Page 28 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
“Christ on a Popsicle stick, you try to prove to everyone that you know everything, but you don’t know that much, do you?”
The accusation hurt. She hated being called a know-it-all, but sometimes (often) she did, in fact, know more than others. “Come on.”
“With all that knowledge you’ve got, I sometimes can’t believe you’re a human being. Said with love. Yes, dummy. Everyone goes out and tries to catch happiness with their butterfly net.”
Beatrice swallowed her pride. “How doyoucatch it?”
“Huh!” Iris sounded surprised. “Sounds dumb, but meditation helps me, I guess. Acceptance. Also, in obvious news, I like to have fun. You should try it sometime. Make one of your spreadsheet lists. I would suggest this to no one but a freak like you. Make a Fun List.”
Beatrice breathed for a moment, listening as Iris popped open another Coke Zero on the other end of the phone.
She thought.
The list formed in her mind, finally. “I’ve got it. The list.”
“Speedy. Tell me.”
She closed her eyes and read it to Iris as it unscrolled behind her eyelids. “First, I’ll stay for a while.” She’d check out of the Skerry Cove Lodge with its overly aggressive housekeepers and check into the second-best hotel in town. She’d leave the reservation open-ended. “Second, I’ll do what I want to do, when I want to do it. Third, I’ll spend money on things that delight me. Fourth, I’ll try to figure out what a miracle is, and if it exists. If it does, it should be provable, right?” Maybe trying to prove a miracle wouldn’t sound like fun to anyone else, but Beatrice felt her blood sizzle at the idea.
“Okay! Nowthat’sa list! One through three, anyway. Good luck with that last one, you freaking monster.”
The sound of Iris’s cat quietly yakking came over the line. “Taylor Swift again?”
“Yep. She’s three-quarters hairball.”
“Are you less worried about me now?”
“Hell no. You just said that you want to spend money frivolously, so I’m worried you actuallyaredying. Should I call you an ambulance?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spirit loves a curious cat.
—Evie Oxby,Cat Fancy
If Beatrice didn’t know better, she’d think Astrid—she couldn’t think of her as her mother—was trying to get her drunk.
“More wine?” Astrid asked sweetly for the third time.
Again, Beatrice covered her glass with her hand. “I’m really okay.”
“Mom,” hissed Cordelia. “No means no.”
Minna took another piece of chicken off the platter. “What we’re looking for is enthusiastic consent, Grandma.”
Astrid snapped, “I don’t know what that means. Everyone’s so careful with their drinking now, but I always say if you’re not an alcoholic by forty, you’ll never be one!” She raised her eyebrows at Beatrice. “I can’t remember if your father had addiction in his family?”
In a tired voice, Cordelia said, “Please leave her alone.”
Beatrice had no intention of answering the question. Astrid’ssour attitude was okay, though. Kind of funny, honestly. Maybe she felt that way because she was sitting in her sister’s house.
To be precise, she was sitting in her sister’sgigantichouse. The inside matched its gorgeous outside, with huge rooms lined in dark wooden bookshelves. The air smelled of rosemary and garlic from the chicken, and underneath, dust and candle wax. Every spare surface held something interesting: a yellow vase painted with a red hummingbird, a saucer that contained three bone-white rocks, a rusty harmonica, two corgi figurines so small they could both sit in a child’s hand.
In front of her sat an unexpected home-cooked meal. When she’d texted earlier to confirm where she would take them for dinner, Cordelia had texted back,I’ve already got a chicken brining, and I got the prettiest sweet potatoes at the farmer’s market. We both had a strange birthday yesterday—let’s celebrate being forty-five tonight!
So now, Beatrice sat at a rustic farmhouse table marred with the nicks of everyday life, surrounded by her very own family.
Cordelia was obviously used to entertaining, comfortably throwing the roasted vegetables into an orange bowl and sliding the platter of carved chicken, still steaming, onto the table. Candles, dozens of them, scattered dancing shadows around the room as the sun set outside.
