“Sure,” I say. I glance down at my computer. “Listen, while I have you here, do you know the website for the local paper?”
“The local paper?” Peregrine’s mother asks.
“Yeah. I was trying to read more about what happened to Glory Jones.”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?” she asks.
“Well, I met her the night she died, actually.”
Chloe’s mother goes suddenly pale, and Peregrine’s mother freezes. “Did you?”
“She just didn’t seem suicidal to me,” I continue. “I thought maybe if I read about what happened, it might make more sense. But I can’t seem to find anything about it on the internet.”
Peregrine’s mother takes a second to recover before speaking. “Of course not. We’re not on the internet, dear.”
“What’s not on the internet? The whole town?” When she nods, I add, “But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“We like our seclusion from the world, Eveny,” Chloe’s mother says. “It’s one of the wonderful things about living in Carrefour. We don’t air our dirty laundry. We don’t get unwanted visitors. Everyone knows everyone, and nothing bad ever happens.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “What about Glory dying? What about my mother dying?”
“Those were both very unfortunate incidents,” Peregrine’s mother says, looking out the window.
“Try your cake, sugar,” Chloe’s mother urges.
I clear my throat and take a bite, even though I’m not hungry. “Delicious,” I say politely. And actually, it is—it tastes a bit like the lemon cake they served in the Polish deli below our apartment, but with a spicy, herbal twist.
“Really, Eveny, there’s no reason to go looking into poor Glory’s death,” Peregrine’s mother says after I’ve taken a second bite. “It’s a tragedy, but it’s all very straightforward.”
But the more they brush off my questions, the more I’m convinced they’re hiding something. “My friend Drew said there was a rumor about something satanic going on.”
Both women laugh. “Satanic?” Peregrine’s mother asks. “That’s a new one.”
“In any case, enough talk about death!” Chloe’s mother says brightly. “Let’s talk about you! I understand you’re interested in botany?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I always have been. I was in charge of our community garden back in Brooklyn, and I worked for about a year and a half for a wedding florist.”
“Your mother would have been so proud,” Chloe’s mother says. “She was very passionate about flowers and herbs.” She glances at Peregrine’s mother and adds, “We all are. Annabelle, me, our daughters . . . I think you’ll find that this is a wonderful place to live if you’re interested in gardening.”
“Great,” I say, forcing a smile. I can’t exactly imagine their supermodel daughters in muddy jeans and canvas gloves, digging in the dirt. “Must be nice to have good weather year-round.”
The mothers eat their cake and drink their coffee quickly as they chatter about all the social gatherings I can get involved with now that I’m back. Apparently, I just haven’t lived until I’ve attended the annual Mardi Gras Ball.
“You are so lucky, Eveny,” Peregrine’s mother says as she finishes the last of her coffee cake. “It’s the social event of the year. It’ll be a wonderful welcome home for you!”
“Thanks for the coffee, sugar,” Chloe’s mom says. She stands up and brings her mug and plate to the sink.
Peregrine’s mom hands her dishes to me. “We’re sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”
“You must promise us, Eveny, that you’ll spend some time with our daughters,” Chloe’s mom says. “They’re ever so delighted that you’re back, and they can’t wait to get to know you.”
I want to tell her that based on the way Peregrine and Chloe were looking me up and down at the funeral like I was yesterday’s garbage, I’m not expecting a call from them anytime soon.
“Sure, I’d love to hang out,” I say, forcing a smile as I walk them to the door.
“Make sure you eat that cake, now!” Chloe’s mother says brightly. They both air-kiss me on their way out, and a moment later, they’re vanishing down my long driveway in a sleek silver Bentley coupe.
Later that afternoon, I’m wobbling down Main Street on a 1970s cruiser that Boniface found for me in the storage shed. Its red paint is chipped in places, and I’ve managed to convince myself that the rust stains and loud rattling noise aren’t all that obvious until people start to turn and stare at me. I’m relieved when I spot my aunt’s bakery, which now has a purple sign above the front door that says sandrine’s bakeshop.