Flowers for Rachel

Irises

Sunday is a day of reckoning to determine whether my conjectures are on the money or if I'm the worst amateur sleuth in history. My nerves are so shot, that I comb my hair at least five times through before aunt Gillian has to snatch the hairbrush out of my hands and cry, "enough!"

"Relax, Rachel. Your man is going to easily figure you out if you're that obvious," Beth griped, rinsing her tongue with mouthwash for a third time before proceeding to overdraw her eyebrows till they resemble wild caterpillars.

"Yeah, I'm the one who's struggling to be subtle," I shot back, rolling my eyes before letting her words seep into my skin. "And he's not my man! He's a man."

"Your strong denial of the fact suggests otherwise," she chirped in a sing-song voice, walking out of our shared bathroom with a pretentious wave.

Grunting, I stomp right after her and head downstairs to leave the house. The Everheart women have a simple golden rule; Sundays are dedicated to sleeping in and enjoying good homely food. In other words, we're running fashionably late to the association's meeting but aunt Gillian could care less, dolling herself up to outshine her friends.

"What do you think of this brooch, Rachel?" Gillian asked nervously, fiddling with it till she finds a suitable spot on her wine coloured blazer.

"It looks cute, aunt Gill," I assured, throwing on a pair of shoes by the door and ready to head into a battle of wits with this mystery guy.

Aunt Gillian smiles broadly, following me out to the porch where Beth is already waiting and locks up. Making it down Langston street which is teeming with tall trees ancient than any of the residents living here, we make our way to the correct house (each neighbour has to host one of these meetings in turns) and are greeted by Mr. Morris, today's gracious host.

"Ladies! So glad you could come! A sight for sore eyes!" he exclaimed, grinning fondly at our youthful doubt and aunt Gillian's adorable blush.

Entering the bustling house packed with people in every room, a slow lull of jazz music fills the air and mingles with community prattle. A table with a white cloth has been placed against a wall on one side of the Morris living room, where finger foods and homemade iced tea in a huge pitcher are set.

"Make yourselves at home!" Mr. Morris announced, sending a smile of hospitality to Beth and I as we pour ourselves a glass each of the iced tea.

"Soo, who's first?" Beth whispered harshly into my ear.

My eyes assess the many faces, landing on a woman with hair resembling a cotton ball who's seated in a corner and munching on a sandwich. "Why don't we start with Nora? She's always judging people through her windows and has probably seen something."

"Fine. But if she insults me to my face, I'm out," Beth said, recalling memories where the old lady has dished out one too many traumatic comments.

Approaching her cautiously, I put on one of my fake retail smiles and sit in the empty chair next to her. "Hi, Nora. How are you?" I asked politely, already feeling sweat developing on my palms as she offers us a disparaging smile.

"Not too bad," she grunted, finally cracking her tough exterior and relaxes into a conversational mood.

Beth actually releases a shaky sigh of relief as she blends into the wall directly next to me, the furthest spot away from Nora but close enough to hear everything. I on the other hand, feel just as tense, my mind racing with ways to form my next question and watch with mild dread as Nora nears the end of her sandwich.

"So I was wondering, have you seen anything strange in the neighbourhood recently?" I blurted, the words tripping over one another as they tumble out.

"Besides your crazy deliveries? No, nothing," Nora replied, paying no attention to the iron grip I have on my glass which makes my fingers go pale, blocking the flow of circulation in my hand.