by Eden Darry
Dana nodded and sipped her beer. She turned her attention back to the game on the screen above the bar. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s been pretty bad this last week. So dark and cold for this time of year. Days seem shorter right now. Weird.”
And she was right, Meg thought. The sun hadn’t come out for a week it seemed, and the nights came in earlier than they should this time of year. Probably global warming or something. Meg grabbed a bunch of glasses off the bar and put them in the dishwasher. The weather reminded her of winter in London. She smiled. That was a fun year. Well, almost year.
Just like it always did when she thought of London, Meg’s mind went to Lane. She’d been fun too. Not someone Meg would date seriously, but she was hot and really sweet. Lane was also childish and aimless with way too much money. Long-term, she would have driven Meg crazy. Meg still thought about her, though, and she wondered about that. What they’d had certainly wasn’t some great love affair, but Lane had stuck in Meg’s mind. Which was stupid. They were a horrible match. So why couldn’t Meg put Lane out of her mind? Especially when Lane had probably forgotten all about her.
When Meg broke it off, Lane hadn’t seemed bothered at all. Truth be told, it stung Meg’s ego just a little. It was for the best, though. Meg was always going to come back to the United States, and it wasn’t as if she and Lane had been going anywhere in a romantic sense. Even if she had thought about them being more, the way Lane accepted Meg finishing things between them told Meg everything she needed to know about how Lane saw their relationship.
Meg had never been one for relationships anyway. She’d dated on and off over the years, but the idea of settling down hadn’t ever been in the forefront of her mind. She wondered if there was something wrong with her, or if she just hadn’t met the right woman yet.
Even if briefly, Meg wondered whether Lane could be that person.
When they’d met, something sparked inside her. A tiny flame caught. But then she got to know Lane a little better and realized they weren’t well suited at all. So she’d squashed the flame and concentrated on having a good time instead. Although sometimes, when they were curled up on the couch, Meg had let herself daydream about herself and Lane as something more.
But that was stupid. Just a daydream. Lane had been a lot of fun. She’d made Meg feel lighter. Probably because she was such a damn child. And boy had she made Meg laugh. But Lane had shown clearly that she wasn’t cut out for anything more.
* * *
“What do you get if you cross a joke and a rhetorical question?”
Meg and Lane were still lying in bed at three p.m., and Meg didn’t feel even a little bad about it. This was new for her. She wasn’t used to being so lazy.
Meg rolled over and faced Lane. “I don’t know. What do you get if you cross a joke and a rhetorical question?” she asked.
Lane stayed silent, grinned at Meg, and wiggled her eyebrows.
“What? Oh. That’s a stupid joke.” Meg laughed. “Where do you get them?”
“You don’t like my jokes?” Lane made a sad face.
“You know I don’t.” Meg poked her in the side and moved closer. “I put up with them because you’re great in bed. Most of the time, I just tune you out.”
Lane burst out laughing. “That’s really mean. I feel used.”
“You should feel used,” Meg joked and tilted her head for a kiss.
Lane obliged. Meg sighed at the feel of Lane’s soft lips against hers. She really was a great kisser. And Meg was having a great day. “I like you, Lane.” The words came out before she could stop them.
Lane gripped Meg’s chin gently and kissed the corner of her mouth. “I like you too. Very much.”
“I think we should stay here, in this bed, forever.” Meg knew she couldn’t and probably wouldn’t want to, but right now, everything seemed so perfect. She didn’t want it to end.
* * *
“Meg? Hey, Meg.”
Meg was jolted back to the present. “Sorry, Wendy, I was totally in my own world.”
“Don’t worry about it, honey. You must be exhausted. You were working when I came in here at lunch.”
Wendy Moon was the local historian and owned a souvenir store on Whalers Wharf. It mostly sold knock-off Viking artifacts that didn’t seem to have much to do with Provincetown, but Wendy made it work. Meg was pretty sure she was a professor of something, but she couldn’t remember what. “We’re short-staffed right now, and it’s good money, so I don’t mind. What can I get you?”
“White wine please. Joanne still out sick?”
Meg nodded. “Three days now. Must be pretty bad because she never calls in sick. She needs the money. I don’t know how she does it. Working construction during the day and here at night.”
“She works hard, for sure. I guess she needs to with a little girl to feed. Is she sick too?”
“Lois? Why would she be sick? Joanne cut herself. I think Lois is fine.” Strange question, but then Wendy could be a little odd. Meg put the large glass of Pinot on the bar in front of her.
“Well that’s good. Have you been over to the exhibition yet? At the library?”
Meg remembered Wendy was in charge of the Viking stuff they’d found in the foundations up on Winthrop. She hadn’t paid much attention to that whole fuss—she’d been so busy here. “I haven’t yet, Wendy. But I promise I will soon.”
“You’d better hurry because they’re going off to Boston in three days.” Wendy frowned. “Pretty sure that’s the last we’ll ever see of it. It’s not right, you know. That find belongs to Provincetown.”
In all honesty, looking at a bunch of Viking knives and jewellery wasn’t really Meg’s idea of a great time, but Wendy was so excited about it. “I promise I’ll go day after tomorrow when I’m off. How’s that?”
Wendy smiled and raised her glass to Meg. “Perfect. If you give me a time, I’ll meet you down there and show you around.”
Meg groaned inwardly. “I’ll text you when I know my schedule, okay?”
“Okay, honey.”
With Wendy appeased, Meg set about getting the bar ready to close down. It was still early, but the customers would start going home soon. If she could get everything done by closing, she’d have a shot at getting home before the sun came up—not that there was any sun to be had in Provincetown right now.
She paused at the table in the corner. Carl Winters always sat in the same place most nights when he had a few bucks. Meg knew he didn’t have a place to live, and he’d always make his one drink last all night. Meg didn’t mind. She let him stay just as long as he wanted. Better here in the warm than out there.
“Hey, Carl,” she said, picking up his empty glass.
“Evening, Meg,” he replied.
“This done?”
“Sure. I’ll get out of your hair.” He stood to leave, just as he did every time.
“You feel like sticking around? I was going to have a burger before I headed home and wouldn’t mind some company,” Meg said.
They did this most nights too. Meg was dog-tired and wanted nothing more than her bed, but at least she had a bed. From what she could tell, Carl had his car—which he slept in—and not much else.
“Oh, you must be beat, and I don’t want to keep you,” Carl said.
“You’d be doing me a favour. I have to toss the food tonight anyway. We’d stop it going to waste,” Meg said, sticking to her part of the script.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“Give me fifteen minutes to clear up, and I’ll get the burgers on the grill,” Meg said.
“Let me help you close up. Least I can do,” Carl said.
Meg patted his shoulder. “That would be great, thanks.” And tonight more than most nights, she meant it. She’d put the money for their food in the register tomorrow.
Chapter Two
Lane stepped out of the terminal into the crisp morning air, and being this close to the ocean, it smelled clean and salty. Lane took in lungfuls of i
t. It definitely beat the stale, pressurized air on the two planes she’d had to take to get here.
Lane had called a cab from the tiny Provincetown airport. It was the strangest airport she’d ever been in. Literally one room with a vast collection of snow globes on the only counter in the place.
And the plane ride over here from Boston had been something else. Lane didn’t consider herself a bad flyer, but that plane was small and loud and looked like it might drop out of the sky any minute and plummet to the earth in a fiery ball of regret and bad life choices.
Fortunately, the plane was in good condition, the pilot experienced and friendly, and so she was still alive.
She had managed to get a room in town thanks to a last-minute cancellation. She’d had no idea Provincetown was such a popular destination, though she had to admit that she hadn’t researched it at all. She was here because Meg was. She’d get her back and head home to London with Meg. Or if Meg wanted to stay in the US, they’d find a way to do that.
Lane’s attention was drawn to the sound of an engine. It was coming closer and getting louder. Slightly alarmed, she wondered what on earth could make such a noise.
Then she saw it. It was painted all the colours of the rainbow and maybe even some that had never been seen before. The car was splattered in mud and was adorned with various bumper stickers saying things like Fenway Forever, Two words, One finger, and Lane’s personal favourite I don’t like you. The monstrosity did not look the slightest bit roadworthy. Lane squinted. Did the car really have a fluffy pink steering wheel?
The vehicle pulled up beside her, and the driver’s window rolled down slowly. “Boyd?” a voice from inside asked.
She dragged her suitcase over. “Are you here for me?” Please God this wasn’t her cab.
A woman in her late fifties stuck her head out the window and scowled at Lane. “I don’t know. Are you Lane Boyd?”
“I am.”
“Then yes, I’m here for you. Name’s Cab, Dolores Cab.” The woman rolled her window back up and stared straight ahead. There was a click, and the car’s boot popped open. Lane guessed she wouldn’t be getting any help with her bag from Dolores Cab.
She dumped it in the boot and climbed in the back seat. “I’m going to the Monument Bed and Breakfast. Do you know it?” Lane asked.
The woman stared at her in the rear-view mirror. “Yeah, I know it. Belt up.”
With that, Dolores stuck the car into drive and tore out of the car park going what had to be well over the speed limit. Lane was thrown back against the seat. “You’ve lived here long?” Lane searched around for conversation as she tried to steady herself.
“You want to talk the whole way there? Because that’ll cost extra,” Dolores snapped.
Lane sighed and closed her eyes.
It took less than ten minutes to get to the bed and breakfast—which made sense because they drove there at about forty miles an hour. Dolores had not taken one turn she’d felt required her foot to leave the accelerator. Lane imagined there was a dent from where Dolores kept it permanently pressed to the floor.
Lane shot out of the cab, grabbed her bag, and just about managed to shut the boot before Dolores revved then roared out of the little car park, spraying Lane with gravel.
Lane shook her head.
“Oh, dear, you took Dolores Cab.”
Lane spun round at the voice. “There was a card at the airport. I had no idea she would be deranged.”
A woman stood on the doorstep of the Beacon looking like she wanted to laugh. “Dolores isn’t dangerous, don’t worry. Eccentric, perhaps.”
“She’s not at all friendly. Is she even licensed?” Lane dragged her suitcase up the small set of steps.
“In answer to both your questions, absolutely not,” the woman said. “I’m Ella—I own the Beacon.”
“Lane Boyd. You’re English.”
“I am. I moved here about ten years ago. Come inside—it’s freezing this morning.”
Lane followed Ella inside. “Is it always so overcast?”
“No, the weather’s been particularly bad the last week or so. Tea? Coffee?” Ella asked.
“No, thank you. I’d just like to go to my room and recover from Dolores Cab.” Lane grinned.
Ella laughed. “I don’t blame you. When you are recovered, there’s tea and coffee in the kitchen. We put out bread and pastries for breakfast as well, so help yourself.”
“Thank you.”
Lane followed Ella up a narrow set of stairs to the first floor—wait, second floor. The place was nice. Homey. Not exactly what she was used to, but it was clean and central, and she didn’t plan on staying long. Just long enough to get Meg back.
* * *
Meg rolled over and opened her eyes. She silenced the alarm on her phone. It took her a minute to work out where she was. Home. Couch. Shit, she didn’t even get to drink her tea, and the TV turned itself off hours ago. She sat up and shook out the crick in her neck. She really had to stop doing this. Her neck would ache all day and bring on a headache that aspirin wouldn’t touch. Shit.
And why was she awake so early? Who set their alarm for eight a.m. when they only got home at three a.m.? Oh, right. Joanne. After the conversation with Wendy last night, Meg wanted to drop by and see if she needed anything. And to find out when she’d be back at work. Despite the extra money, the long hours were kicking Meg’s ass.
She yawned wide enough to crack her jaw and went into the kitchen. Goddammit, no coffee. She’d forgotten to go to the store. Which meant she also had no bread for toast. She rifled around the cabinets hoping for something. Maybe a bagel she’d forgotten about, a spoonful of coffee at the bottom of a packet she’d pushed to the back of the shelf.
But no. Nothing. Meg didn’t forget about food or open a new packet before the old one was finished. That behaviour was ingrained in her from a lifetime of being broke. She’d grown up poor, and because she’d spent so long saving for her dreams—the year in London, her own bar—she lived as frugally as possible. She rarely ate out or went to the movies unless it was on a date. And she hadn’t been on a date in months.
Even in London she’d gotten most places on foot and made the most of the free museums and galleries. Well, until Lane. But Lane was generous—too generous sometimes, and it made Meg uncomfortable. Sure, Lane had a ton of family money, but Meg liked to pay her own way. She didn’t want anyone saying she didn’t. Another hangover from growing up poor, she guessed. Always feeling less than everyone else because they could afford stuff her mother couldn’t. New sneakers, class trips, vacations.
Meg loved her mother and admired her. She’d brought up four kids by herself and worked two jobs. She’d never taken a handout in her life, and Meg respected that. Her mother was her hero. Speaking of which, she should call her later. Meg tried to remember the last time she’d spoken to her mother. Last week? The week before? The fact she couldn’t remember wasn’t good.
First things first, though. She needed to check in on Joanne and go to the store. And they were in opposite directions. And she had to be at work at eleven a.m. Maybe this one time she could treat herself to coffee and a muffin at the Wired Puppy. The hours she was working, she deserved a treat.
Meg jumped in the shower and cranked up the cold water to try to wake herself up.
* * *
Lane took a left at the top of Winthrop Street like Ella told her. Construction machinery sat idly by. Lane remembered—this was where they found that Viking crap. Maybe they’d been forced to stop work.
She had to hand it to Provincetown. It was a beautiful place. Like a lot of Brits, she’d grown up watching American films, and Provincetown was the epitome of what she thought a small New England town in America should look like. It was perfect. Most of the clapboard houses were freshly painted with bright coloured trim. Front gardens overflowed with flowers, and shop signs were hand painted and swung from chains above the doors.
Ella warned her the Wired Puppy did grea
t coffee but was a fair old walk from the Beacon. Lane decided to see how far she got. From the looks of things, there were tons of places to have breakfast. Plus, she needed to wake herself up, and a walk would do her good even if the weather was miserable.
If she was honest with herself, Lane was also hoping to run into Meg. The town was small, so it wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility. And a chance meeting would be better than asking around about Meg like some kind of stalker.
When Meg dumped her, Lane deleted her number and all the messages between them. In hindsight, that had been a mistake because now she’d have to try and find her instead of just texting.
Lane only hoped that if she did run into her in the centre of town, Meg would be alone. Lane hadn’t really thought about what she’d do if Meg had met someone new. Every time that particular little nugget popped into her brain, she booted it right back out again.
Lane tried not to think about the last time she saw Meg. She knew things weren’t going great—Meg was distant and making more and more excuses not to see her. A small part of her had known that when Meg told her they needed to talk, it wouldn’t be about anything good. Still, Meg actually saying the words had hit her in the gut and taken her breath away.
* * *
“Can I get you a drink?” Lane asked. Meg had asked to meet her in a pub by the river near Meg’s flat.
“No, I’ll get them,” Meg said.
They stood awkwardly at the bar together, not speaking. Lane knew something was up for sure now. On the way over, she’d half convinced herself it was nothing, that she was imagining it. But seeing Meg’s unsmiling face and guarded eyes told Lane all she needed to know. She was about to get dumped.
Lane followed Meg to a table. “Is everything okay, Meg?” Lane knew it wasn’t.
“We need to talk.” Meg took a deep breath. She wouldn’t meet Lane’s eyes.
“Uh-oh. Nothing good ever followed those words.” Lane tried to joke but her stomach was in knots.
