Page 35 of Bitter House

“We should get inside and clean up,” he says, holding out his hand for mine.

Without thinking, I slip it into his palm. Both our hands are dry and caked with dirt, but somehow, it doesn’t bother me. We’re in this together in every way that counts.

Cole stares down at our hands, his body stiff. It’s only then that I realize he’d been waiting for me to hand him my shovel, not take his hand.

A wave of ice crashes over me as I pull my hand away, replacing it with the shovel in his. “Sorry about that. I’m just…tired.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.” He turns, directing us back to the house. With a hint of a smile, he adds, “There are worse things you could’ve put in my hand.”

“For example?” My face is the temperature of the sun, scalding and melting off my bones. What the hell was I thinking?

He hums, thinking. “Mayonnaise, for one.”

“You don’t like mayonnaise?”

He laughs. “Not in my hand.”

I’m grateful for the way he’s eased the tension, even if my face is still burning.

“Also, a live rat.”

“Dead one’s okay, though?” I quip.

“I’d prefer no rats be put into my hands, thanks.”

“Noted.”

He bumps my arm with his, and his smile warms me to my core. I hope I’m telling him thank you without words as I stare at him, so appreciative of what he’s doing.

We put the shovels away, and when we reach the front yard, we stop in our tracks at the sight waiting for us. I squint my eyes in the sun, trying to make sense of it. Three women are making their way up the drive.

It clicks for me all at once when I realize who they are. I’d nearly forgotten about the neighbors.

Once their faces come into clearer view, I recognize them from their visit a few days ago. I haven’t returned their casserole dishes or thanked them for being so kind, but still, my body bristles at their intrusion. Something about the women bothers me, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

And if you look up ‘bad timing’ online, I’m convinced you’d find a photo of us at this moment. The two of us, caked in dirt, looking guilty as sin, with a literal skeleton in our backyard.

Jane waves at us with a hand over her head. “Well, hello there.” She’s wearing a black skirt and plain white T-shirt, looking positively sleek.

The woman behind her, Lily, has on a paisley dress, her wild gray hair blowing in every direction. “You’ve got a little mud on you”—she pats the air in the direction of our heads down to our toes—“er, well, sort of everywhere.”

“Everything alright?” Jane asks when they get closer, her blue eyes studying us carefully, taking in our ragged appearances.

“Yeah,” I say, thinking quickly. “We’re redoing the flower garden. Most of the plants were dying, and I know how much Vera loved that space, so we’ve been working on revamping it.”

Jane’s eyes dart toward the backyard, though she can’t see anything from here. “Yes, she did love that garden. I’m surprised to hear everything died. It was so pretty the last time we were out there.”

“Make sure you plant some zinnias and snapdragons,” Cate adds. “Those were her favorite. Oh, and dahlias.”

“And hydrangeas,” Lily says. “Foxglove, oleander, and azaleas.”

“We’ll make you a list,” Jane tells me. “We’ve got plenty at our houses too, so we’re happy to help you get started with a few cuttings and seeds.”

“Thank you.” I scratch near my eye, where a speck of mud seems to be drying my skin out. “We’d appreciate that. It’s all pretty new to us.”

Jane clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Well, we just wanted to come by and see how you two were holding up. Have you gotten to try any of the casseroles we brought over?”

“One of them,” I tell her. “And we’ll probably have the other tonight, actually. Thank you again for bringing them. I’ll be sure to return your dishes and bag once I’ve washed everything.”

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