my chest and trickles into my limbs, making them go numb. My throat goes dry. I should do something, but what that is, I don’t know. So I just stand there, stock still, side by side with Mom, watching in horror as the bookshop door darkens, rattles, and then finally, after a set of keys is inserted into the lock, oh-so-slowly creaks open.
The ticking time bomb walks into the bookshop.
BEAUTY REGIONAL AIRPORT: Small, private airport mainly used by people who can afford to own their own planes or charter private jets and can’t be bothered driving for less than an hour to get to the closest international airport in Providence, Rhode Island. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 21
Diedre Saint-Martin stands in the open door of the Nook, silver hair in a long, tight braid that’s tucked into the front of a lightweight gray jacket, and drops a colorful, bulging backpack on the floor in front of her near a pair of worn hiking boots.
“What in the living hell is that?” she says, pointing a thin finger behind her at the door, where my Aunt Franny is cautiously entering, along with the taxi driver, who is helping to lug several pieces of luggage labeled with white airport tags.
“Hello, Mother,” my mom says through tight lips. “It’s nice to see you. Been a year since we’ve breathed the same air? Here’s your granddaughter, by the way.”
“Josephine,” Grandma says, gesturing for me with outstretched arms. “Come here. I’m too tired to walk. The drive from the airport was complete and utter misery, and I haven’t slept for an entire day. Come hug your poor grandmama while your mother tells me why her naked body is plastered all over my shop like we’re a brothel in Amsterdam.”
Aunt Franny, who is a several years older than my mom and quite a bit lankier—or maybe Nepal has taken a toll on her—pretends to strangle my grandmother behind her back. I don’t know how to react to that. Aunt Franny is prim and proper. Most definitely not Wild Winona. What the hell happened in Nepal?
I’m torn. I want to hug my grandmother, but my head’s full of things I need to sort out. Plus she may have come back from the airport, but did she get stranded on an island and rescued? I think not. And that’s on top of the fact that I HAD SEX FOR THE FIRST TIME.
The bookshop door opens again, and Evie races inside. “Mama!”
Aunt Franny pulls Evie into her arms, and they embrace tightly. “You smell funny,” Evie says.
“Cold showers and yak milk,” Aunt Franny says. “I just want my bed back.”
“Your bed is occupied,” Mom reminds her sister. “Your house is still being rented by a family of four. Where is everyone staying?”
“Here, of course,” Grandma says.
One, two, three, four, five. Five people, three bedrooms.
And half of us aren’t on speaking terms.
“We don’t fit,” Mom points out.
“We’ll find a way. Franny, pay the driver,” Grandma says bluntly.
Aunt Franny grumbles under her breath.
“For the last time, and before we do anything else,” Grandma says in a louder voice, “why is there a naked photo of my daughter on the front of my shop?”
“Adrian Summers put it there!” I shout.
Everyone looks at me.
“Adrian Summers?” Grandma says. “Levi’s boy? Why in the world would he do that? He’s at Harvard. That’s preposterous.”
I look at Evie. She broke up with Adrian, and this isn’t her problem anymore. It’s mine. It’s always been mine. Now it’s time to own up to it.
“Because,” I tell Grandma, exhaling deeply, “he somehow got that photo online and thinks it’s me.”
“Why would he think that?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “But he showed that photo to a bunch of Goldens at a party and bad-mouthed all the Saint-Martins, and I got mad, so …” I turn to my Mom. “So I threw a rock and smashed his father’s department store window.”
“You what?” Grandma says.
“I got taken into the police station, but not arrested,” I tell Grandma. “Lucky took the fall for me. His family’s lawyer negotiated with Levi Summers to pay for the window. I’ve been paying him back out of my paycheck every week.” And to my Mom I say, “I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth from the start.”
Mom’s shoulders slump, as if there’s a physical weight to what I’ve just told her. “Dammit,” she mumbles. Not mad. Just defeated. “Josie …”
“What in the world is happening here?” Grandma asks. “Police?”