That was fast. The way Flynn’s luck was turning today, he should buy a lottery ticket on the way to the Gorse.
Or just be fucking grateful that he’d already won at life by having such kick-ass brothers. “Yeah? You’re sure? It could leadto trouble.”
After a grunt, Rafe said, “Trouble lingers around us closer than a fart in an elevator. Coming clean with Sierra won’t makethings any worse. Officially, anyway.”
“Dude, you haven’t really done anything for yourself, from what I hear, for your whole life. Start this new one right.” Kellanopened the door to the service bay. “Now let’s go pick out some god-awful clunker of a chariot for you and your lady.”
Flynn was on a roll. He’d buy a car, tail Pat O’Connor’s smelly ass then spend his shift behind the bar figuring out how totell Sierra that she wasn’t the only one of them leading a double life.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Nineteen
Sierra was grateful that the post office provided mailing supplies. Super happy that she didn’t have to drop any money atTarget to get the heavy-duty packing tape to properly seal her finished canvas inside layers of paper, bubble wrap, and cardboard.
But after five minutes of struggle that felt like twenty, she was ready to march across the street to the bait and tackleshop and ask for a spool of fishing line to wrap around the box oh, eight thousand times. Why did the tape keep resticking to itself? On the roll. On the handle of the tape gun. Was this a secret skill she would’ve learnedif she’d stuck around for the final semester of grad school?
“I think you need a bag.”
The low murmur in her ear had Sierra whipping around. “What?”
Yup. She was still super jumpy. Even though it had been seven months of time and space between her and Rick. Even though thevoice was a woman’s, and now that she’d turned around, recognized that it belonged to Norah, Mollie’s grandmother.
Norah rummaged in her sack, tie-dyed in shades of green, then held out a crumpled brown paper bag that looked like it hadheld sub sandwiches. “Here.”
“Thanks, but my painting won’t fit in there.”
“Of course not. The bag’s to breathe into. You’re so worked up that you’re hyperventilating.” She rubbed her hand in a lightcircle on Sierra’s back. “Or, if you’d prefer, I could give you a peanut butter cookie with white chocolate and coconut. They’revery calming.”
Sierra loved peanut butter cookies. But she knew better than to go near Norah’s cookies. Because the secret ingredient wasn’t love—it wasmarijuana. “Thanks, but I’ve got to be on my toes to handle the Saturday crowd at the Gorse tonight. No cookies for me.”
“Then at least get some air with me.” Norah handed the box—with its flaps still open—to the woman with hot pink dreadlocksbehind the counter. “Rosie, fix this up and hold it until we come back.”
Before Sierra could protest, Norah had her outside, sitting on the red metal bench next to a matching trash can repurposedas a planter, exploding with orange and yellow blooms. “Just sit for a minute and breathe.”
“I’m fine. I’m not actually hyperventilating, I promise.” Sierra was frustrated to the max, but not out of control. “I’llcop to having a bad morning.”
Norah opened and closed the pincer attachment to her prosthesis. Flexed her wrist. “After I lost my hand, everything was . . .hard. But I didn’t complain. The only point in complaining is when you expect something to change. You complain about cold soup,and the waiter brings you another bowl. You complain about global warming, and start recycling. My hand was gone. It wasn’tever coming back. So I kept my frustrations to myself. I didn’t want to be a downer, or bother anyone.”
That was incredibly brave. Going it alone was hard. Sierra knew that down to the bone. “I’m sure your friends would’ve understood.”
“Well, they did. Eventually. What they didn’t understand was why I kept my problems to myself for so long. Why it took melosing it in line at the grocery store when I got my prosthesis stuck in the side of the cart. I yanked and pulled and finallyunstrapped the damn thing from my arm. That’s when it came loose. So I chucked it across the aisle where it knocked down anentire pyramid display of Triscuit boxes.”
Sierra giggled. Then her hand flew to cover her mouth. What sort of horrible person was she to laugh at a story about a missinghand? And then she heard Norah laughing softly next to her, and knew it was okay. “Sounds like a rough day.”
“Rougher than the waves around Cape Horn in winter. And that’s saying a lot. Talk about a pukefest. Anyway.” Norah grimaced,and then patted Sierra’s thigh. “Holding your frustration inside is no good. Talk to somebody. Mollie—who thinks you’re sweeterthan a strawberry daiquiri. That good-looking hunk of a boyfriend you’ve got. Or, if it’s easier to unburden to a person whobarely knows you, talk to me.”
Sierra had gone it alone her whole life. Literally. Until Flynn. Until he’d shown her that leaning on someone didn’t makeyou weaker. It made you twice as strong.
Everything had gone wrong this morning. She’d tripped turning sideways to get out of the tiny shower. Looked everywhere forher red tee shirt before finding it in the laundry hamper. Only found her keys by stepping on them in her bare feet. Eversince the night before, when she’d decided to proclaim the orchid painting finished and send it to Miriam Newberry, her mindhad been doing somersaults. Clearly, making the decision wasn’t the same as being okay with the decision.
She’d been brave enough to share with the girls at dinner on Thursday. Sure, it’d led to one heck of a panic attack. Sierrajust chalked that up to growing pains. Two steps forward, one step back. As long as the end result was forward motion, shehad to keep pushing herself.
Why not talk to Norah? Sierra had never had a real mother/aunt/grandmother figure in her life. No mentor to turn to
