Welcome Home - Kenna and Talia Version

Kenna Zarneki was going to die.

She realized this the moment she stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac, which burned so hot under the Atlanta summer sun that Kenna could swear she’d seen a sweat drop sizzle into smoke as it hit the ground.

Yes, Kenna Zarneki was definitely going to die from either heat exhaustion or seventh-degree sunburn. And it was all Talia’s fault.

The murderer in question stood a few meters away, dark shades over her eyes and a chauffer’s cap perched on her shaved head. Talia held up a large sign with Kenna’s name printed on it, waving it in the air enthusiastically.

“Ms. Zarneki!” she called out in a sing-song voice. “Your ride is this way, Ms. Zarneki!”

Kenna swatted at Talia’s sign as soon as she was close enough. “Put that down,” she ordered.

“As you wish, miss,” Talia chirped. “Allow me to escort you to your limousine.”

Kenna groaned. The downside of Talia picking her up at the airport? Her friend would be the one driving them both back to Talia’s house, where Kenna had been invited (forcibly) to stay with Talia for the summer.

“It’ll better than letting your dad drag you from press interview to interview,” Talia had said pragmatically. “You know he’s going to want you on Good Morning, Chicago now that you’ve completed your first year at Aeon.”

So, Kenna had agreed to visit Talia in Georgia. In the summer. When the humidity was so thick it could be scooped with a spoon. She’d never liked how hot it had got in Chicago during the summer, but this damp boiling was almost more than she could bear.

“You look like someone peed in your cereal,” Talia said as she grabbed the smaller of Kenna’s bags. “Atlanta’s great, I swear.”

Kenna arched a skeptical brow. Already, she could feel her skin prickling in anticipation of a million mosquito bites. The air was so sticky here; Chicago got hot, but at least a breeze could usually be relied on to make the heat tolerable.

“My mom’s been cooking up a storm, ever since she heard that you agreed to come down,” Talia said. “She’s happy to have another meat eater in the house.” She made a face, pulling a pair of car keys from her shorts.

“I’m fine eating vegan,” Kenna said.

A car nearby beeped. No, not a car—a pickup truck. Kenna tried not let her appalment show as Talia tossed her bag into the back of a dilapidated GMC Canyon with a rusted exhaust pipe and a bumper sticker featuring a nude woman whose rump was censored by a ripe Georgian peach.

“You are such a car snob.” Talia laughed at Kenna’s obvious distaste. “I borrowed the truck from my uncle.” She waited for Kenna to put her other bag in the cargo bed. “And you may be fine eating vegan, but my mom’s been longing for someone to “correctly” appreciate her new barbeque sauce recipe. She claims that my tofu doesn’t do it justice.”

Kenna didn’t say anything as they climbed into the truck. Best to preserve her energy, because this sun was going to kill her. She winced as Talia started the car, and the truck jolted backwards from its parking spot with a banshee screech.

If the sun didn’t kill her, Talia’s driving would.

* * * *

By the time the truck shuddered to a halt in a driveway, Kenna’s already pale hands were even paler from their hour-long death grip ons her seat, and she’d internally resolved never to let Talia drive her Mustang. Talia jumped from the truck, humming, and Kenna took a moment to steady her breathing and take in the house before them. It was ranch-style, with a natural stone façade and a garden that stretched around into the backyard.

The garden was a rainbow of vibrancy, a far cry from the deliberately-chosen pale pink and yellow flowers that adorned her father’s yard and were maintained by a surly gardener. Whoever took care of this garden loved doing so, and had added a little colorful chaos to its design. The entire scene was so warm and inviting that it put Kenna on edge as she followed Talia into the house.

“Mama!” Talia hollered up the stairs. “We’re back from the airport.”

A woman came down the stairs. She was curvy where Talia was slender, and her russet brown skin was significantly lighter than Talia’s. Nevertheless, the family resemblance between the two was obvious, there in her heavy-lidded glance that immediately made Kenna feel uncomfortably exposed. Talia looked at her in that same way—it was a look that saw too damn much.

“I brought szarlotka,” she said abruptly. “In my bag.” Anything to change the subject and make the woman stop looking at her like she was a shelter puppy in need of a home. Just what had Talia told her mother about the reason for Kenna’s visit?

Virginia Parker’s eyebrows arched so high that they almost disappeared beneath her bright red-and-gold headwrap. “Polish apple pie,” she said.

Kenna was surprised that she knew of it. Then again, Talia had told him that her mom had lived abroad in Prague for several years. Maybe she’d visited Poland?

Talia groaned. “Is this something that I won’t be able to eat again?” she asked. “Because Polish apple pie sounds delicious.”

“This one is made with almond milk and coconut butter.” Kenna pulled at her long shirtsleeve, instinctively hiding the band aid on her wrist. It had taken her several tries to amend her busia’s recipe so that Talia would be able to eat it, and Kenna was by no means a practiced baker.

Virginia’s eyes followed the motion of Kenna’s hand, and her eyes warmed as if she somehow was able to guess at Kenna’s bloody struggle with the food processor (why were those things so impossible to assemble, anyway?).

“Then we’ll have it after supper,” she announced. “Talia, go show Kenna to her room. And Kenna?”

Kenna prayed that her cheeks weren’t as bright red as they felt. “Yes ma’am?”

“Welcome home,” said Virginia.