The Moonglow Sisters - Lori Wilde Page 0,42

your big toes.”

Holding the bottle by the neck, she whacked it against her palm to mix the stagnant polish, then rotated it in her hands to warm it. Painstakingly, she leaned over the end of the bed and carefully painted the big toe of Grammy’s right foot.

When she finished, she reached for a bottle of yellow polish. Grabbed OPI, Sun, Sea, and Sand in My Pants.

Laughing, Shelley said, “The name sums up my entire life.”

Nothing from Grammy.

“Where are you?” Shelley raised her head, studied her inert grandmother’s empty face below the bandages swaddling her head. “Where are you? Where did you go?”

Only the ventilator keeping her grandmother alive answered with a soft, rhythmic whooshing. The room clogged with the astringent smell of nail polish, mingling with the generalized hospital funk of citrusy disinfectant, mushy oatmeal, and stark mortality.

Tears threatened but Shelley sniffled them back, not wanting to water down the pedicure. She finished up with the yellow polish, reached for a gentle purple-tinged blue color. Picked up the bottle but froze when she recognized the brand and saw the polish name.

Smith & Cult. Exit the Void.

Eep! Goose bumps popped up all over her arms.

“No, no, no, definitely not that one.” She tossed the bottle over her shoulder and into the trash.

Shivered.

What could she say? She’d screwed up royally. In more than one way. Idiot adjacent. That was her. Idiot adjacent? That’s kind. Face it, you were just plain idiotic.

Studying her grandmother’s slack features, guilt swamped her. A hurricane of remorse and regret and sadness. She hadn’t spoken to her grandmother in five years. Grammy had taken Madison’s side in The Incident with Raoul and Shelley had been hurt to the quick.

But that was ego and pride. She should have stopped nursing her hurt sooner. It had been wrong. She’d been wrong. She should have forgiven her grandmother, even if Grammy couldn’t forgive her.

The truth would have set her free, but telling the story of what had motivated her would cripple someone else, so Shelley had shouldered the blame in silence. It was okay. She’d go to her grave keeping that secret. In the meantime, she had to live up to her hussy persona. Embrace it even.

Misery tugged at her. Would she ever be able to make amends?

Shaking off the heebie-jeebies, she grabbed another polish and went to work. A few minutes later, she’d finished the second coat, each toe a different vivid color.

“Look, Grammy, coma toes!”

Staring at the cheerful, lively colors got to her. A rush of tears came then, sliding down her cheeks in a slick mess. She buried her face in an extra pillow, crinkly and stiff from the plastic protector.

“Oh, Grammy, I took it for granted that you would always be here. I thought we had all the time in the world.”

A soft hand settled on her shoulder.

Shelley jumped, whipped her head around, convinced for a moment that it was Grammy who’d reached out and touched her.

Instead, she saw a sturdy-looking nursing assistant in scrubs and a badge identifying her as May June Barton.

“Are you okay?” May June had a whisper like a purring Pyewacket, rumbly, low, and lazy.

Shelley smiled, nodded, and swiped her tears away with two fingers.

“You did a great job on her toenails.” May June admired Shelley’s handiwork. “When she wakes up, she’ll see rainbows.”

“That’s what I thought,” Shelley said.

“Good choice. Rainbows are a reminder of what awaits us after we’ve weathered a storm.” May June dropped her hand. “Like God’s promise to Noah after that forty days and forty nights flood.”

Shelley crossed the fingers of both hands. “Here’s hoping for many more rainbows in her future.”

May June nodded but looked as if she didn’t believe it even as she fingered the cross at her throat. “I just came in to check on her.”

“Thanks.”

May June leaned over the bed, readjusting the covers and plumping Grammy’s pillow. As she stepped back, she glanced into the trash basket. “Dried-up bottle?”

“Huh, oh, the polish? No. It just wasn’t the right color.” She wasn’t about to get into the knee-jerk reason she’d thrown out the polish.

“Smith & Cult is really chic . . . and expensive.” May June fished the bottle from the trash. “May I have it?”

“Sure.”

May June closed her hand around the polish, looking as if she’d just won the Powerball lottery. Geeza Louisa, it’s just nail polish. The woman paused.

“Yes?” Shelley prompted, sensing there was something May June wanted to say.

“You Moonglow sisters”—May June slipped the polish into her pocket—“throw away some valuable things.”

One of