Page 53 of Your Every Wish
“How?” Kennedy breaks the silence. “How am I supposed to come up with that kind of money in less than three weeks?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that I asked about a loan at the bank, hoping we could borrow against the park or take out a home equity line of credit. The process is long and arduous, according to the teller. Between the appraisal and submitting all our financials, including the bank scouring our credit scores, it would take at least thirty days. And I’m not even sure Kennedy is still gainfully employed. She says she’s on an extended vacation but what does that mean? Clearly, she’d have to show proof of a job to get a loan.
I am plumb out of answers, so I sit in the car, silent. Hopefully, the universe will speak to us and come up with solutions to an impossible situation. I’m trying to keep the faith.
Kennedy starts the car, backs out of the turnout, and heads for home. We don’t speak the entire ride, both of us cognizant of all the things we’re not saying.
* * *
Misty is Kennedy’s idea. I’m on the record that it’s a waste of time. Maybe Misty has the sight or maybe she makes it up as she goes as a ruse to increase her popularity at cocktail parties. Who knows? What I do know, or what seems like the most likely scenario, is that Willy Keil died penniless. No pot of gold at the end of his prison-stint rainbow.
But Kennedy is emphatic that our late father has a buried fortune somewhere, that Misty knows where it is, and when we find it, it’ll be the answer to all her prayers.
“The stuffed mushrooms look good,” Kennedy says.
“Close the oven door, you’re letting all the heat out.”
We’ve prepared a small feast of appetizers. Kennedy set the dining room table with a tablecloth she found in the linen closet and the hand-me down dishes from Ginger. It’s not Misty’s fine china and sterling silver but the table doesn’t look half bad.
“You can unwrap the deviled eggs,” I say and take the platter out of the refrigerator.
Kennedy carefully removes two layers of plastic wrap—I may have gone overboard—while I put the finishing touches on the cupcakes I baked for dessert.
“What about the sliders?” Kennedy asks.
“I’ll do those at the last minute. When you’re done with that, prepare the crudité platter. All the vegetables have been cut and are in baggies in the produce drawer. Dips are in the door.”
“Got it.”
We make a nice team. And if nothing else, our little impromptu gathering is the right way to reciprocate for Misty’s tea.
“When she gets here, just be casual. No pushing with the woo-woo stuff. Let’s wait until we get a couple of drinks in her,” Kennedy says. “I’ll handle the lemon martinis.”
“As you wish.” Okay, I’m back to the theory that this is nuts. “What do you think you’re going to get out of her? If you don’t believe she’s a witch, or whatever she professes to be, what’s the use?”
“She says she knows what the key goes to. My hunch is Willy told her something.”
“But she swears she never met Willy.”
Kennedy stops what’s she’s doing and puts her hands on her hips. “Do you believe everything people tell you?”
“No, I don’t.” I don’t bother to reiterate that this is a useless exercise. There is no money. If there were, Mr. Townsend would’ve known about it.
Misty arrives as I’m garnishing the sliders. It’s my mother’s special recipe: ground beef, egg, onions, Panko, and those little Hawaiian rolls. I finish them off with mayo, mustard, ketchup, a mini slice of tomato, and pickle relish and hold the whole thing together with a deli toothpick. Even Dex likes them and he’s hyper picky about his food.
“This is very sweet of you girls,” Misty says and gives both of us a peck on the cheek.
She’s dressed in a cream pair of elastic-waist ankle pants, a bright orange floral sweater set, and matching espadrilles. If she’s a witch, she’s the least witchy witch one can imagine.
“Cocktail?” Kennedy pushes a martini into her hand.
“This looks delicious.”
Wait until she gets a taste. Kennedy put enough gin in the drink to waste an elephant. Misty’s only 130 pounds wet.
“It’s not as fancy as your amazing spread,” I say, “but everything is homemade. And we got the veggies at the farmers’ market near Main Street.”
“Everything looks fabulous, dear.” She appraises the small buffet we set up on the counter.
