally my mentor, and you work for the competition, and this is a big ask, so you cantotally say no.…” I’m babbling.Breathe in, breathe out. “I need help finding another job.”
Her smile is so evil, and so good. “I thought you’d never ask.”
When I pull up to the house, Tobin’s truck isn’t there.
Maybe McHuge borrowed it again. Maybe Tobin’s racing home from the farmers’ market with unnecessary seedlings, worried he’ll miss me.
Or maybe not. Panic swirls darkly, ink in water.
Next door, Marijke straightens up, holding a trowel and a crate of flowers. From the other side of the yard, Renata waves a dirt-smeared hand. Blooming annuals in shades of pink and peach dot the black earth, a stack of empty compostable plant containers leaning against the painted stairs.
If they’re surprised to see me dressed like a hero in a historical romance, they’re not more surprised than I am to see them together. Tor must have talked a good game to get out of that jam.
“Marijke. Renata.” My boots jingle up the sidewalk like it’s the O.K. Corral. “Nice day for gardening. Tobin didn’t happen to tell you when he’d be back?”
Marijke’s sporting a suspiciously wide grin. “Tobin’s gone out, my dear.”
My steps slow, then stop, but what I really want is to go backward. Put this whole sequence in reverse, likeSliding Doors.Back myself into my car, rewind all the way to April. I want a second chance at this timeline, so I can learn the hard, true lessons I needed, but faster. In time to save Tobin and me.
“He’s at the high school.”
Crass of her to be so cheerful. She knows what it means that I’ve showed up in costume.
“Strange place to go. He said it had the biggest field in town.”
“He said what?”
“He said he needed a field. Something about space for walking.”
Walk toward each other. That’s McHuge’s line, fromThe Second Chances Handbook.
It’s a bad idea to let all this hope run roughshod over me. If this isn’t what I think it is, I’m going to be so ruined. “Gotta go,” I blurt.
“Liz! Wait.” She produces a folded square of paper. “This is for you.”
I unfold it in a hurry, trying to get the politeness over with so I can go.
I have to reread the word “Zwetschgenkuchen,” written in Marijke’s own tall, slanted handwriting, three times to believe it.
The precious family plum cake recipe. The wedding gift I wanted so badly from the mother-in-law who didn’t consider me a friend and told me with towels I didn’t qualify as family.
“Why…?”Why this? Why now?I wouldn’t expect her to pick up on anything unspoken coming from me, but surprise, surprise, she does.
“Tobin asked me to give you this, but I should have gifted it to you myself, a long time ago. I have made… many mistakes in my life.” Her voice wavers before she cinches some invisible corset, making her already straight back impossibly straighter. “I told you marriage meant staying with your partner. But you and my son showed me it could be more. You had the courage to ask each other to do better. I see now that you were asking me to do better as your mother-in-law, for Tobin’s sake. I’m hoping we’ll have many years to become friends, as well as family.”
Friends? WithMarijke? I bark out an incredulous laugh, then clamp my hand over my mouth in horror.
Marijke cracks a ghost of a smile. “Perhaps I deserved that. I hope you enjoy the cake.”
“Thanks. We should bake together sometime.” It’s polite, and maybe someday it could be true. “Say hi to Tor for me.”
“I’m afraid Tor and I aren’t in touch.”
“Oh. But then…” I look over at Renata.
Marijke waves a hand in a sophisticated Euro-gesture. “Renata reached out a few days ago, and, well, one thing led to another. She’s staying here until after the baby comes. Perhaps she’ll even work for me part-time when she’s back on her feet—did you know she was a digital sales expert at a Norwegian souvenir manufacturer?”
“Um, I didn’t! Would love to know more about that. At another time. See you,” I call, backing away. Back on the road, I put my boot all the way on the accelerator and pretend I have to lean into the curves. I pull up without a screech at Pendleton High, a square gray building with the functional, flat vibe of eighties-era public buildings. The Pendleton Pikas’ mascot grimaces adorably from the scoreboards framing the soccer field. It’s not possible to make a hamster-sized rock rabbit look scary, but kudos to the high school art department for the effort.
