I take in the house as we walk down the hall to the kitchen. It’s hard to tell what if anything has changed. Juliette and I were only friends for a short time. The house isn’t huge—Coach Chandler does work for the school system, after all, but it’s two stories and comfortable. Monica definitely has an eye for decorating.
Sadie looks up when I walk in the room, looking a little relieved. Neither she or Emily are part of Juliette’s circle—they’ve probably never been here before.
“Hi,” I say, adding my contribution to the ingredients on the counter. “Tell me one of you is a good cook, because I’m definitely not.”
“I’ve made enough cupcakes for football players that I should be able to pull it off,” Juliette says. “There are drinks in the fridge, and my mom left out some snacks.”
I look over at the display of cookies and fruit. Finn was right about that.
“Are your parents here?” Sadie asks, while I walk over to the sink to wash my hands. I listen over the sound of the rushing water.
“Dad’s doing last minute game prep at the school. Mom had a meeting, I think.” She opens a cabinet and removes two measuring cups. Emily opens the sugar and flour.
I rinse off the soap, feeling a sense of relief that neither Monica or the coach is here.
I shut off the faucet and dry my hands on a paper towel. “Okay,” I say, looking at the mounting supplies. “Tell me what to do.”
We ruin the first cake. I’m not even sure how.
“Oh,” Emily says, frowning at the directions. “It says baking powder. Not soda.”
“Ah,” we all say in unison, staring at the flattened cake. It’s barely an inch thick.
“Do we have enough ingredients to make a second one?”
Sadie takes inventory. “I think so.”
“And I have baking powder in the cabinet,” Juliett
e says. There’s a streak of flour on her cheek that’s oddly endearing. “I think we should start over.”
“Can you point me in the direction of the bathroom?” I ask.
“Down the hall,” Juliette says, scooping flour into the measuring cup. “Second door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
I walk down the hall, passing an open door, then slip into the bathroom. When I come back out, I glance inside the room next door and pause. It’s an office. The football memorabilia implies it’s Coach Chandler’s office.
I blame the yearbook editor in me for crossing the threshold. There are dozens of framed photos on the wall. They span an athlete’s career. Thistle Cove, the university, a few coaching jobs outside the area and then back to Thistle Cove. A long shelf hangs on the wall filled with awards and trophies. It’s as much of a museum as anything else. I stop before a black and white photo of him in his Viking uniform, the number nineteen in the center of his chest. He’s sweaty, just after a game, with bright eyes. Cradled against his side is Monica, looking so much like Juliette. Her hand is flat against his stomach.
I lean forward and narrow my eyes.
Monica’s wearing his clunky state ring around her middle finger.
“That’s the day we got those rings. I barely wore it before Monica took it for her own.”
My heart lunges into my throat, and I spin toward the door. Jason Chandler stands just inside. He grins.
“Hi, Kenley.”
“Hi,” I sputter, “sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop. I just saw the photos and—”
“I understand. It’s good stuff.” He places his hands on his hips and adoringly gazes at his memories. “You work on the Valhalla, right?”
“The editor, yes.”
“Yes, of course. It’s a big job.”