Page 11 of The Words We Lost

“It’s good to see you again, too.” She beams. “And I’m definitely not the only one that feels that way. It’s actually why I was delayed in getting here on time tonight.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Let’s just say, I was given a lot of instructions about how to make your stay here as comfortable as possible—most of which came from Joel’s daily task lists for me, but still. To quote my mother, ‘People’s opinions are the heaviest kind of traveling companion.’” She laughs and once again rolls her eyes. “Pretty sure I could have pushed a wheelbarrow up that hill faster than it took to collect everybody’s requests.”

Everybody’s requests? Joel’s task lists?“I—I apologize for any hassle my stay might have caused. I certainly don’t require much of anything.”

“Oh, it’s no hassle at all. I was joking—mostly,” she says with another thousand-watt smile. “The cottage needed some basic essentials replenished, and the pantry and fridge needed to be stocked. But then of course when Patti and Stephen heard the news you were coming, they wanted to make sure I ordered you a fresh pastry plate from the bakery along with a deli plate of meat and cheeses. Then there were all sorts of discussions revolving around what linens I should bring over from the hotel since the family did a pretty thorough clean-out of the closets here a few months back. Oh, and then just as I was headed out, Joel had me wait while he asked his aunt to arrange a vase of flowers for you—”

“Wendy arranged those flowers on the counter?” Just speaking her name out loud constricts my next breath.

“Oh yes.” Allie nods. “I hadn’t seen her smile so big in months when Joel told her you were coming to the birthday dinner tomorrow.”

Shame pummels me as an image of Cece’s mother crystallizes in my mind; a mosaic of a thousand tiny snapshots pieced together during the most formative years of my life—each one of them underscored by Wendy’s life motto: door open, arms open, heart open.

The only thing I deserve from Wendy is a slammed door.

When Allie stops to take a breath, I feel as if I need to take one, too. It’s rare to be in the presence of someone who can out-talk Chip. “Is your luggage still in your car?” She peers around me in search of a suitcase I don’t have. I brought a single carry-on with me from California, with exactly three changes of clothes, a wrinkle-free party dress, and a pair of pjs. “I’m happy to put it away for you. Joel said as far as he was concerned, you’re my number-one priority. So if there’s anything you need—anything at all—I’m your gal. Well, except for baking. In that case, my mom can be your gal. She’s the head baker at the hotel now and she claims my techniquewith filo dough is criminal, but honestly, what does she expect? I played varsity volleyball for three years. I’m not the dainty dancer Spencer. That’d be my sister.”

I blink multiple times. Perhaps the repetition might rewind my brain back to the part where she’d mentioned her work assignment from Joel. “You said you work for Joel?”

“Technically, I work for the family, but it’s pretty much all the same. Work for one Campbell, work for them all,” she says in a sing-song tone. “He would have been here himself if not for the flooding issue in the hotel laundry room. He told me to say he’ll meet you tomorrow as planned though—at Marshall’s. But again, if you need anything until then, I’m happy to be of service.”

Allie laughs at whatever mystified expression she must find on my face. “In case I wasn’t clear before, I’m one of the Campbells’ property hosts for their vacation rentals in town. It’s an upgrade from napkin folder for sure, and it’s easy to step back into whenever I’m on break from Wentworth.”

I nod, though I have an embarrassingly low comprehension for this entire exchange. “Sure, that makes sense.”

Only I’m not so sure it does. Allie nods as if everything has been straightened out and like she didn’t just tell me that Joel took her off her usual duties to act as my ... as my what? Personal butler? Lady’s maid? What is the proper, modern terminology for a female house manager? And it’s that thought that strikes the match on a new one.

I rub at the dull ache starting in my right temple as she practically prances toward the kitchen.

“Wait, Allie, can I ask you something?”

“Absolutely!” She spins on her heels. “Anything.” Her expression is as eager as the one Chip wears when I ask him to review my critique notes on an author’s manuscript.

“Was this house rented for the weekend? I mean, before I confirmed I was coming. Was there a cancelled reservation?” Or perhaps a reservation that had been cancelled on my behalf, is what I don’t ask.

Her grin sobers as she shakes her head. “No, ma’am. It wasn’t rented.”

“You’re sure?” I press.

Her nod is resolute. “Only three people have keys to this cottage. Wendy, Joel, and myself. It’s never been rented, not even for a night. You’ll be the first guest to sleep here since ... well, since, you know.” For the first time, Allie’s peppy demeanor diminishes. “Cece was an incredible person and my all-time favorite author. I couldn’t believe it when my mom called me that day.” She rubs her lips together and then stares me straight in the face. “It felt so wrong, it still feels so wrong. I know how close you two were, we all knew.” She meets my eyes then and says, “I’m sorry she died.”

Her words reverberate in my skull as I take special note to catalogue what she didn’t say, not “I’m sorry for your loss” or “I’m sorry God needed her in heaven more than He needed her on earth” or the very worst of condolence offenses: “At least she lived a good life.”

Something about the raw, refreshing truth of Allie’s sentiment makes me hope this won’t be the last time our paths cross this weekend. “I’m sorry, too.”

She clears her throat and motions to the kitchen door. “I better grab the rest of those groceries and supplies. I’ll be around for a few more minutes if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

After she’s gone, I tour the rest of the cottage, braced for a sneaker wave of grief that never comes, not even when I open Cece’s master bedroom and inhale the faint scent of the peachy-vanilla body spray she’s worn since her eighteenth birthday. It had been on one of those BOGO sales at our favorite candle, lotion, and perfume store in the mall we visited twice a year.

“This can be my signature scent, Indy. Every lady who has ever made history has a signature scent. Did you know that? It’s true. I read that J.K. Rowling wears a spicy, woodsy blend that reminds her of the trees she grew up around.”

A Cece fact if ever there was one.

The final space in the cottage to be explored is the upstairs office in the converted attic. But as I stand on the bottom step of the narrow staircase, a searing pain begins to radiate from underneath my ribcage.

“You in the bedroom, Ingrid? I’m heading out.” Allie’s voice trails through the hallway, and I step down to level ground once again. I’ll tackle Cece’s office later.

“I’m right here.”

---