Sliding it into the pot with the letter, I hope Cora will find it beautiful, and that maybe it will say something to her that my words can’t manage.
27
CORA
Maggie’s house is crazy in the mornings, but somehow, everyone seems to know exactly what they need to do to keep the house running smoothly.
Trey and Sean make pancakes while John gets the coffee machine brewing with enough for the army of people who need a caffeine kick to start the day.
Hunter feeds little Dale his oatmeal and chopped banana while Maggie does her makeup at the kitchen table. For a second, I wonder why she’s not doing it upstairs in the bathroom, but in between layering her mascara, she answers at least six questions about what’s happening in the day and what needs to happen later. She is truly the heart of the home and the pillar on which all this crazy rests.
“Cora, what do you want on your pancakes?” Trey asks me.
“I’m not hungry, but thanks,” I say with a shake of my head.
“Nonsense,” he says. “Everyone has to eat breakfast. It’s a rule in this house.”
“Have berries and maple syrup,” Maggie advises. “Or some sliced banana.”
“Berries,” I say, smiling at their insistence. I’m not going to tell them that my insides feel all weird and empty, as though someone opened me up in the night and removed all my internal organs.
Away from the Carltons, I feel like a shell of the woman I was with them. I feel even emptier than I did on the day I left my home to move in with my enemies.
The doorbell rings, and Harley disappears to answer it.
“Are you expecting a delivery?” Hunter asks Maggie.
“Nope,” she says, eyeing the door with interest.
Harley appears, holding a huge cardboard box. “It’s for you, Cora,” he says, lowering it until it’s resting on the floor in the corner of the room.
“For me?”
“Yep. It has your name on it in huge black letters.”
Glancing warily at the box, I see exactly what he’s talking about. Whoever has sent me this package really wanted to make sure it arrived safely.
“Open it,” Maggie says, standing so she can get a better view.
“What do you think it is?” I say as Reggie hands me a pair of scissors to help me cut the surrounding tape.
“Bunch of flowers,” Hunter says.
“A puppy?” Trey says.
“Are you stupid? If there’s a puppy in there, it’s dead. There aren’t any air holes,” Dwayne points out.
“Oh yeah. Shit,” he laughs.
Whoever wrapped the parcel wanted to make sure it didn’t open easily. I wrestle with the scissors, battling through layers of parcel tape until I finally manage to lift a flap. Beneath is a thick layer of bubble wrap, which I begin to pull away until I see the edge of something familiar. Is that Danny’s ridiculous pot? Reaching in, I take hold of the thick bulky edge and lift it.
“What the hell is that?” Maggie asks, one eyebrow almost hitting her hairline.
“I hope that’s not one of yours,” Donovan says.
“It’s not,” I say, peering into the pot, confused, and finding a sealed envelope. “But I know whose it is.”
“Is that a letter?” Maggie puts her mascara down and makes her way around the table to stand next to the box.
“It must be from Danny.”
Maggie ruffles the rest of the bubble wrap out of the way and onto the floor, bending to look inside the box. “There are four more pots in here,” she says.
“One from each of the Carltons. We made them together,” I say, resting Danny’s pot on the table so that I can tear open his letter. My heart beats fast, a staccato rhythm in my chest. I want to know what’s written on the expensive stationery, but I’m also too scared to read it. My fingers tremble with every rip of the envelope.
“They wrote you? That’s so cute.”
“And old-school,” Donovan says. “Who writes letters anymore?”
“You guys better polish up your penmanship. I’m expecting love letters from all of you,” Maggie says, pointing her finger at each of her men.
“Fuck,” Sean mumbles. “You wait until I see those guys. They’re going to get an earful from me for showing us up.”
“Yeah, well, you haven’t done anything to hurt Maggie, have you?” I say. “The Carltons have some big explaining to do.”
“And they’re too chicken-shit to do it in person,” Dwayne says.
Maggie shoots him a warning look. “I don’t think it’s that, honey. I think they’re making a grand gesture.”
“Aren’t diamonds and trips to Paris grand gestures? I didn’t read anything in the man-manual about shipping ugly pots around the state to win a girl’s heart.” Dwayne rubs the back of his head, a crooked smile pulling at the side of his mouth.
“This isn’t about the pots, silly,” Maggie says, swatting him on the shoulder. “This is about reminding Cora about something fun they did together. It’s about showing her that they appreciate her talents. And if they’ve each written her a letter, they are trying to connect with her on an individual basis. I think it’s very romantic.”