Page 41 of Hideaway Whirlwind
“Because of your new life. I wanted so badly to strap the kids to my back and hitchhike to Texas with you, and it ate me up inside that I couldn’t. Then you came back, and your life was perfect. I wanted tobeyou.” She’s two years younger than me, yet she has her whole life together—her own house, a wonderful husband, and a solid community—while I’m hanging on by a thread.
“It was far from perfect,” she says, offering up the package so I can take another muffin.
“I know that now, but at the time…” I sigh. Nothing could have prepared me for the wild story Davis shared over dinner about what happened to Lily, leading to the deep, gnarled scars on Davis’s arms and Marigold’s legs. I shove my hand under my sweatshirt to scratch my stomach, vowing to work on my nail-biting habit so I can decently scratch an itch.
“So…” Marigold starts slowly after our conversation lags. “Do you want to talk about him?”
I don’t have to ask who she means. “Do you believe in fate?”
“I didn’t, at first, when I got here. Sounds like you don’teither.”
I shake my head. “But you do now?”
“After meeting Davis and all his friends…yeah, I do.” There’s a dreamy quality to her voice that I never once heard when we were working together in Vegas. Back then, there wasn’t much to look forward to, both of us simply surviving one day to the next. “It’s been one whirlwind romance after another.”
There’s that word again. “So you think this ‘whirlwind’ thing is real and not some urban legend? Because I’m not buying it.”
“One hundred percent. That’s what it was like with me and Davis. I’ve seen it happen to a few others, too. Did Elliott mention it?” Marigold chuckles when I nod. “I take it there’s a reason for that.”
“He’s fifty-five,” I whisper as if it’s some kind of secret. “The kids call him “Papa”, as in Grandpa.”
She shrugs. “Davis was thirty-four when we met.”
I knock her knee with mine. “Uh, our age gap is double yours. Massive difference.”
“Eh. The whirlwind doesn’t care. Only what’s in your heart.”
“But he’s been to prison.” If anything, that should have Marigold second-guessing this whirlwind nonsense. “For murder,” I stress.
“Eh,” she says again. “That’s weirdly common around here. Davis almost went to prison. Russell, too.”
“Again, big difference.” Why do I seem to be the only one who can see things for what they are—absolutely, mind-bogglingly nuts?
Marigold shrugs, then laughs and pivots. “I can’t wait ‘tilthe old-timers hear all about this. I hope I’m there when they find out. We’re talking close to a thousand dollars on the line by now, I bet.”
“Who are the old-timers and what does money have to do with anything?”
“You’ll see,” she says in a sing-songy, teasing voice.
I groan, rolling up my right sleeve to scratch my inner elbow. “You sound just like your husband.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, ma’am,” she says in a deep, fake southern accent, mimicking Davis, then yawns. “You ok over there?” she asks, taking the last muffin and crumpling the packaging.
“I think I’m allergic to your laundry detergent. What kind do you use?” I stop scratching when I find out it’s the same brand I use. “Do you use something different on your bed sheets?”
“No. Same one. I have some allergy meds that are safe to use while pregnant if you need some.”
I suck in a breath. “I’m not pregnant.”
She raises a golden-red brow.
“I’m not. Why would you think that?”
“You’re literally scratching your baby bump.”
Crap. The maddening itch makes me want to peel my skin off, and I hadn’t realized I’d lifted the sweatshirt to scratch my torso again. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Alright,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “But only if you stop calling me Marigold. All my friends call me Goldie.”
