In The Weeds, page 9
“Cut that shit out,” I grumble, finishing the first muffin and moving on to the next. “I know you’re talking about me.”
“We didn’t say anything.”
“Might as well have.”
“Alright, let’s take a step back,” Stella steeples her hands in front of her face. With her behind her desk, and Layla and I in the two chairs in front of it, it feels like every single time I was ever called to the principal’s office. My phone buzzes on the arm of the chair. I glance at it and spot a text from Luka.
Luka: Hurricane Stella.
Luka: Is that carrot cake?
“Stop texting my boyfriend and pay attention.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose and try for a subject change. I glance at Layla.
“Didn’t you have dinner with Jacob last night?”
She makes a face. “I broke up with Jacob two weeks ago. I went on a date with a guy I met through an app.” She waves her hand between us and fixes me with a look that says she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Don’t try to distract me. I’m not letting the Evelyn thing go.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be going over this quarter’s numbers today?”
“Nice try,” Stella adds. “We can discuss this first and move on to reporting after. I also want to talk about why you have Jeremy Roughman doing manual labor out in the fields. But first, how did Evelyn get to your house?”
“She took a flight, I’d imagine. And then rented a car.”
Stella is not impressed. “Beckett.”
“I ran into her in town last night,” I explain. I leave out the part where I ran into her leaving the cafe, a box of contraband cookies tucked under my arm. I don’t know what Layla would do if she found out I’m sneaking baked goods from Ms. Beatrice on the side, but it probably wouldn’t be pretty. I like my face the way it is. “The bed and breakfast was full and she didn’t have anywhere else to stay.”
Layla gives me a critical look, one eyebrow notched high on her forehead. “So you invited her to stay with you?”
“I did.”
“For how long?”
I shrug and pick at the wrapper on my second muffin. They have chocolate chips in them, like Layla somehow knew I’d need the extra strength today. “I have no idea. She said something about this trip not being planned.” I leave out the part where she talked about Lovelight being the last place she was happy. That feels private, and I don’t want to share things that belong to her. “Jenny is ringing the phone tree today to find her someplace to stay longer term, I think.”
I ignore the thrum of discomfort that settles in my shoulders at that. It feels the same as when there’s too much noise around me, my teeth clenching down around it. I don’t like the idea of her anywhere else, and I’m well aware that makes me a fucking idiot. A glutton for punishment, probably. She made her intentions very clear as far as our relationship is concerned. I can’t imagine roommates with her one-night stand was in her plan when she decided to come out here.
She could have texted me, though. Given me a heads up. Did she think she wouldn’t have to see me? Is that what she was hoping for? I frown.
Stella and Layla busy themselves with another silent conversation while I focus on eating the rest of my breakfast. I drink my coffee and try to put everything back in order within myself. My brain keeps skipping back to Evelyn collapsing backwards into the bed in the spare room, one of the pillows tumbling down by her legs. Comet nudging under her chin with her nose. It’s been playing on repeat in my mind all morning and it leaves me feeling like I’ve been kicked down a hill in a barrel. That exposed wire thing again, my hair standing on end.
“Beck?” Stella’s looking at me, face etched with worry and her palms cupped gently around her mug. There’s a pine tree hanging from her desk light, and she knocks it with her elbow when she ducks her head to get a better look at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I am. I’m fine. Evelyn in my space isn’t anything I can’t handle. If being here is going to help her figure out her next steps or whatever it is that she’s doing, then I can suck it up. It’ll probably be like last time, where we circle each other and then settle. Share a baked good and move on.
This doesn’t have to mean anything.
Layla plucks another muffin out of the tin and hands it to me.
“Here,” she says. “You look like you need it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVELYN
It’s so quiet on the other end of the phone, I check several times to see if Josie accidentally hung up on me. Silence is not what I expected when I delivered the news. In fact, I was bracing myself for the opposite. Extended, obnoxious laughter. A cackle or two. A screaming shriek.
“Josie?”
“You’re staying at his house?” Her voice is pitched low and for once, I can’t hear a single thing in the background. Josie is constant motion, often sounding like she’s at a train station instead of her house. Right now she sounds like she’s in a closet.
“Yeah, I’m staying at his house.” He left a key next to the coffee machine this morning. A note with surprisingly neat handwriting with the code to the garage door.
“Does he—” she breathes out a shaky exhale. “Does he only have one bed?”
“What?” I give the waitress at the cafe a small smile, nodding my thanks when she places my latte carefully on the table in front of me. She takes a step back, but keeps looking at me, an over-bright smile on her young face. I know this look. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. I give her a little wave and turn slightly in my seat, lowering my voice. “What are you talking about? No, he has at least two beds that I know of.”
Probably more. I wasn’t kidding when I said he could run a bed and breakfast on the side. The inside of his cabin is huge. Surprisingly comfortable. An entire collection of throw blankets and cozy looking pillows in his living room.
Josie continues to breathe heavily into the phone. “What does he wear to sleep in? Is it sweatpants? Are they gray?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Please just answer the question, Evie.”
“I have no idea what he wears to bed,” I answer as quietly as possible, conscious of the fact that I’m sitting smack dab in the middle of the cafe in a town that loves to gossip. I peek over my shoulder at the table behind me, two of Inglewild’s firefighters on what looks like their third plate of cinnamon rolls. “I didn’t kick in his door to look, Josie.”
“Maybe you should have,” she hisses. “Okay, but seriously though—“
I sigh in relief.
“—I need you to tell me in excruciating detail. What is Mr. Beckett looking like these days? You never did share a picture and you were annoyingly vague. Does he have scruff?”
“What has gotten into you?”
“This whole situation is bananas and I’m trying to capitalize on the benefits. Have you at least snooped through all of his belongings like a reasonable human being?”
“I have not, though I haven’t ruled it out for this evening.”
I did notice a couple things. What looked like a celestial map taped to the front of the fridge, a circle drawn in red over a cluster of little specks with a date and time scrawled above. The corner of the living room with three oversized, soft-looking cat beds, a tiny blanket on each. Five different types of ground coffee on the kitchen counter, all half-used and neatly rolled shut.
It wasn’t what I expected.
Though to be fair, I didn’t let myself expect anything out of Beckett. Besides my game of picturing him in random places, perplexed by mint green succulent vases and fruit arrangements, I hardly let myself consider him at all. Remembering is a slippery slope into wanting, and I’ve built too much for myself to get distracted by a gorgeous man with tattoos and very large hands.
I suppose that doesn’t matter much now, though. I’m one big ball of distraction.
“Have you checked your accounts yet?”
A spike of anxiety turns my palms hot. “No. How bad is it?”
I don’t think I’ve ever gone more than four hours without posting, a compulsion to always be one step ahead. Josie hums and I hear the click of a mouse as she does something on her computer. “Not bad. You are causing quite the stir though. I saw a couple blogs asking where you were. You have a whole Where in the World is Evelyn St. James thing going for you right now.”
“I’m sure Sway is pleased.”
“As much as they can be with their internet darling on lockdown.” She makes an interested sound under her breath, another couple of clicks. “I meant to tell you, I’m sorting through some of your inboxes while you’re out. It looks like Sway has been screening some messages. Do you plan on posting at all while you’re there, or is it a full blackout?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” This is supposed to be a step back from work. I’m not sure scrolling through my accounts and posting random content is going to help with the perspective I want to find. I don’t want to do anything until it feels good again.
But I have found myself itching to swipe open my camera. It’s a reflex, a habit formed over close to a decade of sharing my life with millions of strangers. I wanted to snap a picture when I opened the bedroom door this morning, all four cats sitting in a line, staring up at me with their tiny heads tilted in quiet consideration. When I stepped off the front porch, the sun a brilliant, beautiful orange in the sky, everything glowing at the edges. When I wandered down the narrow alley on my way here, floral vines criss-crossed back and forth between the buildings, a canopy of blossoming flowers and drifting petals. The scent of honeysuckle tickling my nose.
“You don’t have to do anything at all,” Josie tells me over the phone. “You’re on a break for a reason. I don’t even remember the last time you took a true vacation.”
“I know,” I smooth my thumb over the edge of the cup. “But maybe it would help if I tried just telling stories again. That’s how we started all of this, isn’t it?”
No pressure. No expectations. Just me, talking to people. Listening again.
“I don’t think it would hurt,” she offers. “But please give yourself a break. Drink a latte.” She pauses for a second. “Find out if the man owns gray sweatpants.”
A laugh bursts out of me and half of the people in the cafe turn to look. This feels normal, the attention from strangers. When I was younger, it was exciting. I remember the first time someone recognized me in public. I was at the grocery store examining oranges and a young woman with bright blue hair came up to me and asked if I was Evelyn St. James. She saw my video about the Bagby Hot Springs and took a trip with her friends. I remember being overwhelmed. Flattered. Exceedingly delighted.
Now though, the attention feels a bit like sun-warmed skin, just shy of a burn. A hot prickle of awareness and an itch that doesn’t feel right to scratch. My eyes snag on my waitress in the corner, huddled together with a table full of teenagers. Their gazes scatter as soon I make eye contact and I bite my bottom lip against a smile. I give them a little wave and they collapse into furious whispers. One brave girl with thick black glasses and her hair in braids waves back.
The bell above the door jingles and Jenny slips in, one of the flower petals from outside caught in her hair. I raise my hand to get her attention and start to shift my collection of plates around. I couldn’t decide what to order, so I got one of everything in the case. I might have to get up for another sausage and cream cheese biscuit.
I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear and move a bear claw to the corner of the table. I consider it briefly, and then take a bite. I’ve never met a pastry I didn’t love. “Gotta go, Jo.”
“I expect a picture in my inbox later.”
I snort a laugh. If I sent her a picture of Beckett, she’d be on the next flight to Maryland. “Sure, sure. Love you.”
“You too.”
Jenny raises both eyebrows as she slides into the seat across from me. I hand her a plate with a cranberry scone and she gives a happy little wiggle in her chair. “Boyfriend missing you?”
My lips twitch at the thinly-veiled fish for gossip. At least two heads tilt in our direction that I can see. I need to remember that there’s always someone listening in this town.
“Life partner,” I explain and Jenny eyeballs me as she breaks her scone in half. I don’t bother explaining. “Did you call around?”
She nods. “Haven’t been able to find anything, but it’s early. I’m sure something will turn up today.” She drags the tip of her finger along the edge of her plate, blonde hair half covering her face. She reminds me of my mom. Same lines by her eyes, same gentle smile.
Same inability to hide her duplicitous intentions.
“Did you happen to find a place to stay last night? I feel so terrible about what happened.”
I grin and tear off some cinnamon roll. The icing clings to my thumb. It tastes like sugar and small town gossip. “I’m sure you saw the whole thing from behind your desk, Jennifer Davis. Did you really call the phone tree this morning or are you scheming?”
She blinks twice, slow and steady. She then proceeds to stuff the rest of the scone into her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drop my chin in my hand. “Mmhmm.”
“I told you—”
“—the kite festival, yeah.” I haven’t seen a single person in this town with a kite.
“I’ll keep checking,” she mumbles around a mouthful of dense pastry and dried cranberry. I offer her the glass of water at my elbow, concerned about the compulsive way she keeps swallowing. She takes it with a shaky hand and downs the whole thing in two gulps. “You never know what might turn up.”
“Sure.”
“Betsey might have a lead on a studio apartment, but I think it’s above the mechanic station. Probably smells like oil.”
“Probably.”
“And I know the McGivens sometimes rent out their spare bedroom, but I think they’re hosting an … exchange student.”
“Makes sense.” It doesn’t make any sense.
“I’ll keep you updated though!” She slips from her seat and takes a step backwards, closer to the door. If I thought everyone was looking before, it’s nothing compared to the intense, avid attention we are attracting now. Two of the employees peer out from the back kitchen, watching the exchange. I think Gus, one of the firefighters, is recording the whole thing on his phone. Jenny laughs—a bright, unnatural thing. “Okay, bye!”
Her ponytail has hardly disappeared from view when a small but sturdy shadow appears over my shoulder.
“That woman is full of shit,” says Ms. Beatrice, her voice always softer and sweeter than I expect it to be. I heard rumors of her around town before I met her the first time. Things like:
Remember not to look her directly in the eye, and:
Do you think she’ll make anyone cry today?
So when I walked into the cafe and saw a small woman in a floral apron with her long hair pulled up in a loose gray bun, I was surprised.
Then I saw her throw an empty can of coffee at the Sheriff and things made a little more sense.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I think about Beckett standing in the door of his spare bedroom last night, his body all rigid lines with a frown twisted across his lips. He had looked about seven seconds away from climbing out the window. “I guess I’ll have to poke around myself. See if there is anywhere else to stay.”
The last thing I want to do is make Beckett uncomfortable in his own home.
“How long are you here for?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Ms. Beatrice hums, hands flexing on the back of the chair. She doesn’t wear any jewelry, but she does have a tiny tattoo of a songbird on the back of her hand, just above her wrist. I nod at it.
“That’s beautiful.” Delicate lines, a touch of red on outstretched wings. It looks like it’s about to fly up her arm and rest in the crook of her elbow.
She glances at it once, a smile flirting at her lips. “Nova did it.”
“Nova?”
“Beckett’s youngest sister.” I blink. I didn’t even know he had sisters. “I told her I wanted BOSS across both knuckles, but we settled on this instead.”
“Well,” I search for the right words. She would look pretty badass with knuckle tattoos, and the look on her face says she knows it. “Maybe you can convince her in the future.”
She nods, but doesn’t budge an inch. I raise an eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A slow smile creeps across her face.
“Since you’re asking …”
Ms. Beatrice wants an Instagram page.
She saw one of my posts featuring a coffee shop in North Carolina— rows and rows of coffee beans behind the counter and colorful ribbon hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that little shop had been like stepping inside a rainbow, Bob Marley on the speakers and sprinkles in my latte.
“That thing had over two-hundred thousand comments,” she says from the side of my table, shoving her phone in my face. “And the beans looked cheap.”
I don’t know what constitutes a cheap bean, but I indulge her. We snap a couple pictures of her behind the counter—a fierce look on her face in every single one—and set up her details. If the rainbow shop had an opposite, Ms. B’s would be it. But there’s a certain charm to it nonetheless. I apply a moody filter and smile at the result—a fierce woman holding a plate of scones, a steaming coffee pot at her elbow. She looks like something out of Goodfellas. Maybe she should get those knuckle tattoos after all.
“You know you can’t use this account to publicly shame people, right?”
A secret smile. “No promises.”
Gus and Monty corner me after that, asking if I can swing by the firehouse and help them with a video. Intrigued and amused, I can’t help but trail after them to the open bay doors, music spilling out from the back office. I proceed to watch them choreograph a surprisingly involved dance to Jennifer Lopez. Monty explains after with panting breaths that they’re trying to raise money for a new ambulance.
“We didn’t say anything.”
“Might as well have.”
“Alright, let’s take a step back,” Stella steeples her hands in front of her face. With her behind her desk, and Layla and I in the two chairs in front of it, it feels like every single time I was ever called to the principal’s office. My phone buzzes on the arm of the chair. I glance at it and spot a text from Luka.
Luka: Hurricane Stella.
Luka: Is that carrot cake?
“Stop texting my boyfriend and pay attention.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose and try for a subject change. I glance at Layla.
“Didn’t you have dinner with Jacob last night?”
She makes a face. “I broke up with Jacob two weeks ago. I went on a date with a guy I met through an app.” She waves her hand between us and fixes me with a look that says she knows exactly what I’m doing. “Don’t try to distract me. I’m not letting the Evelyn thing go.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be going over this quarter’s numbers today?”
“Nice try,” Stella adds. “We can discuss this first and move on to reporting after. I also want to talk about why you have Jeremy Roughman doing manual labor out in the fields. But first, how did Evelyn get to your house?”
“She took a flight, I’d imagine. And then rented a car.”
Stella is not impressed. “Beckett.”
“I ran into her in town last night,” I explain. I leave out the part where I ran into her leaving the cafe, a box of contraband cookies tucked under my arm. I don’t know what Layla would do if she found out I’m sneaking baked goods from Ms. Beatrice on the side, but it probably wouldn’t be pretty. I like my face the way it is. “The bed and breakfast was full and she didn’t have anywhere else to stay.”
Layla gives me a critical look, one eyebrow notched high on her forehead. “So you invited her to stay with you?”
“I did.”
“For how long?”
I shrug and pick at the wrapper on my second muffin. They have chocolate chips in them, like Layla somehow knew I’d need the extra strength today. “I have no idea. She said something about this trip not being planned.” I leave out the part where she talked about Lovelight being the last place she was happy. That feels private, and I don’t want to share things that belong to her. “Jenny is ringing the phone tree today to find her someplace to stay longer term, I think.”
I ignore the thrum of discomfort that settles in my shoulders at that. It feels the same as when there’s too much noise around me, my teeth clenching down around it. I don’t like the idea of her anywhere else, and I’m well aware that makes me a fucking idiot. A glutton for punishment, probably. She made her intentions very clear as far as our relationship is concerned. I can’t imagine roommates with her one-night stand was in her plan when she decided to come out here.
She could have texted me, though. Given me a heads up. Did she think she wouldn’t have to see me? Is that what she was hoping for? I frown.
Stella and Layla busy themselves with another silent conversation while I focus on eating the rest of my breakfast. I drink my coffee and try to put everything back in order within myself. My brain keeps skipping back to Evelyn collapsing backwards into the bed in the spare room, one of the pillows tumbling down by her legs. Comet nudging under her chin with her nose. It’s been playing on repeat in my mind all morning and it leaves me feeling like I’ve been kicked down a hill in a barrel. That exposed wire thing again, my hair standing on end.
“Beck?” Stella’s looking at me, face etched with worry and her palms cupped gently around her mug. There’s a pine tree hanging from her desk light, and she knocks it with her elbow when she ducks her head to get a better look at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I am. I’m fine. Evelyn in my space isn’t anything I can’t handle. If being here is going to help her figure out her next steps or whatever it is that she’s doing, then I can suck it up. It’ll probably be like last time, where we circle each other and then settle. Share a baked good and move on.
This doesn’t have to mean anything.
Layla plucks another muffin out of the tin and hands it to me.
“Here,” she says. “You look like you need it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVELYN
It’s so quiet on the other end of the phone, I check several times to see if Josie accidentally hung up on me. Silence is not what I expected when I delivered the news. In fact, I was bracing myself for the opposite. Extended, obnoxious laughter. A cackle or two. A screaming shriek.
“Josie?”
“You’re staying at his house?” Her voice is pitched low and for once, I can’t hear a single thing in the background. Josie is constant motion, often sounding like she’s at a train station instead of her house. Right now she sounds like she’s in a closet.
“Yeah, I’m staying at his house.” He left a key next to the coffee machine this morning. A note with surprisingly neat handwriting with the code to the garage door.
“Does he—” she breathes out a shaky exhale. “Does he only have one bed?”
“What?” I give the waitress at the cafe a small smile, nodding my thanks when she places my latte carefully on the table in front of me. She takes a step back, but keeps looking at me, an over-bright smile on her young face. I know this look. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. I give her a little wave and turn slightly in my seat, lowering my voice. “What are you talking about? No, he has at least two beds that I know of.”
Probably more. I wasn’t kidding when I said he could run a bed and breakfast on the side. The inside of his cabin is huge. Surprisingly comfortable. An entire collection of throw blankets and cozy looking pillows in his living room.
Josie continues to breathe heavily into the phone. “What does he wear to sleep in? Is it sweatpants? Are they gray?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Please just answer the question, Evie.”
“I have no idea what he wears to bed,” I answer as quietly as possible, conscious of the fact that I’m sitting smack dab in the middle of the cafe in a town that loves to gossip. I peek over my shoulder at the table behind me, two of Inglewild’s firefighters on what looks like their third plate of cinnamon rolls. “I didn’t kick in his door to look, Josie.”
“Maybe you should have,” she hisses. “Okay, but seriously though—“
I sigh in relief.
“—I need you to tell me in excruciating detail. What is Mr. Beckett looking like these days? You never did share a picture and you were annoyingly vague. Does he have scruff?”
“What has gotten into you?”
“This whole situation is bananas and I’m trying to capitalize on the benefits. Have you at least snooped through all of his belongings like a reasonable human being?”
“I have not, though I haven’t ruled it out for this evening.”
I did notice a couple things. What looked like a celestial map taped to the front of the fridge, a circle drawn in red over a cluster of little specks with a date and time scrawled above. The corner of the living room with three oversized, soft-looking cat beds, a tiny blanket on each. Five different types of ground coffee on the kitchen counter, all half-used and neatly rolled shut.
It wasn’t what I expected.
Though to be fair, I didn’t let myself expect anything out of Beckett. Besides my game of picturing him in random places, perplexed by mint green succulent vases and fruit arrangements, I hardly let myself consider him at all. Remembering is a slippery slope into wanting, and I’ve built too much for myself to get distracted by a gorgeous man with tattoos and very large hands.
I suppose that doesn’t matter much now, though. I’m one big ball of distraction.
“Have you checked your accounts yet?”
A spike of anxiety turns my palms hot. “No. How bad is it?”
I don’t think I’ve ever gone more than four hours without posting, a compulsion to always be one step ahead. Josie hums and I hear the click of a mouse as she does something on her computer. “Not bad. You are causing quite the stir though. I saw a couple blogs asking where you were. You have a whole Where in the World is Evelyn St. James thing going for you right now.”
“I’m sure Sway is pleased.”
“As much as they can be with their internet darling on lockdown.” She makes an interested sound under her breath, another couple of clicks. “I meant to tell you, I’m sorting through some of your inboxes while you’re out. It looks like Sway has been screening some messages. Do you plan on posting at all while you’re there, or is it a full blackout?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” This is supposed to be a step back from work. I’m not sure scrolling through my accounts and posting random content is going to help with the perspective I want to find. I don’t want to do anything until it feels good again.
But I have found myself itching to swipe open my camera. It’s a reflex, a habit formed over close to a decade of sharing my life with millions of strangers. I wanted to snap a picture when I opened the bedroom door this morning, all four cats sitting in a line, staring up at me with their tiny heads tilted in quiet consideration. When I stepped off the front porch, the sun a brilliant, beautiful orange in the sky, everything glowing at the edges. When I wandered down the narrow alley on my way here, floral vines criss-crossed back and forth between the buildings, a canopy of blossoming flowers and drifting petals. The scent of honeysuckle tickling my nose.
“You don’t have to do anything at all,” Josie tells me over the phone. “You’re on a break for a reason. I don’t even remember the last time you took a true vacation.”
“I know,” I smooth my thumb over the edge of the cup. “But maybe it would help if I tried just telling stories again. That’s how we started all of this, isn’t it?”
No pressure. No expectations. Just me, talking to people. Listening again.
“I don’t think it would hurt,” she offers. “But please give yourself a break. Drink a latte.” She pauses for a second. “Find out if the man owns gray sweatpants.”
A laugh bursts out of me and half of the people in the cafe turn to look. This feels normal, the attention from strangers. When I was younger, it was exciting. I remember the first time someone recognized me in public. I was at the grocery store examining oranges and a young woman with bright blue hair came up to me and asked if I was Evelyn St. James. She saw my video about the Bagby Hot Springs and took a trip with her friends. I remember being overwhelmed. Flattered. Exceedingly delighted.
Now though, the attention feels a bit like sun-warmed skin, just shy of a burn. A hot prickle of awareness and an itch that doesn’t feel right to scratch. My eyes snag on my waitress in the corner, huddled together with a table full of teenagers. Their gazes scatter as soon I make eye contact and I bite my bottom lip against a smile. I give them a little wave and they collapse into furious whispers. One brave girl with thick black glasses and her hair in braids waves back.
The bell above the door jingles and Jenny slips in, one of the flower petals from outside caught in her hair. I raise my hand to get her attention and start to shift my collection of plates around. I couldn’t decide what to order, so I got one of everything in the case. I might have to get up for another sausage and cream cheese biscuit.
I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear and move a bear claw to the corner of the table. I consider it briefly, and then take a bite. I’ve never met a pastry I didn’t love. “Gotta go, Jo.”
“I expect a picture in my inbox later.”
I snort a laugh. If I sent her a picture of Beckett, she’d be on the next flight to Maryland. “Sure, sure. Love you.”
“You too.”
Jenny raises both eyebrows as she slides into the seat across from me. I hand her a plate with a cranberry scone and she gives a happy little wiggle in her chair. “Boyfriend missing you?”
My lips twitch at the thinly-veiled fish for gossip. At least two heads tilt in our direction that I can see. I need to remember that there’s always someone listening in this town.
“Life partner,” I explain and Jenny eyeballs me as she breaks her scone in half. I don’t bother explaining. “Did you call around?”
She nods. “Haven’t been able to find anything, but it’s early. I’m sure something will turn up today.” She drags the tip of her finger along the edge of her plate, blonde hair half covering her face. She reminds me of my mom. Same lines by her eyes, same gentle smile.
Same inability to hide her duplicitous intentions.
“Did you happen to find a place to stay last night? I feel so terrible about what happened.”
I grin and tear off some cinnamon roll. The icing clings to my thumb. It tastes like sugar and small town gossip. “I’m sure you saw the whole thing from behind your desk, Jennifer Davis. Did you really call the phone tree this morning or are you scheming?”
She blinks twice, slow and steady. She then proceeds to stuff the rest of the scone into her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drop my chin in my hand. “Mmhmm.”
“I told you—”
“—the kite festival, yeah.” I haven’t seen a single person in this town with a kite.
“I’ll keep checking,” she mumbles around a mouthful of dense pastry and dried cranberry. I offer her the glass of water at my elbow, concerned about the compulsive way she keeps swallowing. She takes it with a shaky hand and downs the whole thing in two gulps. “You never know what might turn up.”
“Sure.”
“Betsey might have a lead on a studio apartment, but I think it’s above the mechanic station. Probably smells like oil.”
“Probably.”
“And I know the McGivens sometimes rent out their spare bedroom, but I think they’re hosting an … exchange student.”
“Makes sense.” It doesn’t make any sense.
“I’ll keep you updated though!” She slips from her seat and takes a step backwards, closer to the door. If I thought everyone was looking before, it’s nothing compared to the intense, avid attention we are attracting now. Two of the employees peer out from the back kitchen, watching the exchange. I think Gus, one of the firefighters, is recording the whole thing on his phone. Jenny laughs—a bright, unnatural thing. “Okay, bye!”
Her ponytail has hardly disappeared from view when a small but sturdy shadow appears over my shoulder.
“That woman is full of shit,” says Ms. Beatrice, her voice always softer and sweeter than I expect it to be. I heard rumors of her around town before I met her the first time. Things like:
Remember not to look her directly in the eye, and:
Do you think she’ll make anyone cry today?
So when I walked into the cafe and saw a small woman in a floral apron with her long hair pulled up in a loose gray bun, I was surprised.
Then I saw her throw an empty can of coffee at the Sheriff and things made a little more sense.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I think about Beckett standing in the door of his spare bedroom last night, his body all rigid lines with a frown twisted across his lips. He had looked about seven seconds away from climbing out the window. “I guess I’ll have to poke around myself. See if there is anywhere else to stay.”
The last thing I want to do is make Beckett uncomfortable in his own home.
“How long are you here for?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Ms. Beatrice hums, hands flexing on the back of the chair. She doesn’t wear any jewelry, but she does have a tiny tattoo of a songbird on the back of her hand, just above her wrist. I nod at it.
“That’s beautiful.” Delicate lines, a touch of red on outstretched wings. It looks like it’s about to fly up her arm and rest in the crook of her elbow.
She glances at it once, a smile flirting at her lips. “Nova did it.”
“Nova?”
“Beckett’s youngest sister.” I blink. I didn’t even know he had sisters. “I told her I wanted BOSS across both knuckles, but we settled on this instead.”
“Well,” I search for the right words. She would look pretty badass with knuckle tattoos, and the look on her face says she knows it. “Maybe you can convince her in the future.”
She nods, but doesn’t budge an inch. I raise an eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A slow smile creeps across her face.
“Since you’re asking …”
Ms. Beatrice wants an Instagram page.
She saw one of my posts featuring a coffee shop in North Carolina— rows and rows of coffee beans behind the counter and colorful ribbon hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that little shop had been like stepping inside a rainbow, Bob Marley on the speakers and sprinkles in my latte.
“That thing had over two-hundred thousand comments,” she says from the side of my table, shoving her phone in my face. “And the beans looked cheap.”
I don’t know what constitutes a cheap bean, but I indulge her. We snap a couple pictures of her behind the counter—a fierce look on her face in every single one—and set up her details. If the rainbow shop had an opposite, Ms. B’s would be it. But there’s a certain charm to it nonetheless. I apply a moody filter and smile at the result—a fierce woman holding a plate of scones, a steaming coffee pot at her elbow. She looks like something out of Goodfellas. Maybe she should get those knuckle tattoos after all.
“You know you can’t use this account to publicly shame people, right?”
A secret smile. “No promises.”
Gus and Monty corner me after that, asking if I can swing by the firehouse and help them with a video. Intrigued and amused, I can’t help but trail after them to the open bay doors, music spilling out from the back office. I proceed to watch them choreograph a surprisingly involved dance to Jennifer Lopez. Monty explains after with panting breaths that they’re trying to raise money for a new ambulance.
