Susan Wiggs - The Oysterville Sewing Circle

“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” the counselor went on. “Do you have a plan for your children in case something happens to you?”

“The plan is that I’ll be the guardian. I know your kids, Ange. And it’s just a backup, after all.” Caroline tried to sound reassuring.

Angelique stared down at the stack of papers. She held herself very still.

“Every parent is obligated to have a plan, no matter what the circumstances. I know you love your children,” the counselor pointed out. “Have you made a will?”

C aroline’s phone vibrated like a trapped bee against her chest. She ignored it. She was on a city bus, swaying under the weight of a duffel bag stuffed with vintage leather jackets that needed refurbishing. Thanks to Mick Taylor, she had been blacklisted. She had tried to defend herself, blasting Mick on social media, contacting bloggers and reporters. But the situation was all too common, and she was ignored. None of the design houses in the city would hire her, so in order to make the rent, she had to take in piecework the way she used to do when she was in design school.

It was a huge step backward. Many steps, in fact. After crawling forward for years, she’d been knocked all the way back to square one. Thinking about all the time and effort she’d poured into getting this far in her career, she wondered what the point was now. There were moments when she wanted to give up, to curl into a ball and wail about the injustice of it all.

And then, with the same dogged determination that had driven her to New York, she forced herself through those moments. Sometimes it felt like she was dragging herself from one side of the moment to the other through a pit of mud.

Then she would picture Mick’s smug, patronizing face, and the image would help her find the fire once again. How could she ever have thought he was her mentor, her mild-mannered surrogate uncle? He might have copied her designs, but she refused to allow him to steal her dream. And despite his status in the fashion world, he and his design director knew what they had done, whether they admitted it or not.

The trouble with being a design thief was that he would forever be in the trap of having to steal. Caroline knew she had an infinite variety of designs inside her. A thief was limited to those he could appropriate from others.

“You are an empty soul, Mick Taylor,” she muttered under her breath. “As empty as—”

The phone vibrated again. She wrenched it out of her pocket, but missed the call. As empty as my bank account. Christ.

She exited the bus as the phone vibrated yet again—another notification of an incoming call and a voice mail. She didn’t recognize the number. Maybe for once it would be good news. God, wouldn’t it be nice if she found a gig?

She ducked inside her apartment building to escape the street noise. The usual pile of junk mail had escaped the too-small boxes and littered the foyer of the building, which always seemed to smell like soup. Nothing of note. Coupons, credit card offers, her Con Ed bill with a U-shaped heel mark where someone had stepped on it, stamping it with the honeycomb tread of a high-end Apiary shoe.

She threw the mail on top of her duffel and lugged it upstairs, then set it down to let herself in. The door wasn’t locked, which rankled her. Since Angelique and her kids had come to stay, Caroline’s tiny space was even more crowded than ever. “Hello?” she called.

The apartment was quiet. There was … something. Something was off. Caroline couldn’t quite place the niggling sensation that prickled across her skin. It was subtle, just a peculiar heaviness in the air. An unfamiliar scent.

“Oh, hey, Angelique,” she said, shaking off the feeling.

Her friend was napping on the overstuffed sofa. She didn’t stir. Her routine was erratic sometimes, although each day after getting the kids off to school, Angelique went to church at Saint Kilda’s. It was just something she did, and she seemed private about it, so Caroline didn’t ask questions.

“Ange.” Caroline dragged the duffel into the room. “Hey, girl,” she said. “You left the door unlocked. Bad idea to—” Her phone buzzed again, and this time she picked up. “Hello?”

“This is the attendance clerk at Sunrise Academy,” said a voice. “We haven’t been able to get hold of Ms. Baptiste, and her children are waiting to be picked up. Your number is listed as an alternate contact. Would you have any idea where she is?”

“As a matter of fact, I just walked in the door, and she’s here.”

“Oh, good. Can you tell her to come right away? Unfortunately, it’s late and no one can stay with Ms. Baptiste’s children.”

“I’ll tell her,” Caroline said, feeling a twinge of annoyance as she rang off. How could Angelique forget her kids? “Hey, girl,” she said. “You need to get over to the school, stat. Your kids are waiting.”

Angelique still didn’t wake up. She didn’t move.

Caroline felt a weird knot of apprehension in her gut. Crossing the cluttered room, she swept aside the window drape and looked at her friend.

“No.” Her voice was a low plea of disbelief. “Dear God, no.” She froze for three beats of her heart. One—the angle of Angelique’s head. Two—the ashy pallor of her skin. Three—some kind of drug paraphernalia on the floor.

Caroline didn’t scream. Not out loud, anyway.

Then she stumbled back and dove for her phone.

While law enforcement people and paramedics swarmed the place, Caroline shook with unbearable fright. She answered the first round of questions with wooden, disjointed replies. Then she rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

Someone from the medical examiner’s office came. More questions. All signs pointed to an accidental drug overdose, to be verified by a toxicology report. Overdose? How could there be an overdose when Angelique didn’t use drugs?

“It happens,” a guy said, standing over Caroline as she hyperventilated. “Addicts know how to hide things.” He said the body would be removed by the ME and an investigative report would be prepared.

She couldn’t take it all in. Words like the body and the deceased had never been uttered before in her presence. Angelique, an addict? How could that be?

She managed to call the school again. Tried to choke out an explanation of the inexplicable. She arrived at the school just as darkness was settling over the city. The principal was there, along with a social worker. Flick and Addie, in their little tartan and navy uniforms, were in the main office, eating Goldfish crackers and watching a kids’ show on a laptop.

Caroline forced herself to stop shaking. She went into the office and sat on the floor next to them. “Hey, you two,” she said, her voice a bit too bright.

“Want some Goldfish?” Flick held out the container.

“No, thank you.” She closed the laptop. Looked at the principal and social worker, who stood by. “I’m here because something happened to your mama,” she said. Good God. “It’s terrible news. Addie, Flick.” She drew them close, their tiny warm bodies feeling so fragile. “The worst possible thing happened. Your mama died today.”