Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

“Maybe. I’m a Maybell Parrish. It’s tradition to do everything the hard way.”

His eyes flicker with amusement in the shadowy corridor. “Are there a lot of Maybell Parrishes running around out there?”

“Maybe.” I bite my lip, trying not to dwell on that tonal shift in him, where it feels like he isn’t merely tolerating me anymore. This is . . . friendly. It’s nice. I’m dreading him taking this budding niceness away, putting that out of reach. “Here, I’ll make a deal with you. If you do all the digging, I’ll bring you along and we’ll split the treasure fifty-fifty.”

“This mythical treasure,” he adds, in a way that tries to be skeptical but wants to believe.

“This treasure that could be real. There’s no reason to think it shouldn’t be.”

He frowns, thinking. “Okay. But not for another week, all right? Are you willing to wait until Saturday? I’ve got a landscaping job in Gatlinburg that’ll take up most of my time from the third through the seventh.”

I stick out my hand for him to shake. “Deal.”

“And now.” He keeps my hand encased in his for a few seconds longer than necessary, then squeezes lightly before letting go. “Come on.” He jerks his head, already walking off without me.

“Ah, yes. The monumentally important discovery of yours, which you incorrectly believe is more impressive than a Christmas tree.”

“A Christmas tree in May.”

“You seem to be stuck on that.”

But then I shut up, because he leads me toward an open door that is essentially a portal to the past. A ruffled white and pink blanket on a canopy bed, pillows smaller than I remember. Everything smaller than I remember, in fact. A white dresser. A pink vanity table. A shelf of my old favorites: The American Girl series, with Molly’s books taking the special number one spot. Dear America books. The Princess Diaries. A Series of Unfortunate Events. And hanging on the wall across the room from my bed, a very old postcard in a wooden frame with no glass.

Season’s Greetings from the Top of the World!

Two red-cheeked, bundled-up kids play on an old-fashioned sled in front of Falling Stars Hotel, snow covering the ground, roof, and distant timberline. The hand-painted postcard is bordered with holly. Victorian lamps flank a wrought-iron archway dressed in red and green garland, cardinals perched atop.

The house is pink.

Not because it truly was, but because the artist painted Falling Stars at sunset, taking creative liberties with pigments. In 1934, somebody made Falling Stars look just as magical on the outside as it felt to me on the inside, embedding that magic in my brain, literally shining a rose-colored light on all my recollections of this place. I can see now, from an aged and experienced perspective, that gray stonework lies beneath the wash of sunrise.

“Oh,” I say softly.

“I know. Memory is a strange thing.” He steps closer, sliding his hands into his pockets. “This used to be your room, I take it?”

“Yeah.” I barely hear myself, taking the picture down off the wall. It leaves behind a small imprint untouched by dust. “I can’t believe none of this has changed.”

We lock eyes and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Violet kept my room this way in case I ever needed it again.

“There were a couple others that I think used to hang up, too, but fell off the wall.” He takes two more postcards from the dresser, handing them to me. Their condition isn’t as good—one’s half missing, advertising the biggest victory garden in the state of Tennessee! The other’s severely water-damaged: buy war bonds.

I can’t stop staring at the postcard, filling all the way up with emotion. My throat is raw, eyes burning. He nudges it. “You know, I think I like it better like that.”

“Pink?” I sit down on the bed, laugh hoarsely.

“The house does need a paint job anyway.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You’d let me paint the house pink?”

My mind is a fanciful storybook that loves symbolism and parallels. It invents romantic notions, where there often aren’t any, in everyday life situations. It has led me to perceive many a man in a nobler light than he deserved, and it’s told me bad situations were meant to be as a coping mechanism to make them bearable. Wesley is watching me with a glint in his eyes that draws an imaginary parallel line into the misty past, X marking the spot on Victor. I think of how Victor used to look at Violet with a similar expression, like he knew an extraordinary secret and she was the only other person in the world in on the secret with him. I think of the incredible, million-to-one odds that out of all the pictures Gemma could have used to catfish me, she used his.

Wesley smiles, which sends the warning sirens blaring. I’m reading into coincidences. The universe is chaos and coincidence. If it were operating with any intention, it would be cruelty.

“Not by yourself,” he says. “I’d help you paint it. We’ll put some gold touches around the windows and doors, too, like the way the light hits it here.” He taps the postcard, but I don’t tear my gaze from him. My heart is thumping fast, fast, racing right toward a cliff. A little bit of friendliness doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m a danger to myself, my imagination running away.

I nod mutely.

“As someone who likes paint,” he says sheepishly, refusing to simply say As an artist, “I think the project will be kinda cool. Trying to make the house look like it’s sitting in a perpetual sunset.”

“Yeah,” I force myself to say. “That would be wonderful.”

I thank him for the discovery, clutching it as I depart. I am nearly in the clear when my Achilles’ heel is attacked—he’s turned on Christmas music at top volume, sleigh bells riiiiing following me down the stairs.

Chapter 12

THE FOLLOWING DAY, I head over to the manor to