The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [95]
Later, she thinks it would have been a perfect day, if she’d had the sense not to check her answering machine. The single message is from Paisley. “Do you think you could stop over?” Her voice sounds a little breathy, either excited or weak. Under the circumstances, Iona can’t say no. It’s like being summoned by a queen.
It’s just early evening, not late enough to convince herself the matter can wait until morning. She gets back into her car and drives up to Lindenwood Court, hoping the “Paisley is resting” sign will be out and get her off the hook. But it isn’t.
“Iona, good,” Paisley says, as if this were a long-arranged business meeting. “Close the door, will you?” Before Paisley goes any further, Iona knows exactly what she wants. “About that time I saw you back there in the field . . .”
Iona pretends not to follow. “I go back there sometimes to walk,” she says, noncommittal, just in case.
“This was a long time ago. Back . . . back when I was pregnant with Melody.”
Iona pauses, as if she’s struggling to remember. She shakes her head.
“Please, Iona. I don’t have much time for this. Much energy.”
Iona can see that. Paisley’s voice that two sentences ago was as strong as ever is now a thread. “Why, yes, I do remember now,” she says. “You were there with Eddie Logan. The two of you were having a picnic. Yes. We waved to each other”—they didn’t, of course, considering—“and then I walked home. That’s all I remember, Paisley. Was it important?”
“Not at all,” Paisley says. Iona can see the weight lifting from her, as if it were a physical thing.
“You rest now,” Iona tells her.
“In a minute.” Paisley touches her hand, beckons her close, whispers in her ear.
Under any other circumstances, Iona would refuse. But what’s the choice? “Honest to God, Paisley, you think of the oddest things.”
“Then you’ll do it.”
“Sure. It’s completely inappropriate. But why not?”
“Thanks, Iona.”
“It’s nothing,” Iona says.
“I mean, thanks for . . . what you remember. And what you don’t. It’s not nothing. It’s a lot.”
Chapter 24
November 30
Ginger bakes the extra pineapple cake on Sunday morning before the rest of the house is up. She knew she wouldn’t actually ask Max to help. She shouldn’t have threatened him in the first place. Bad policy not to follow through. If Max and Rachel hadn’t devoured the first cake . . . well, they had. And Ginger has been obsessing about it all weekend. She’d had the cake on her mind all Thanksgiving Day, even after they got home from Sally’s, too sleepy from overeating to bake or do anything else before dropping into bed. She had it in the back of her mind all day Friday, a busy day at the store, and all day Saturday, which was equally busy. She’d sold two spas, more than she’d expected. She wasn’t complaining. She just wishes she could have taken the cake to Paisley’s before now and had it over with.
Slathering the last of the rich cream cheese icing onto the cake, she vows that Max isn’t going to get within ten feet of it—not that he’ll be up for hours. All the same, she sets the finished cake on a disposable serving tray and carries it with her, safe from attack, as she walks into her living room to peer across the cul-de-sac toward Paisley’s. The “Paisley is resting” sign is gone from its perch beside the front door. This is the signal that she’s ready for visitors. Good. A cake isn’t much, and it’s not particularly appropriate, but it