Page 22 of Everything You Hate
Mimi.
She fills the doorway, all leather jacket and big hair and rings on every finger, a tote over one shoulder with a baguette sticking out of it like a weapon. “You know how hard you are to get hold of? I called the office phone four times. Four, Dean.”
“The office phone doesn’t ring.”
“I know it doesn’t. That’s the problem.” She points a finger at me, rings catching the light. “You turned it off on purpose so nobody can find you, and I’m done with it. Dinner. Tonight. Henry’s making that stew you pretend not to like, and if you tell me you’re busy I’ll walk down to that dock and sink your boat myself.”
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re not.” She’s been cutting me off for eighteen years, and she doesn’t slow down now. “I’ve already told Wren to set your place. Shea’s on dessert. Colter’s bringing Hazel. Bodhi’s coming straight from the office. Even Zade said he might show up, and you know what a miracle that is.”
Zade. The kid who used to look at me like I hung the moon, back when I still had a uniform and a reason to wear it. I’m the one who told him the Coast Guard would save him, that if he didn’t put the rage somewhere after Lana died he’d end up in a cell instead of a boat. He believed me. He followed me in.
Then I walked out, and he stayed, and he’s never looked at me the same since.
Zade turning up to a family dinner isn’t a miracle. It’s damn near an extinction-level event.
“Knox won’t be there,” I mutter. A weak excuse, and we both know it.
“Knox is fighting fires in Montana, or he’d be at the table too.” She narrows her eyes at me. “This isn’t a negotiation, Dean. It’s a summons. You’ve been summoned.”
I open my mouth to argue it anyway, and that’s my mistake, because arguing means engaging, and engaging means she’s still standing in my office instead of halfway back to her car. Mimi never leaves while there’s ground left to take.
Then her radar swings to Scarlett.
“Who’s this?” It isn’t a question. It’s an opening salvo.
“Scarlett Crawford. I’m?—”
“Malcolm’s reporter.” Mimi finishes it for her. “The treasure-hunt girl. Instagram famous. Had herself a meltdown on national TV.” She sizes Scarlett up with a look that makes grown men apologize for things they didn’t do. “I loved your work on the wildfire recovery in Northern California a few years back and hated your work on the commodification of true crime.” She points an accusatory finger. “Don’t you come for my true-crime podcasts, missy.” Then she waves it away. “But that’s another conversation.”
Scarlett doesn’t bat an eye. “That conversation would be more fun with drinks.”
Mimi slaps the desk. “Damn straight it would.” She glances at me, eyes sparkling, and I have time to think one word—fuck—right before she adds, “You should come to dinner, too.”
Keep her away from the family, Bodhi said, and Mimi’s three feet from folding her into it.
“Absolutely not,” I say, at the same moment Scarlett tries, “I really appreciate the offer, but I have research to?—”
“Research can wait.” Mimi waves a hand. “The archives aren’t going anywhere. Malcolm’s sat on those documents for decades. They’ll keep another day.”
“I don’t want to impose on your family?—”
“It’s not imposing when you’re invited.”
“—and I’m sure the last thing anyone wants is a stranger at the table while?—”
“You’re not a stranger anymore.” Mimi cuts her off flat, no opening left. “I just decided. Process complete. Welcome to the Haven family.” She thrusts out a hand. “I’m Miriam Haven by the way, but everyone calls me Mimi.”
“Oh.” Scarlett blinks, and as Mimi pumps her hand in an enthusiastic shake, she appears to be at a complete loss for what to do next. “Uh… thank you?”
I catch her eye and let my face say the thing I can’t:I’m sorry. There is genuinely nothing I can do here.
Her mouth ticks up at the corner. “I’m starting to think declining isn’t actually on the table.”
“It’s not,” Mimi confirms and finally releases her hand. “Declining’s theoretical. Showing up is mandatory. Big white house, red barn, can’t miss it. Anybody can point you if you get turned around. Half the island’s eaten at Henry’s table.”
She turns to me one last time, her eyes full of worry and love and the flat refusal to let me disappear into my own grief the way Henry nearly disappeared into his after Lana died.
