“What’s that?” I ask, coming up behind Mom as she stands on tiptoes to peer out the shop window.

“Oh no. No, no, no …”

“Mom? You’re scaring me.”

“Shit! The poster—it’s still on the door.”

“It’s fine. I covered it up.” Sort of.

She cradles the sides of her face. “What have I done to deserve this?”

Panic flicks to life inside my chest and trickles into my limbs, making them go numb. My throat goes dry. I should do something, but what that is, I don’t know. So I just stand there, stock still, side by side with Mom, watching in horror as the bookshop door darkens, rattles, and then finally, after a set of keys is inserted into the lock, oh-so-slowly creaks open.

The ticking time bomb walks into the bookshop.

Chapter 21

BEAUTY REGIONAL AIRPORT: Small, private airport mainly used by people who can afford to own their own planes or charter private jets and can’t be bothered driving for less than an hour to get to the closest international airport in Providence, Rhode Island. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

Chapter 21

Diedre Saint-Martin stands in the open door of the Nook, silver hair in a long, tight braid that’s tucked into the front of a lightweight gray jacket, and drops a colorful, bulging backpack on the floor in front of her near a pair of worn hiking boots.

“What in the living hell is that?” she says, pointing a thin finger behind her at the door, where my Aunt Franny is cautiously entering, along with the taxi driver, who is helping to lug several pieces of luggage labeled with white airport tags.

“Hello, Mother,” my mom says through tight lips. “It’s nice to see you. Been a year since we’ve breathed the same air? Here’s your granddaughter, by the way.”

“Josephine,” Grandma says, gesturing for me with outstretched arms. “Come here. I’m too tired to walk. The drive from the airport was complete and utter misery, and I haven’t slept for an entire day. Come hug your poor grandmama while your mother tells me why her naked body is plastered all over my shop like we’re a brothel in Amsterdam.”

Aunt Franny, who is a several years older than my mom and quite a bit lankier—or maybe Nepal has taken a toll on her—pretends to strangle my grandmother behind her back. I don’t know how to react to that. Aunt Franny is prim and proper. Most definitely not Wild Winona. What the hell happened in Nepal?

I’m torn. I want to hug my grandmother, but my head’s full of things I need to sort out. Plus she may have come back from the airport, but did she get stranded on an island and rescued? I think not. And that’s on top of the fact that I HAD SEX FOR THE FIRST TIME.