Gretchen shifts to her side to stare at Everett. It’s almost as if the swirling clouds beneath his skin have become imbued withemotion. Vulnerability. She never expected... She has to stop herself from reaching for his hand.
“Well, splat!” he says with a rueful chuckle. “The very handsome farmer died and became the very handsome spirit. And he was even more alone than before, because now he didn’t even have anyone to give him the time of day or admire his good looks. It gave him a lot of time to think, and he started to realize that perhaps the reason no one cared about him when he was alive was because he didn’t care enough about others. Perhaps this was the lesson the evil old bat hoped he would learn. Or maybe she was just a mean, vindictive little...” Everett narrows his eyes and purses his lips before bringing himself back to the story. “Then, one day when the very handsome spirit was quite resigned to being alone, something amazing happened: This woman showed up at the farm, and she couldsee him. Really... see him.” Everett turns his head and looks Gretchen in the eye. “And there was something... something kind of sad about her. Like maybe she understood how he felt. From that moment, he wanted more than anything in the world for her to be his friend. And to be a friend to her.”
“You are my friend,” Gretchen whispers. “Even though you’re... a lot sometimes. You’re my friend, Ev.” It’s true, she’s surprised to realize. Somewhere along the way, Gretchen forgot to hold a part of her back when it came to Everett. Maybe because, subconsciously, she’s aware that he’s stuck with her as long as she’s at Gilded Creek. Or maybe it’s that his charm is a slow, creeping thing—like the ivy on the barn that surely started as a single unthreatening leaf but quickly and quietly grew into something formidable, something encompassing. But it’s undeniably there—affection, friendship.
He smiles that slow, crooked smile that Gretchen has nodoubt hypnotized many a young farm girl—and neighbors’ wives, apparently—back in his day. “Oh, you thought that story was about me? No, no, just something I saw on TV.”
“Riiight.” Gretchen smiles back.
“Loving people... can hurt,” he says slowly. “I understand that. Maybe better than anyone.” There’s a melancholy undercurrent to the chuckle with which Everett punctuates this, and for the first time, Gretchen thinks about how many people have come and gone from Gilded Creek during Everett’s time here. What it must be like for him to live with all of the various Waybill family members, growing to care for them, being responsible for their well-beings, knowing they’ll never reciprocate and that he’ll still be here long after they’re gone. Then here Gretchen is, the first person with whom he can communicate in decades, planning to leave at the end of the month. And Everett has befriended her nonetheless. It’s... brave. And it’s... well, it’s also stupid, in her opinion.
“Why do it, then?” she asks. “Why do something that’s probably going to hurt?”
“Oh, doll,” he says, sounding for the first time like the much older—and perhaps wiser?—soul he actually is. “Because it hurts so much more not to.”
Everett presses his palm against his lips, then hovers his hand an inch from Gretchen’s cheek. Her shiver makes them both smile again.
“Now,” he says, springing up. He claps his hands together noiselessly. “I heard Charlie say that another prospective buyer’s coming, so I’m gonna go plan something extra spooky.” Before Gretchen can respond, he adds, “Withoutalmost killing them. Obviously. Catch you on the flippity flip!”
She rolls her eyes, not bothering to ask where Everett picked that one up. He disappears through the wall.
Gretchen grabs her phone from where it’s sitting on the nightstand and texts Yolanda, asking her to call when she’s free. What Everett said was nice (and way more sentimental than anything she ever expected from him), but their friendship is built on mutual loneliness. Yolanda isn’t lonely, though; she has a girlfriend (despite what she may say), coworkers, cousins, and all sorts of other people in her life who adore her. She’s busy. Which is why Gretchen is surprised to find her phone ringing right away.
As soon as she picks up and says hello, Yolanda launches right into it. “You have a lot to answer for, girl. One text and a vague email two weeks ago about you being gone for a month, then nothing till now?”
The familiar voice fills Gretchen with something she’s taught herself not to trust—that deep craving for affection, so strong it makes her want to cry. But instead of trying to shed it like a too-warm coat, she allows it to settle over her. “I know, I know,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything in a second. But listen, I need a favor. It’s... sort of personal, though. Not business.”
“Of course. Anything for you,” Yolanda replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Now, explain what’s going on.”
“Right. Yeah. So...” Gretchen takes a deep breath as she mentally organizes the chaotic last couple of weeks into something approaching a coherent narrative. “So you know how I’ve been...”—she lowers her voice just in case Charlie is walking by her room at that very moment—“pretending to talk to ghosts? Well, uh, funny story...”
24
Gretchen is pretty sure the groaning is coming from the kitchen.
She can’t imagine why Everett would be making that sound since he can’t feel pain (and it’s definitely an in-pain sort of noise). But whoeverismaking it has a deep voice, and both Charlie and the delivery guy should be outside unloading bales of alfalfa from the truck. They still had quite a bit to go when she left them, and despite Charlie’s claims that she’s going to dry up the well, her shower really didn’t take that long. Maybe it’s the wind, she tells herself as she drags a comb through her wet hair. Hesitantly, she cracks the bathroom door and sticks her head out. “Ev?”
No answer. But another groan, this one louder, travels upstairs as she steps out into the hallway.
For a moment she wonders if it could be an intruder and considers arming herself with something heavy. But any intruder makingthatsound is already injured enough to pose little threat. Besides,Gretchen thinks, who would bother breaking into a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere? It’s not as if the rusty seed drill—Charlie finally explained what it was to her a few days ago—along the driveway screams,We have things worth stealing here!
“Charlie?” she tries when she reaches the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah,” he gasps.
And it’s like something else takes control of her body, hurrying her into the kitchen and over to where he’s hunched over, bracing his hands on the table. It’s reminiscent of when they had their first conversation here, when Gretchen tried to tell him about Everett and the curse. Except this time there’s no anger in his expression, only frustration and pain. She looks him up and down, searching for blood, but thankfully finds none. Still, it’s obvious something’s wrong. “Are you okay?”
He winces as he shakes his head, a deep line between his furrowed brows. “Back spasms. Happens... once in a while... lifting stuff.”
“What do you usually do for it?”
“Ice pack. Came to get one, but...” Charlie trails off, breathing hard.
“Let me help. Sit.”
He groans again, but manages to lower himself backward onto a dining chair when Gretchen directs him with featherlight fingers on his shoulder. She pulls the ice pack out of the freezer and folds a flour sack towel around it like he did the morning he brought it out to her when she tweaked her ankle.
“Your shirt...?” Her voice trails off before the sentence can find its verb.
