“Were?” I ask, not sure how personal is too personal but also wanting to know everything about this family.
Fig and Bart share a kind look. Bartlett clears his throat. “He was my dad’s best friend. We lost him last year; he died in a car accident up on Rickshaw Ridge. It’s a bad bend up in the woods.”
Fig smiles softly, a hand on her brother’s arm. “Well, when you have those scones with your morning coffee, remember to tell Abby some of those tall tales he always wowed us with when we were little. I mean, if you're staying here?” She winks at me. "Okay. I know you're staying here. Everyone in town knows you're staying here. I heard what happened with Mary last night.”
"How did you hear what happened with Mary last night?" I ask.
Fig smirks. “Mary told Mom. Mom told me.”
I'm on the couch and there's a fire blazing. We don't have reservations for this popup restaurant for another 90 minutes, and I have on cozy clothes while I'm waiting for my hair to air dry.
Fig, on the other hand, looks like she's just stepped out of a fashion magazine, which is surprising considering she lives in a small town. But she has on heeled boots, patchwork denim jeans, an oversized sweater with a blouse under it, jewelry, and a full face of makeup. Somehow, though, she looks effortless, like she could be an Instagram influencer.
Me, I don't have a stitch of anything on my face, or my hair, or my nails. I am as salt-of-the-earth as they come.
I take in Fig's big, bold personality as she plops down on the couch with a large tote bag under her arm that I'm just now noticing. "So, why did you give up on your dream of being a foreign exchange student for your last few months of high school?" I ask her, knowing it's a bit of a pry.
"Because Mom promised me that I could go on a trip for spring break.”
"One trip is better than a whole semester in Europe?" Bartlett asks. "Doesn't seem like much of a compromise."
Fig shrugs. "Well, I realized Mom and Dad are never going to actually let me go. So, I was probably being a little bit of a baby with my whole, you know, tantrum."
I smile. Fig may be dramatic, but at least she has some understanding of the family dynamic and the way she comes off. "So, where are you going on your trip?"
She smiles. "I don't know yet. What do you think I should do? Have you ever gone anywhere cool?"
"I've gone to some cool places. I've spent a lot of time in California," I tell her. "Santa Monica's awesome, and Santa Cruz is really cool. They both have great beaches. Have you ever been surfing?"
"Never," she says. "I've hardly been to the ocean at all. The only beaches I've been to are the ones here in Washington and in Oregon, which are, like, totally frigid."
I laugh. "You've never been to a warm beach, like in Florida?"
"Never," she says. "You have?"
"Yeah. My family has traveled around a lot."
"Lucky," she says.
I shrug. "It's all relative, I suppose, huh?"
Bartlett meets my eyes, and I know what he's thinking, that it really is all so relative. What I wouldn't have traded to have a life like Fig’s. "Well, I guess you have some time to think about it. Spring break is, what, March or April?"
"April. And it's only January now. So, I suppose you're right."
"Who will you go on your trip with?" Bart asks. "Don't tell me you have some boyfriend now."
"As if Mom and Dad would let me go on a trip with a boy. No. I'm going to go with Mom." Fig smiles. "And Lemon. Unless, you know, something crazy happens and Lemon's married by then."
Bart snorts. "Yeah, right. That girl is more frigid than a Washington beach. I don't think she'll ever get married."
"Geez," Fig says. "You never know. Someone might come into town and sweep your little sister off her feet."
"Are you talking about you or Lemon?" I tease.
Fig smiles. "I'm never getting married," she says. "I'm going to be single forever. Living in Paris, smoking cigarettes, and sipping on gin. It's going to be glorious."
"And what are you going to do in Europe?" I ask.
"I'm going to be a fashion designer," she says with a flourish. "Speaking of, I have the most amazing outfits for you." She opens her bag and begins holding up different dresses for me to choose from. "I didn't know if you were a velvet kind of girl, or more of a silk girl, but I mean, with your body, you could really wear anything. Speaking of, what kind of work do you do?"
"I'm a gymnast," I tell her as simply as possible.
"Really?" Her eyes widen, impressed. "That's, like, a real job?"