“The sweaters you wear sometimes...” Gretchen says, keeping herself from reaching out to touch Charlie’s arm—especially because he isn’t wearing one of the sweaters right now so she can’t even play it off as relevant. “Ellen made them all?”
“Yeah. A few were birthday or holiday gifts, but I actually found a bunch in my grandpa’s closet that he—well, he didn’t remember she made them. He said someone must have broken in and left them there.” He lowers his eyes. “So I figured it would be okay if I... I know this sounds ridiculous, but it’s like I can feel... her love... when I wear something she made. And I didn’t want all that love to go to waste sitting in the back of a closet.”
“That doesn’t sound ridiculous at all,” Gretchen says softly.
Charlie clears his throat and taps his fist against the top of a stack of nearby bins. “Anyway, hope these work for whatever nonsense you’re planning. I need to do a few more things before sundown. Make sure you leave the cedar balls in there and close up the bin when you’re done. Moths. They eat things.” He frowns at his words as if unsure why he said them, then turns and leaves the attic.
Gretchen waits until she can no longer hear Charlie’s retreating footsteps. “You were right, Ev. He’s a good egg, and his yolk’s real runny.” But Everett isn’t on the rocking horse anymore. He must have climbed out onto the roof, because she hears himshouting something above her head. Perhaps he wanted to give Gretchen and Charlie some privacy, although she doubts he was being that considerate; more likely, he went out to get a closer look at a bird.
She realizes after a moment that she’s clutching the dark gray sweater to her chest.Charlie put so much of his love into this sweater, she thinks. And even though she knows it wasn’t meant for her, she slips it over her head. It would be a shame if it went to waste.
23
Gretchen paces her room, Everett watching from the bed.
“What’s with all the back-and-forth, doll?”
She stops momentarily to bite her lip, but then continues her window-to-door, door-to-window journey. How to explain what’s been bothering her since she first had the idea last night? “I need to ask someone for something, but I’ll be asking them as a personal favor instead of a business one, and I don’t... I try not to do that.”
He taps his chin. “What is it you need and who do you need it from?”
“I got the farm’s website and social media accounts set up a few days ago, and they’re gaining a bit of traction. What we need next are events to bring attention to our existence, and I was thinking goat yoga might be a good place to start. My roommate—my business associate, Yolanda, she works at a yoga studio and she’s involved with a yoga teacher...”
“I don’t know if I know for sure what yoga is, but this sounds... not complicated? Just ask this friend of yours to help.”
“But itiscomplicated because sheisn’tmy friend.” Gretchen throws herself down on the bed beside Everett, careful not to get too close. She’s managed to go a whole five days without his extreme chill pummeling her body, and she’s not particularly eager for a thoughtless outflung arm to break the streak.
“So she... doesn’t like you?”
“No, she does! That’s why it’s a problem.”
“I’m... really not following here.”
“The thing is, Yolanda is my roommate, but she’s mostly my employee. She collects information for me to use in my séances. If it weren’t for me giving her a steep discount on rent in exchange for information, I’m not sure she’d be in my life at all. So, when our business arrangement stops making sense for her, she’s going to leave, and it will be way easier if it feels—if it feels like—”
She isn’t leavingme. Gretchen has never actually articulated this aloud, and now that she’s on the precipice of doing so, she realizes how much emotion is obscured inside of it. “I don’t like mixing my business and personal life,” she says instead.
“Hmm.” Everett crosses his arms over his chest, considering her nonsensical explanation. “Can I tell you a story?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to regardless. So go ahead.”
He pauses, thinking, before he begins: “Once upon a time, in a small rural area of Maryland called Derring Heights, there was a very handsome farmer turned very handsome spirit. He was bound to the land that had been in his family for generations because he angered an old bat who cursed him for following his dreams.”
“I think I’ve heard this one before,” Gretchen says.
“No, you haven’t,” Everett says. “Just listen.”
Gretchen rolls her eyes and gestures for him to continue.
“When he was alive, the very handsome farmer didn’t have many friends. In fact, he didn’t have any at all. Sure, there were men who might give him the time of day, and there were certainly women who appreciated his extremely beautiful face and chiseled, perfect body—”
“Everett.”
“Anyway, there were often people around him, but they weren’tfriends. They were just... people. The very handsome farmer never could seem to get anyone to, well... to like him. They simply tolerated him. Oh, it wasn’t their fault. Not really. The very handsome farmer didn’t exactly make it easy. He lied and he cheated and sometimes he took things that didn’t belong to him. One time, he stuck a finger in an apple pie cooling in a neighbor’s window. And another time, he stuck a finger in the neighbor’s wife—”
“Everett!Did you really?”
He looks to the side, neither confirming nor denying. “The point is, the very handsome farmer was often lonely. And he couldn’t blame anyone except himself for it. But as he grew a bit older, a bit wiser, he started wishing he had someone. Someone true, someone to care for him—flaws and all. A friend. And that’s why, when he got an offer to sell the farm to a fella from the railroads, it felt like a gift. He could move somewhere new, somewhere no one knew about the selfish things he’d done, and maybe he could find what he was missing. So even when the evil old bat warned him of the consequences of leaving, he decided to go anyway. Because he thought maybe he’d rather be dead than alone any longer.” His voice peters out into a whisper by the end of the last sentence.
