Inherit Read online

  “So this stuff isn’t from the ex.” Jonas sounds smug. “Maybe your fox is lucky.”

  I glance at the little ball of red fur curled on his lap, twitching in its sleep. So far this fox has afforded me a long trip to the airport security desk, a flat tire, a scary trek into the woods, and an uncomfortable/wonderful few hours with Jonas Balto. That doesn’t smack of luck to me.

  When I glide in front of Jonas’s tiny white clapboard house, he smiles his thanks, moves the fox off of his lap like it’s a newborn baby and reaches over to grab my hand. He pulls a pen out of his pocket and writes his number in neat, blocky writing. “Thanks for the ride. And Wren? Call me if you need anything.” He points at my hand and one last sexy smile spreads over his lips. “I mean it. Call.”

  All the way home, I try to act like what just happened is no big deal at all. Guys have given me their numbers before. JR Maclean was considered the hottest catch at Immaculate Conception High School freshman year. Girls bared their claws for a chance to date him, but he chose me. And I dumped him. I’m no babe in the woods when it comes to dating. So why do I keep purposefully adjusting my hand so Jonas’s number won’t rub off?

  I flip off the headlights and cut the engine a couple hundred feet from the front of my house. Bestemor loves to pop up and check on anyone coming or going on our little side street, and I don’t want to wake her if she’s already blissfully asleep. Much as I love to see her and talk about our day before bed, I hope she’s asleep for the night. Because if she’s sleeping peacefully, at least I don’t have to watch her mind crumble in front of my eyes as an awful ending to this crazy, rough day. I grab my purse, debate on taking the coat, decide to leave it, change my mind because I need it as evidence when I tell Nevaeh my story, and take a long look at the fox, wondering who sent it and why they would have.

  Its graceful black legs twitch with tiny bursts of movement offset by stretches of absolute stillness. I wonder if foxes dream. I wonder what the hell I’m going to do with this new pet of mine.

  I touched the fox before, during my worry, but that was when I had gobs of adrenaline-based courage coursing through my veins. Now I’m level-headed, and those teeth seem extra scary. But I have to bring it into the house; the thought of this little critter gnawing my upholstery is too worrisome. I bite my tongue for courage and scoop it into my arms, then rush up the crumbling cement steps, past the overgrown weeds and dying potted plants so uncharacteristic of my green-thumbed grandmother, through the screen door with the creaky hinges, into my house.

  The air reeks of dust and old food when I open the door. Our house never used to smell that way. Bestemor is one of those housekeepers who pulls all of the furniture into the yard so she can scrub the floors on her hands and knees and beat the rugs on the line every week. Or she used to be that kind of housekeeper. Now she floats in and out of her old self.

  I peek in my grandmother’s doily-adorned bedroom and find her, covers tucked under her chin, under a soft quilt. I tiptoe-hopscotch around all the creaky boards and land a soft kiss on her forehead, right where her pale skin meets a wintry shock of fluffy hair. Love buoys my heart, and my happiness bobs and lurches until the stress of the day melts, warmed by the goodness of being home with her again.

  Zivalus is sleeping on the couch in the living room, his neck craned back and his mouth hanging open, fly-catcher style. Nevaeh has her chemistry book open on her lap, her legs folded in a graceful origami of long, smooth limbs. She hears me right away and looks up, her face so beautiful and sweet I’m glad she’s on Bestemor’s dusty highback mustard-colored couch waiting for me. She makes my falling-down house feel like home even as it’s in the process of changing into something I don’t quite recognize anymore.

  Nevaeh opens her arms and gets up, then her eyes go wide and she stares at the fox. I lean my head towards my bedroom and we creep down the hall, walk into my room, and close the door.

  “Wren, tell me that’s not a fox.” Nevaeh leans close and examines my new pet cautiously.

  I nod to a laundry basket. “Can you put a blanket in there for me?”

  She makes a nest for the fox and I lay it gently down, taking a second to give its ears a quick rub, then we both fall back on my bed. “Tell,” she demands.

  “Ugh,” I moan. “I don’t want to.”

  “You have to be kidding me,” Nevaeh hisses. “Bestemor made raisin soup tonight, Wren. Raisin. Soup. With buttermilk! Did I tell you that Zivalus is lactose intolerant? But he’s also stupidly polite and he ate three bowls. Between him and your grandmother, the farting was out of control! I put up with all of it because I love you, but you are sorely testing me right now.”

  I take Nevaeh’s hand, her long, glittery nails sparkling in the lamplight, and look into her eyes, the strange hazel-green that is so pretty and familiar, it chokes me with happiness. “You will never believe me.”

  “Try me.” She yanks on my arm. “C’mon. Tell.”

  “I got this fox in a box.” I giggle. She glares. “Sorry. But I did. From Japan. I was on the way home when my truck got a flat, and I pulled in at Warwick’s, but I only had seventeen dollars to my name. Then Jonas Balto came out.”

  “Jonas Balto who you had a crush on the whole time you dated that loser JR?” she clarifies.

  “I did not. Shut up or I won’t tell you more.” I wait and Nevaeh resists saying anything else. “He offered to change my tire when his shift ended for free, and I gave him a ride home to say thank you.”

  Nevaeh rolls her eyes. “You are so stupid, Wren! Why wouldn’t I believe it? You two have been like star-crossed lovers forever, and now you end up together over a flat tire and a ride home.” She pulls our linked hands up to her chest so she can clutch at her heart and sigh dramatically. And she notices the number. “You got his number!” she shrieks, then lowers her voice. “You dirty dog! So are you two going on a date? This is so good. Did I ever mention what a d-bag JR was? I’m so happy for you!”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned it, but listen—” But she prattles on about how perfect Jonas and I are for each other and how stupid I was for thinking he actually meant anything by the whole debate thing because it was an assignment for Christ’s sake, and how we’re the turtles of love and it’s a miracle we wound up together before we both wound up in nursing homes. “Vee!” I finally break in. “Good god, listen to me!” She swallows whatever she was going to say and looks at me expectantly. “It’s not Jonas that I thought you wouldn’t believe. Not Jonas. Okay?”

  I want to tell her, but it’s all so weird. So I just hold out the coat.

  She flicks her long black hair off of her shoulder and runs her fingers over the velvet, her nail polish sparkling like mad. “You sprung for the coat? Wasn’t it, like, three hundred dollars?”

  “I didn’t buy it,” I whisper.

  “Jonas got it for you?” She licks her lips nervously; it’s Nevaeh’s go-to tick.

  “No.”

  “JR?”

  “No.”

  “Then, where did it come from?” She draws her hands off the jacket and folds them in her lap like a demure schoolgirl.

  “It appeared. In my truck.” I look at her face and hope, because she is the most logical person I know, that she will give me a logical answer that will not freak me out.

  “JR is stalking you,” she says slowly. “He wants you back, and he left it in your truck. That’s it.”

  “Isn’t it a little creative for JR?” I run my hands over the adorable silver owl buttons my ex definitely would have made fun of.

  “It makes sense. He has the money. He wants you back. He knows your truck, and he can probably hack into your email and get your passwords. He probably trolled through your information and picked it up so he could use it to win you back.” Her high, smooth cheekbones flood with color and her eyes snap like she’s solved a mystery. “That explains it. Just give it back to him and tell him you don’t need his gifts because you and Jonas pulled your heads out of your asses and are
together now!”

  “That’s not all.” Nevaeh purses her lips at me, expectant. “We pulled over to let the fox pee, and it came out of the woods with this.” I hold the wad of money out and her mouth falls open so wide I can see her molars. “Jonas and I went to look in the woods to see where the fox might have picked this up, and when we got back, there was a new tire for my truck, the exact right size and everything. He wanted to put it on, but I made him throw it in the bed.”

  Nevaeh snatches the roll of money out of my hands and examines it. “Is it counterfeit?”

  “How would I know that? Anyway, I have no idea where this stuff came from or why, and it’s freaking me out.” Goosebumps prickle on my arms and up and down my spine.

  “What did Jonas think?” She puts the roll of money on the bed between us.

  “First he guessed JR, too. Then he said the fox.” I glance over at the sleeping bundle in the laundry basket.

  “The fox? What could the fox have to do with this?”

  “Jonas said it’s a lucky fox.”

  She considers this with squinted eyes and a quick lick of her lips. “That makes no sense. But nothing makes any sense.”

  We lie back on my bed for a few minutes, and I’m falling asleep even though I want to stay up and solve this puzzle.

  “Wren, I’m going to get Zivalus home. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  I nod and the last thing I remember is Nevaeh’s long, warm fingers tucking the covers under my chin before I fall into a deep sleep populated with sly foxes and forests with reaching, scratching black tree limbs.

  Chapter 4

  I wake up with ten minutes before my shift at the diner starts. The laundry basket Vee blanketed for the fox is empty, so I race through the house, looking for nibbled couch cushions or gnawed chair legs, but I come up short. Bestemor is singing something in Norwegian, and her voice warbles and dives like a flock of sparrows. I follow the sound to the kitchen where she sits with a bowl of steaming oatmeal dusted with brown sugar and a cup of strong, black coffee.

  Despite the lost fox, I’m drowned in a rush of relief, heavy as an anchor dropped from my floating body. I can finally relax after being adrift in this deep sea of worry for so long. “Bestemor, did you see a—”

  The fox stands on the faded black and white checked linoleum next to my grandmother, tearing at a chicken leg with delicate snaps of its shining white teeth.

  “Loki?” She drops a hand to brush her fingers over the fox’s head. I’m half afraid it’s going to bite her, but it nestles its head against her hand and scores another major point in my book. Anything that loves Bestemor is cool with me. “She’s enjoying her breakfast with me.”

  I stare at my grandmother’s softly lined face. Her eyes, light and clear blue, are lucid today, but she’s not asking the obvious questions; where did the fox come from? How are we going to take care of it? Where was I last night?

  “You named it?” I grab a glass of milk and chug it to keep my stomach from growling until I get a lunch break at work.

  “Of course. A pretty girl like this one can’t go around without a name, can she?” she coos to the fox who pauses to rub a head against her ankle.

  “Are you sure it’s a girl, Bestemor? And isn’t Loki a male god’s name?” I rinse the glass and throw it back in the cabinet. I have no chance of getting a shower, but I have to get dressed. I can make it to work in five minutes, but I don’t even have that now. Tony, my boss, will have a field day lecturing me on timeliness and responsibility. Saturday is not the day to show up late. I wish I’d gotten up earlier.

  “I’m sure she’s a perfect little girl. And Loki is a brilliant little trickster’s name. Come and have breakfast, elskede. You’re wasting away.” She reaches out and pinches my hip with strong fingers.

  “I want to, but the time.” I point to the rooster clock on the wall and sigh. “Clock’s dead. It’s not nine. It’s actually almost ten thirty and I’m late.”

  Bestemor turns her wrist and glances at the delicate gold watch on her arm. “The clock is right, skatt. Come, eat.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I run to my bedroom and the red digital numbers read three minutes after nine. I pick the clock up and shake it back and forth, like it’s an Etch a Sketch, and wait for the numbers to change back.

  They don’t. I check my cell, two watches caught in the brambles of my jewelry box, and my computer.

  Despite solid, irrefutable evidence, I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong, but I have time now, so I sit at the table with my grandmother and the fox, who looks at me with unreadable eyes that calm my racing heart.

  I lift spoonfuls of oatmeal into my mouth mechanically while Bestemor sings to the fox, some low, haunting lullaby. She shoos me away from the dishes and I walk to my room to get ready.

  I have time for a long, hot shower. I have time to pull on my ridiculous work outfit; cat’s eye glasses, a poufy, itchy crinoline, a hot pink poodle skirt, a sweater with pearl buttons, and shiny black penny loafers. I work weekends and some nights at Tony’s Drive-In, a 50s style restaurant where waitresses skate out to your car with food or you can eat inside in deep booths and listen to the juke boxes play authentic 50s hits. It’s hokey, but it’s a hugely popular place, and the tips help us keep our heads above water.

  I usually don’t have the luxury to do my makeup, but since time somehow unwound itself today, I take a minute. I mix two concealors to get the right skin tone; being half Japanese means that there’s not really a makeup that works perfectly for me. My eyes are almond shaped and dark brown, almost black. I have no real cheekbones to speak of, since my face is so round and kind of flat. But I have good plump lips and a cute nose. I wish my teeth weren’t so crooked and a little whiter, but braces and whitening strips don’t take priority on the budget right now.

  Good makeup can exponentially help with tips. I like what I’ve done and smile at my reflection, but my smile freezes in place.

  I lean closer to the mirror and pull my lips wider.

  My teeth look different.

  I move my head side to side, but I can’t shake it. My twisted front tooth is still slightly turned, but not nearly as much. My bottom four front teeth look like pickets in a newly built fence instead of a dilapidated, forgotten one. And they are blindingly, new-snowdrift white.

  I stalk to the kitchen and grin at my grandmother, an unhappy stretch of my lips. “Look, Bestemor. Look.” I point at my teeth.

  “Lovely,” she smiles. She pats my cheek. “You’ll be late if you don’t leave soon, elskede. Loki and I are heading to the garden. I have a feeling that she’s going to take care of our mouse problem, aren’t you, kjaere?” She leaves a moist kiss on my cheek and putters out the screen door with the spry fox at her heels.

  I stomp out the urge to call my grandmother back and demand she look at my teeth again. She’s singing with such contented happiness, my heart won’t let me stop her. “Be careful!” I call as I scoop up my keys and grab my purse and change of clothes for after work. “That fox might have rabies or something!” My warning feels equal parts mean-spirited and self-defensive, because, wary as I try to be, Loki is wiggling into my reluctant good graces.

  She laughs and my feet stick to the floor so I can listen better. It floats light as a swarm of bubbles, that good, clear sound I haven’t heard in so long. Her next words are clear and sweet. “Loki doesn’t have rabies, Wren!”

  “Be careful!” I repeat. The fox hasn’t given me any reason to suspect it will be violent or sick, but there’s something about it I can’t put my finger on.

  My shift at work starts out with three full booths waiting, and tables rapidly filling as soon as I get my order tablet out. People whir in and out like clockwork cogs until one smiling, eating family or couple looks just like the next. Tips clog my money pouch, weighing it down so much I have no choice but to cash in all the ones for twenties in the middle of the biggest lunch push. I end my shift with a decent roll and one last,
lone diner.

  “Ugh,” I groan. “Pammy, please take him for me.” Pammy is the owner’s daughter, and she’s perpetually sweet and helpful. I pray she’ll take pity on me and cover the booth until Macie, my replacement, shows up.

  “I would, but I have to help Jimmy with fountain. Cadence had three vans pull up, full.” Jimmy and Cadence are Pammy’s younger sister and brother; she’s nice, but she’s not about to ditch family to help with my one lone customer.

  I drag over to the booth, my feet two achy bricks, my skirt sticky with dribbled hot fudge and smeared with crusty hotdog sauce, and my mascara runny from sweat, making my eyes sting closed.

  “Welcome to Tony’s. Can I start you with something to drink?” My tablet is flipped open to a new, clean page and I’m staring at it so intently, I don’t immediately notice who’s at my booth. “JR?”

  His smile is too bright, too white, too arrogant to pull on my heartstrings anymore. But I can’t deny that he is good looking. In a totally shallow, superficial way.

  “Miss me, Wren? I’ve been thinking about you.”

  So typical of JR to elongate my workday, mess with my head, and make me drool all at once. Why was I such a sap for guys with silky black hair, wide grey eyes and intoxicating smiles?

  “I was thinking about leaving work sometime this hour, so what do you want to drink?” I tap my pen on my pad to keep my shaky feelings steady, an emotional metronome I need to put my faith in right now.

  “Mmm, how about a chocolate milkshake?”

  I glance at the fountain and absorb Pammy and Jimmy elbow-deep in ice-cream floats, shakes, and egg creams. Shakes are long, laborious drinks that Jimmy, the shake master, usually makes quick work of. If I have to make one myself, it’s almost guaranteed it’ll explode on my shirt and I’ll wind up with frostbitten fingers.