We drew all afternoon.
It was almost dark by the time I rode my bike back to the Whitehursts’. And as soon as I turned onto Souvenir Gate, I knew I was in trouble. Because a line of cars snaked around the corner that made up the Whitehursts’ grand home. Mrs. Abigail had been released from the hospital, and the family was having a welcome home party.
And I’d agreed to help Mama.
As stealthily as I could, I weaved through the cars that lined the long driveway, ducked into the back yard, and stashed my bike in the shed. At a run, I tore up the steps of the back porch and into the kitchen where Mama was loading a silver tray with baby quiches.
A job I was supposed to do.
Her head jerked up at the sound of the slamming screen door, and Mama’s eyes rounded. Her nostrils flared. “Elise Nicole Cormier! Where have you—” Mama stopped, seeming to choke. A baby quiche fell from her fingers. “What’s all over you?” Her hand swept up and down, indicating my entire body.
I looked down and saw every shade of pastel caking my skin and clothes. Sidewalk chalk. And plenty of it.
“I—”
Mama shook her head. “No time,” she hiss-whispered. “You have ten minutes to shower, brush your hair, and put on the dress I set out for you—”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, I—”
“Ten minutes, or you’ll be in more trouble than you already are, and make no mistake, young lady, you are inserioustrouble.”
She didn’t have to tell me that. The lines around her mouth told me enough. I bolted out the back door and flew to the guesthouse. Stripping off my clothes with one hand and dusting off my hair with another, I wondered at the time. It was dark now, but it hadn’t been full dark on my ride home. Just dusk.
I poked my head out of my bathroom door — living in the guesthouse meant Mama and I each had our own — and saw that my bedside clock read 7:12. I should have been home to help Mama start setting out the food at six o’clock, so I was more than an hour late.
Wincing at the extent of my crimes, I hopped in the shower and scrubbed at top speed. Soft rainbow colors trailed down my arms and legs, tinting the bottom the tub before washing away. I’d need to clean my bathroom before Mama saw that and got mad all over again.
As I soaped off, I thought about the hours I’d spent with Alberta. In spite of my impending doom, I grinned. I’d had the best day since I didn’t know when. We’d chalked all afternoon. Butterflies. Dragonflies. Birds. Flowers. And she’d invited me to come back tomorrow.
I just hoped I wouldn’t be grounded.
I shut off the water. I might not have been technically clean, but I was no longer technicolor, so I dashed out the bathroom, dripping and draped in a towel. I should have taken longer than five seconds to dry myself because my navy-blue dress stuck to me in twelve different places as I tried to shimmy into it with one minute left on the clock.
Hopping on one foot to slide on each shoe, I left the guesthouse before racing back to the Whitehursts’ kitchen. And I slid to a halt at the bottom of the porch steps when my eyes landed on Cole leaning against the kitchen door with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Well, well, well,” he snickered. “Someone’s having a worse night than I am.”
Cole Whitehurst wasn’t any less scary at thirteen than he’d been at nine. I might have been bigger now, but so was he. A lot bigger. But I didn’t need to let him see how much he still scared me. I planted my hands on my hips.
“Get out of my way, Cole. I’m late.”
Giving me a bored look, he made no motion to budge. Instead, he lifted a finger and raised it behind him, lazily tracing the frame of the screen door. “I could do that,” he said, as though he were weighing the option. “But then Flora might see me and send me back to that party.”
Without meeting my eyes, he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, I don’t think I want to.”
I knew I was in trouble. And I knew I’d be in even more trouble if I didn’t get into that kitchen pronto, but Cole’s words confused me.
I frowned at him, still trying to smooth the front of my dress. “Don’t you like parties?” The Whitehursts threw parties all the time, though this was the first since Mrs. Abigail’s accident.
Cole’s cold eyes shot to mine. His brows became a ridge on his forehead. “Not this party.” His voice was low and angry.
I cocked my head back, shocked. Sure, Cole was mean, but who wouldn’t be happy to have their mama home from the hospital? And Mrs. Abigail was a nice lady. She’d always been nice enough to me and Mama.
“You’re not glad your mama’s out of the hospital?”
I might as well have splashed a glass of ice water in his face because Cole’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. “Of course I’m glad.” His startled look gave way to an impatient scowl. “This isn’t a welcome home party for my mother.”
Well, now he was just talking nonsense. I knew Mrs. Abigail had arrived home the day before. I’d seen her wheeled up the newly constructed ramp on the front porch with my own eyes. The front hall was full of vases of her favorite flowers, calla lilies. AWelcome Homesign hung in the archway between the front hall and the formal living room. Of course the party was to welcome Mrs. Abigail home.