“I left two moody kids at day care this morning after feeding and clothing them, administered six cuts, three highlights, and one perm, ran payroll so employees can eat, picked up, fed, and bathed said children, now highly energetic children I might add, and now stand before you a woman in need of a glass of wine.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Berta,” I said. “You take a seat and relax. I’ll get that wine. I know where it lives.”
She nodded numbly. “Bless you.”
I made my way to the wooden bar across the room and rested my forearms against the wood. Dave, the part-time bartender, part-time house painter, made his way over. “What can I get for you, Maggie?”
“A glass of your finest cabernet for a woman on the verge.”
He stared back apologetically. “We just have the one kind, so—”
“Sold.”
“Red wine, coming right up.” I watched as Dave poured the wine, something cheap from one of those huge bottles. “Saw you on Facebook earlier today. Didn’t look on the verge at all. In fact, you looked downright cozy. You got people cheering for you two.”
“No, the wine is for—what are you talking about, cheering for who?”
He took out his phone, scrolled a second, and slid it my way.
Right there in the middle of the screen was a photo of Courtney and me chatting at the café a few days back. She leaned in a little, and a soft smile played on her lips. My eyes drifted down to the caption: Will love burn bright again for former Tanner Peak sweethearts? My mouth fell open and I pointed to the screen. “This was a harmless business lunch! We’re friends, and barely that!”
Dave’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry.”
I continued to motion to the phone, as patrons turned their heads one by one in my direction. “The misuse of social media in this town is rampant! This kind of insinuation is silly, and people have too much time on their hands.”
He raised a worried eyebrow. “I’m not exactly sure what to do here.”
“You know what? Not your fault, Dave!” I handed back the phone, dropped a ten, and grabbed the wine.
“You really shouldn’t take it out on Dave, you know,” Berta said, when I returned to our table.
“You knew about this?”
She nodded. “Everyone’s seen it.”
“Everyone’s seen what?” Melanie asked, sliding onto a stool.
Berta turned to her. “The cozy café photo of Courtney and our own Margaret Beringer.”
“Ah, yes.”
I glared at her. “As one of the keepers of that site, you’re part of the problem.”
“Pshhh. No harm was done, and it’s all in good fun.” She glanced around the table. “What are we drinking? Red wine for Berta and the blood of social media vixens for Maggie? Perfect. I’ll secure myself a little drinky-drink. Be right back, girls.”
I watched her go. “Sometimes I feel like she hasn’t changed a whole hell of a lot since high school.”
“You’re forgetting how awful she was.” She shuddered.
“Good point.” I turned back to my beer, and Berta squeezed my forearm.
“Incoming at two o’clock.”
“Ow!” I grimaced at her. “Your mommy grip is on point.”
“Just giving you a heads-up.”
Curious, I glanced over my shoulder to see Courtney grace the doorway of the bar. Courtney in faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. She made that outfit take on new meaning. Berta and I watched as she headed in the direction of the bar, nodding hello to the folks she knew as she went. Well, wasn’t that just par for the course? I turned back to Berta, over it. “She wants a drink. Free country.”
“She’s talking to Melanie,” Berta said, narrating. “Melanie’s glancing at us. Now Courtney is. Now Courtney is waving.” She raised her hand, and her lips barely moving. “I’m waving back.”
“You should be a sportscaster,” I told her and took another sip of my beer. “A ventriloquist one.”
“Okay, Melanie has a drink. Now Courtney has a drink. They’re chatting some more, and Courtney is laughing. Oh.” She paused and an idea seemed to hit her. “You don’t think Melanie likes Courtney, do you?”
“While I feel like that question takes me back to seventh grade, no, that would be crazy.”
“Mel keeps touching her briefly and then pulling her hand away.”
I narrowed my gaze, beer frozen midway to my mouth. “Short little touches?”
Berta pointed at me. “Exactly like that.”
This was serious.
I sat up straighter and turned around—intrigued or annoyed, the jury was still out on which. Well, call me Betsy Ross. Berta was right. Melanie was on Courtney like wool on a sheep, and whether it should have or not, it dug at me. “Well, that’s new.”
“Are you annoyed?” Berta asked, lowering her voice. “I would be. Isn’t that breaking some sort of code?”
I swallowed it back. “Nope. All is well.”
“Good, because I hate to break it to you, but they’re coming over.” Berta broke into a radiant smile and straightened.
I too sat taller. “My lucky day.”
“Would you look who I found lurking all alone at the bar?” Melanie cooed.
I smiled. “The star of Facebook herself.” Courtney shot me a questioning look, but I waved it off. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“We hear you’ve been hunting for a rental,” Berta said.
“True,” Courtney said. “Unfortunately, we’ve come up short so far.”
Melanie placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. The star Realtor of Tanner Peak won’t let you down.”
Courtney met my gaze. “I have every confidence in her.”
I nodded my thanks and glanced around. Was it warm in here? Because it felt a little warm in here. We drank and talked and drank a little bit more. I bought the second round. Berta regaled us with stories from the Travis trenches including how hot he looked in nothing but a towel, but how she wanted to murder him with it once he left it on the bathroom floor for the fiftieth time. “Such is marriage,” she said. “You take the good with the bad.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Melanie shook her head. “Haven’t met the one who will make me forgive the towel on the floor. I still want to murder them.”
I felt Courtney’s eyes on me. I turned just in time to see her glance away and down. She stared into her glass, seemingly lost in thought.
“What about you, Courtney?” Berta asked. With two glasses of wine to bolster her courage, she went for it. “You gave the whole marriage train a whirl.”
“And survived,” she said, raising her glass.
“Any towel throwing?” Berta asked.
“Strangely, no. Nate was neat. Tidy. Almost too tidy.”
“Boring?” Melanie asked, as if it were the cardinal sin of life.
Courtney considered the question. “Not boring. Just nice. Nate was extra nice.”
“To Nate the nice guy!” Melanie said. And we drank. Courtney’s eyes shifted to me again, and when I met them, there was that spark, and the hint of a shiver. No one had made me shiver like that but Courtney.
Melanie stood. “Next round is on me.”
“Oh, no,” Berta said. “Two is my limit. Kiddos are at home zonked and I don’t want to keep Travis up late waiting on me. He can’t sleep until he knows I’m safe somewhere.”
I smiled at the sentiment. “You’ve got yourself a good one.”
She nodded. “I’m lucky. I’ll sit with you guys for a little bit, though.”
“I’m good on drinks, too,” I told them. “But you guys go ahead.”
And they did. After their third drink and with a fourth in hand, Melanie and Courtney were bonding over just about everything in a past-the-point-of-tipsy laugh fest. “Do you think Dave would look good in suspenders? Like one of those little garden gnomes my neighbors had growing up?” Courtney asked.
“Yes!” Melanie pointed at her. “He so needs a
little pointy hat.”
“Pointy little hat,” Courtney whispered.
“And knickers!” Melanie shouted. I placed a hand over hers to quiet her, as even the regular drinkers were shooting us looks.
“On that very amusing note,” Berta said, and pushed herself up from the table, “I’m gonna head home, and take this one with me.” She placed an arm around Melanie’s shoulders.
“Me?” Melanie asked, overly flattered.
“You. Come on. You’re on my way. I can drop you. You guys leaving, too?” Berta looked from Courtney to me.
“Soon,” Courtney said. I offered Berta an I’ve-got-this wave and a nod.
“You sure?” she mouthed.
I nodded and watched as Berta followed behind Melanie, stopping her when she tried to readjust Russ Fielding’s baseball cap. “Maybe don’t touch people,” I heard Berta say.
“All right, McDrunkerson,” I said, turning back to Courtney. “Finish that drink so we can get you home. Or, you know, don’t finish it. That might be smarter for your day tomorrow. Cut back on the hangover quotient.”
“Can I ask you a question?” She set her cocktail down.
“Sure.”
“Why are you still so sexy after all this time?” She shook her head. “I needed you not to be Maggie when I got back to town.”
“Um. I don’t know how to respond to that. I’m still me.”
She sat back and closed her eyes “Trust me. I know. It sucks, because you are the one person I cannot get caught up with.”
“I hear ya.” I stole a sip from her glass because I needed it.
She sighed in that overexaggerated way drunk people do. “Do you hate me?”
I shook my head. “I don’t hate you. And I’ve tried to, believe me.”
“I tried to hate you, too, to run as far away from you as I possibly could.”
“Yet here you sit.” I couldn’t help but smile at the irony.
“I better head home. That stupid dimple is about to do me in.” She stood and took a moment to get her balance, clearly righting herself. That decided it.
“I’m going to drive you.”
“We’ve been drinking. We should walk.”
“You’ve been drinking. I quit a while ago.”
“Fine. We’ll take your Maggie car. Good night, Mr. Garden Gnome.”
Dave raised an unsure hand as we passed.
“Good night, Dave. Sorry for yelling at you earlier.”
“No apologies needed, Maggie.”
Courtney waved it off. “Gnomes are friendly. He’s fine.”
I turned back to the bar and addressed the five remaining individuals. “No one put this on Facebook, you hear me?”
I was met with tipsy little answers like, “Better get that girl home, Maggie,” and “You two enjoy yourselves.” I rolled my eyes and followed a very intoxicated version of Courtney into the parking lot.
“They think we’re going to sleep together?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Listen, there are worse things that could happen to me.” She laughed and put her arm around me. Even flat drunk, she was still over-the-top attractive, and when she looked at me, the smile dimmed from her face. “You ripped my heart out once.”
“Yeah, well, right back at you.” I opened the passenger door to my car and waited as she climbed inside, and then made my way to the driver’s seat.
“What does that mean, I ripped your heart out?” she asked. I could see her working to understand.
Oh, hell, why not go there? Wasn’t like she’d remember much of this tomorrow anyway. I leaned back against the seat and turned my head to her. “I was packing for Chicago when I saw the newspaper and your wedding photo.”
She blinked several times. “No, you weren’t. You weren’t packing for Chicago.”
“You know what? It doesn’t matter now.”
We drove to the bed-and-breakfast in silence and I walked her up the quaint brick path to the pale blue door. “You going to be okay?” I asked. She nodded and pulled me into a hug. Because it was clearly motivated by alcohol, I didn’t fight her.
“You may hate me, but it’s really good to see you,” she whispered.
I held her, my face pressed into her hair with the cool night air wrapping around us. I wanted to hate her, and though I still carried a lot of hurt with me from all those years back, hating Courtney was near impossible. As I held her, something squeezed in my chest as I inhaled the vanilla that would only ever remind me of one person.
She released me wordlessly, met my eyes for a long moment, and went inside the house.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr. Noriander wore extra-short golfing shorts and a purple argyle sweater vest as he waited outside my office for me the next morning, tapping his toe.
“Maggie, you’re here. Thank God.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Sometimes you’re off gallivanting on that berry farm.”
“That’s true. Though gallivanting might be a strong word.” I flipped through my keys in search of the one to my office. “Something wrong, Mr. Noriander?”
“Well, I have an important appointment to get to but wanted to stop off first to tell you about what I decided.”
“And what have you decided?”
He followed me inside, hot on my heels. “I’d like a three-bedroom now, because if I’m gonna have a girlfriend, I’ll need extra space for my stuff. A man cave.”
I turned to him in amusement. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“Well, not yet. But I’ve decided to get one. A sweet one, who doesn’t nag. And not one of those trashy sixty-somethings either, but someone my own age. Seventy or over.”
“Got it. A three-bedroom house with a red door suitable for two people in their seventies.”
“Do you know anyone?” he asked.
I smiled and placed a hand on my hip. “You want me to find you a house and a girlfriend?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
I laughed. “You have a lot of faith in me.”
“Everyone says you’re good at your job,” he said, raising his palms.
“Well, no one comes to mind at the moment, but I’ll give it some thought.”
“Have you met Netta Carrington?” Courtney said, as she entered the office. Our heads swiveled in her direction.
Mr. Noriander walked to her eagerly. “Oh, she’s a looker. Kind, too.”
“She is both of those things,” Courtney told him.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea at all,” I told Mr. Noriander. “You should call her up. See if she wants to have coffee with you.”
“No, no.” He waved off the idea. “I’m bad on the phone. I stammer when I can’t see a person. I need the eye contact.”
Courtney considered this. “She plays senior bunco at the recreation center on Thursdays. You could talk with her there. Get in some eye contact.”
“Thursdays.” He grabbed a pen and a sticky note from my desk and scrawled the word. “Your Facebook buddy has been very helpful,” he said to me, and hooked a thumb at Courtney, who shrugged and looked skyward in feigned modesty. “Keep looking for that red door!” he called out as he left.
Once we were alone, I took a seat behind my desk and looked up at Courtney in amusement. “So how are you feeling today?”
She widened her eyes and shook her head. “I’ve been better.”
My smile grew. “I thought that might be the case. No buttery pancakes and heavy metal, then?”
“Please. No more talk of food. I beg you.”
I folded my hands on my desk. “I can’t make any promises.”
“You seem to be enjoying my pain.”
“Not at all,” I said, shrugging. “But the bar sure enjoyed you last night.”
She covered her face with her hand. “I didn’t sing, did I?”
“You did not, sadly.”
“Oh, not sadly at all. Trust me on that one.
”
“You did, however, harass poor Dave. If he has a garden gnome complex because of you, it’s only right to chip in for therapy.”
“Duly noted.” She leaned against the doorjamb. “I’ll start penning my apology letter later this morning, which brings me to the first reason I’m here.”
“To apologize to Dave?”
“No.” She smiled and took a moment. “To you first. You had to take me home last night because I was an idiot, and that was thoughtless of me. So this is my official ‘I’m sorry and thank you’ all rolled into one.”
“No apology necessary. It’s what anyone would have done. What’s part two?”
Courtney took a seat. “Getting a little antsy at the B-and-B and wondered if you’d perhaps heard back on that pocket listing.”
“In fact, I have. I got a voice mail from the listing agent in Helford.” I glanced at her. “That’s one town over. He says we’re welcome to take a look.”
“Great. When can we do that?”
I flipped through my planner. “How about next week? Friday afternoon?”
She grinned. “I’ll clear my schedule.”
*
A few days later, with my highlighted book in hand, I hopped into Melanie’s Jeep Cherokee and we drove to Stoneyton, a half hour from Tanner Peak. More specifically, we set off for Micki Manning’s house and our monthly book club gathering. Micki Manning was our dedicated leader, who Mel and I had secretly dubbed “Micki Mantle” because of her obsession with baseball and everything related to it. To her credit, Micki Mantle often volunteered her rather large and baseball-themed home as our group’s regular gathering spot. She was good people.
Tonight’s meeting began as all of our book club meetings seemed to, with Debbie, Monica, the two Jennifers, Donna, Melanie, me, and of course, Micki Mantle, who wore a Padres jersey and sneakers, all gathered in the living room (under the scoreboard), snacking and sipping wine.
“So there’s a well,” Melanie said dramatically to kick off our book club discussion. I smiled because I was pretty confident that, in typical Melanie form, she hadn’t come close to reading the book. It was one of her standard tactics of deflection. If she offered up the first comment of the discussion (that generally said nothing about the book in any real depth), no one would notice when she failed to contribute further and instead nodded and smiled in all the right places. Her technique had to be commended. Flawless execution.
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