stream of air between her bright red lips. “You’re biting off quite a lot.”
She’s graceful and self-confident, one of those women who seem to effortlessly have everything together, and I hate her already.
“Thank you.” I think. “Can I get you something? Coffee, tea, or—”
“Espresso would be amazing.”
“Sure.”
Espresso? I haven’t the faintest idea what kind of coffee machines Michael owns. I’d wanted to explore more of the house this morning, but Dean put a damper on that agenda. Walking into the kitchen, I scan the counters.
“If I were an espresso maker,” I mumble, “where would I be?”
I open the cabinet to the left of the sink. Glasses and mugs. I pull one down for Rachael, open the next cabinet door and the one below that. Plates. Bowls. Spices and wine glasses. Beer steins. Salad sets. Pots and pans.
“Here,” Rachael says, and I gasp. I hadn’t even realized she’d come up behind me. She opens the pantry door—a sliver of an opening compared to the wine cellar—leans inside, and emerges with a bulky machine. She goes to work plugging it in and setting it up next to the sink. “This kitchen is so well organized. Joanna had a hand in it, of course.”
Joanna’s name rings through my brain and stiffens my spine. “I would’ve found it eventually.”
“I’m sure you’re going to reorganize this home in your own way, in your own time.” She strides to the bar in the dining room, returns with a bottle of Irish cream, and sloshes a heavy drop into the bottom of her mug. Then she winks. “Though I do hope you keep some things in the same place.”
After filling her cup, Rachael returns to the living room and strikes the same pose as before. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time she’s made her own spiked espresso and curled up on the couch this way. Unease tingles through me as I slouch into the chair across from her and start sifting through the box closest to me. It’s filled with knickknacks from my old apartment. I pull out a few of my favorite books by Agatha Christie and Stephen King and stack them on top of the other books decorating the center of the table.
Rachael stares at the books for so long, I restack them, this time taking care to make sure the spines line up correctly. “Have you read all of those?” she asks.
I brush my hand over the cover of Rebecca, my favorite Daphne du Maurier. “Most of them a few times over.”
She chuckles tightly. “I’ll never understand why people keep books they’ve already read. If you know what’s going to happen, why would you want to read it again? Seems like an incredible waste of time and shelf space.”
If she doesn’t understand it by now, she never will. Books are my oasis, my home, and always have been. I didn’t have the best childhood. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen, and I bounced around from one foster home to another for the next few years. When most kids were playing Barbie, I was curled up somewhere, lost in a novel, using the characters to keep me company. Deep in the pages of Rebecca, I strolled through Manderley’s magnificent halls and breathed in the sweet hydrangeas that lined its drive. These books were my friends, my refuge, and the first thing I packed for my new adventure with Michael.
“Have you met Samara yet?” Rachael asks. “Oh, duh, she comes today, right? How’d you take to her?”
How’d I take to her? Like I’m some sort of fungus. “Good, I guess. I only ran into her this morning.”
Rachael makes a humming sound of acknowledgment. “She loves Joanna, you know. Dean loves her, too. They simply adore her.”
No wonder my welcome has been frosty. I’m the second-tier replacement.
“How far along are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Rachael asks cheerfully. “You’re so slim, I can barely tell you’re pregnant