Page 57 of Wild Flower

“I wasn’t the one in your back room giggling about ghastly pleasures,” she snaps. “And yes, there is a reason for my visit.” She digs into her purse and pulls out a stack of papers. “Your father and I drew this up last night.”

My father? Disappointment curls in my stomach. Mom loves to use him as a power play, presenting the two of them as an undivided front. Of course, he isn’t standing here. He’s never the one picking a fight or in my face. But he’s a witness. He’s complicit in her tirades, always hiding out of sight like a lamb who’s befriended a wolf. Or worse, married one.

“What are these?” I ask, taking the papers.

“It’s a contract,” my mother explains. “Obviously, we’ve been too lenient with the land. You’ve always been very good about respecting it, but clearly we need some rules.”

“Rules?” The sun stings my eyes as I look up.

“If you’ll be leasing the land, then yes.” My mother points to several lines on the document. “Your father likes to give things away. It was originally his idea to let you use the land for free, to help you get off your feet. But if you’re a business and an adult, you’d prefer to have a contract in place, and so would we.”

She isn’t kidding.

I tilt my face from the sun to look at the fine print. This is a rental agreement for the land with a big monthly price tag on it. The burning orb above starts to feel like it’s melting me in place and I’m the wicked witch who’s had water thrown in her face.

“This seemed like an importantbusinessdiscussion,” my mother says haughtily, “which is why I came to the boutique.”

I flip through the pages. There are rules. Lots of them: boundary lines, hours for deliveries, maintenance fees, and regulations for farming equipment and noise. And of course, visitors must be pre-approved, and no photography.

I glance at my mother whose sunglasses hide her emotions, but her expression is smug. Would this have happened if Archer and Finn hadn’t come over yesterday? Would it have happened if I’d had a nice happy mother-approved date with Carl? Would she ever do anything like this to Helena?

I want to scream, but that’s what she hopes, that I’ll act like a child and she can gloat, then point out that mother knows best.

“You’re right, this is an important business decision,” I say, rolling up the contract into a curl, unable to make out anymore of the words. My brain is buzzing and there’s a prickly urchin lodged in my throat. “I’ll need to look through my finances and consult a lawyer before signing this.”

My mother’s eyebrow raises. Obviously, she expected me to sign it, no questions asked. Or maybe she hoped I’d put up a fuss. But if I want to be treated like an adult, then I will freaking adult all over this!

“Was there anything else,” I ask, “or was this it?”

I lift my chin in defiance. My entire posture is standing broad and confident, daring her to ask. Go ahead, Mom, bring up my new friends.

“No, that’s all,” she says, eyeing me cautiously. “Will you be home for dinner later tonight? Your father is doing a fish fry. Helena and Mark will be over. I’m sure they’d like to see you.”

That’s a dig. Me and my sister don’t hang out. My mom wishes we were best of friends, but mostly because she wishes Helena’s lifestyle would rub off on her younger sister. Of course, Helena and I are friendly. We see each other at family occasions or when she stops by the house. But it’s hard to live your life in your sister’s shadow. And socially, Helena and I live in different worlds. This island may be small, but it’s big enough to hide from her if I want to.

“Maybe, I’ll be there,” I say, not committing.

“Bring your boyfriend,” Mom says, to my surprise. “Since you have one, we ought to get to know him. Unless …”

That last word dangles like an accusation: Did you lie to me, Becca? Are you in an inappropriate relationship with that man and his friend?

I know it’s an awful idea, but I roll my shoulders and pretend it’s an excellent one. “I’ll ask Archer,” I say. “I can’t promise anything, with your invitation being last minute.”

“Of course,” she says cordially. “If not tonight, then let’s arrange a different meeting. I’d like to get to know the man who’s stolen my daughter’s heart.”

I grit my teeth. She means she wants to vet him and drag him through the mud, compare him to Carl and point out every way he doesn’t measure up.

“I’ll see what he says,” I reply, nodding tersely and maneuvering around her. “I have to get back to work.”

“Of course,” she says, as I head back toward the street. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything so important.”

33

ARCHER

The problem with house-sitting a multi-million dollar home is when it’s empty—and you’re all alone. At first, it feels empowering, but then you realize the tall ceilings and imposing glass windows are huge. It’s a giant cavern of stylish architecture, acutely designed to echo through you like a wind tunnel.

The last thing I want is to answer the buzzing text messages from my sister. This was the perfect morning, the perfect twenty-four hours. I don’t need my sister rambling on about doctors. Nothing compounds one’s sense of existential doom than an empty mansion and happy-go-lucky cancer conversation before noon.

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