There’s a woman standing by the front door. She looks like those old, rich ladies who wear pearls to breakfast and have a butler whose name is undoubtedly James. But contrasted against a house that needs a new coat of paint and some replacement roof tiles, Grandma Marigold looks out of place.
I stop my car in the drive, get out, and wave at her.
She’s wearing a dress-suit and standing tall and proper, with her lips pursed and red as a raspberry. She shifts her shoulders a bit, purse intensifying the closer I get.
It’s been years since I’ve seen her last. Close to two decades, in fact. That was right about the time Mom and I moved to Lakeview.
She’s not anything like I remember, except if what I have in my head are manufactured memories from a toddler. My gran had rosy cheeks, a chubby body perfect for hugs, and a smile that could light up the room.
Just like my mother.
I force a smile. “Hey, Granny—”
“You shall call me Marigold,” she cuts in. Her eyes rake over me, and don’t I feel every inch of a pile of brittle yellow autumn leaves right now?
“You look just like your mother.” It should have been a compliment — Mom was the epitome of grace and beauty — but in that tone of voice, it becomes an insult.
Eyes the color of flint dismiss me. “And you’re late, just like she always was.”
“Yeah, I do take after her,” I murmur to myself as Marigold pivots on her mules and struts inside.
I glance out at Lavish before following. I’m starting to wish I’d had a flat on the way and had to sleep in my car instead of washing up here.
Not that I have a choice, of course. I still have a few months to go before my eighteenth birthday, which means I’m still a minor.
Someone, apparently, has to take care of me until then.
Somehow, whoever gave Marigold that responsibility, has never met the witch in person.
“Dining room,” Marigold states, flipping a hand in the direction of a glaringly sober teak dining room set sporting silver tableware.
“Living room.” Another flip of her hand points at a room that hasn’t seen any living in a fuck-long time.
She doesn’t even have a television in there.
“Your room is upstairs, first door on the left.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Marigold stops, twists to face me, and studies her watch with lifted brows. “Dinner was ready an hour ago.” Her mouth twitches as she lets out a labored sigh. “But I guess I can reheat everything. Wash up and be ready in fifteen minutes.”
With that, she strides away.
I take the stairs two at a time, shaking my head and grinding my fucking teeth. I toss my backpack into my room which — no surprise — looks even less hospitable than the living room, and immediately begin exploring the house my mother grew up in. In fact, I grew up here too. For a year or two, anyway.
Which room was hers?
The next door opens to a second room that looks as much a guest room as mine. I don’t even bother going inside.
There’s a bathroom, a study, and then another bedroom on the other side of the hall.
Another guest room.
And, of course, the last room must belong to Marigold. I don’t bother going to look — I’m pretty sure it’s as devoid of personality as the rest of the place.
My shoulders droop as I thump my way downstairs.
I’d really hoped some trace of Mom remained in this place. A family photo, some toys; heck, even just one of her earlier paintings.
Guess Mom wasn’t kidding when she said she and gran weren’t on good terms. It all had to do with Dad, of course. Mom was a hopeless romantic, and as soon as she met her husband, she turned her back on the Davis family and became a Virgo instead. She lived in Lavish for a year or two after I was born, but then we all moved to Lakeview.
That was the last time I ever saw any of my family from Fool’s Gold county. Honestly, I didn’t miss them. My mom and my dad were the only family I ever needed.
I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember Marigold’s stern instructions. And she’s probably the kind of woman who’ll insist on seeing my fingernails before I can sit at the dinner table.
I wash my hands in the bathroom sink and catch sight of myself in the mirror when I’m looking for the towel.