Free The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen Page B

the porch, her own angry voice echoing into the clearing. Heat rushed into her cheeks. She waved her hand in the air to try to dismiss what he’d said. “Are you hungry?” She spun around and moved toward the long table between the fireplace and the windows. Carl strode after her. The table was covered in white tablecloths, with a candelabra in the center. The flames cast flickering shadows across the piles of plates, the tray of silver, the bottles of wine and the glasses, and the glistening food platters.
    Carl handed her an empty plate, and his hand brushed against hers. She moved down the table, picking a few things from the appetizers: a slice of watermelon, a strawberry, and two crab cakes. She glanced at the three quiches on display, but they looked a little too familiar to be appetizing.
    Carl deposited a wedge of the smoked salmon quiche onto his plate. The thought of Carl eating something she’d cooked, along with the ache that had started to resonate from the arches of her feet from her high heels made Etta feel unsteady.
    Rodney finished his song, and rose, resting his cello on its stand. The room swirled with people.
    “Dry Riesling will enhance the sweetness of the crab, bringing out its delicate flavor, like a lemon slice would.”
    Etta reached for the wine glass Carl was extending to her. “I usually avoid California vintages like a long tail cat around rockin’ chairs, but this one’s pretty good.” Carl plucked his plate off the table and moved toward a table near the wall. Etta teetered after him, taking a gulp of wine and savoring the sweetness of it at the back of her throat.
    Several of the myrtlewood tables from the dining room had been pushed together and covered in white tablecloths. The center was lined with tea candles and a dusting of glitter, which made Etta think of a high school dance. Carl sat down and Etta set her plate across from him, relieved at the release of pressure on her toes and arches when she sat down. She scanned the room for Olivia and Poppy, trying to recognize faces in the crowd.
    Two people were sitting at the other end of the long table. Jordan? Yes, his whitish blond hair caught the candlelight. Etta searched for his eyes and tried to smile at him, but he was intent on someone sitting across the table. Chase Quinn?
    “You okay?”
    Etta’s gaze leapt to the voice. Carl was sawing at the quiche with his fork.
    “Sorry, did you say something?”
    He looked up, his face lit up by the tea candles. “Yeah, I was hopin’ to talk to you . . .” He dropped the fork with a clank onto the edge of his plate.
    “Is it that bad?”
    Carl blinked and glanced down at the quiche. “I reckon that depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On whether you prepared this fine dish.”
    Etta laughed, all at once feeling the wine buzzing through her empty stomach. She wrapped her fingers around the stem of the glass. “If it’s horrible, you should just tell me.”
    He grinned, his eyes pinching at the corners. “It’s delicious . . . ‘cept the crust might be a smidgen tough.”
    “A smidgen.” Etta laughed. “What exactly is a smidgen?”
    Carl frowned. “Ever tasted sheet rock?”
    Etta laughed so hard that it took her a minute to register that Olivia was at her side, crouching between her and Carl. Olivia gripped Etta’s arm. Her fingers were freezing, and Etta winced, automatically jerking away. Her glass teetered, and Carl’s hand shot across the table to settle it.
    “Liv, hi.”
    Olivia was hissing into her ear, but Etta couldn’t make out any words. She searched for Olivia’s eyes. They were wet, glossy. Had Olivia been crying? Etta glanced at Carl.
    “Are you okay?” The words sliced through whatever Olivia was whispering.
    Olivia looked over her shoulder, and then snapped her eyes back to Etta. “Please come. Now.”
    Etta glanced at Carl. “We were . . .”
    “We’re going to miss the play.”
    Her words were so sharp that Etta felt herself wince again. “Liv,