More Than This

by Stephanie Taylor

  And Millie does need them. She’s all but fallen apart at the sudden loss of her husband, and her ability to take on even the most basic tasks has faltered. Fiona and Calista are tag-teaming in order to make sure that someone is always with her or in close proximity, and Fiona has offered to write her a scrip for sleeping pills if she needs them.

  “I’m fine, girls,” Millie says tiredly, her eyes telling them that she’s anything but. “It just takes time to get over the shock. Wait—how much time does it take?” She turns to Fiona, obviously hoping that her medical expertise extends to matters of the heart.

  “I don’t know, Millie,” Fiona says honestly. “Everyone is different. The symptoms of emotional shock can vary in each person, but a psychological trauma can be really overwhelming.”

  “We need you to lean on us, okay?” Calista bends forward in her chair to look Millie in the eye. “However long this takes. In fact, if you need me to stay here at night for a while so that you aren’t alone, I’m happy to leave my mother-in-law in charge of the boys,” she offers.

  Fiona throws her a look. Calista’s made no secret around the island that adjusting to Idora-ble the Horrible being in her home has been a less than smooth transition. But her offer to stay with Millie is sincere—if a little self-serving—and so Fiona merely gives her a flicker of exasperation when their eyes meet.

  “I think I’m okay,” Millie says slowly. “I like having you ladies around—and everyone else, too—but at some point I’m going to have to figure out how to do this alone.” She pushes herself up from the couch and stands in the middle of her living room, looking around. Everywhere are signs and reminders of Ray. His favorite chair with the impression of his large frame pressed into the cushions; the remote on the coffee table that he always seemed to clutch as he dozed in front of the television; the curtains he’d lovingly hung for her as she’d stood in the middle of the room, directing his every move. A sob escapes her.

  “Oh, Millie,” Calista says, opening her arms to wrap her friend in a tight embrace. “What can we do?” The question is almost rhetorical, as they all know that there’s nothing to be done. Nothing, really, that will quell the pain of losing the man she’s spent forty-two years sleeping beside. Nothing that will ease the heartache of realizing over and over again each day that he’s gone. Nothing that will bring Ray back.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Millie says, giving Calista a firm hug and releasing her. She wipes at her eyes and shakes her head. The gold hoops she always wears sway on her lobes. “I need to ride the waves of emotion and also start being practical at the same time.”

  “Don’t force yourself into practicality too soon,” Fiona says. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll deal with the practical.”

  “You’ve all been so kind to help me with phone calls and arrangements,” Millie says, holding out a hand to each of the women. They take her hands in theirs. “But I still have a business to run. I can’t just let the salon go—Ray helped me to make that happen. He wouldn’t want me to curl up in a ball and just give up.”

  Calista tugs on Millie’s hand. “No one is expecting you to give it up, but no one is expecting you to get over there and open up for manicures and mustache trims, either. Give this time, Mill. Honestly.”

  “Calista is right,” Fiona agrees. “The business isn’t going anywhere. I’m sure you and Holly can work out the financial details of the space and all of that…” Fiona’s voice trails off as she notices Millie’s face crumpling. “Oh, Millie—no,” she begs. “I’m so sorry. Was that too much practicality all at once?” Fiona puts a hand over her mouth in horror—she had no intention of bringing Millie to tears.

  “No, no, no,” Millie waves a hand at her. “It’s just that Ray dealt with all the business stuff and I got to have fun with the salon itself. Now I need to figure out how to do it all.”

  “Okay, let’s worry about that later. I promise I won’t bring it up again, but let’s just agree to table all of the details until Holly gets back, okay?”

  “Oh!” Millie says urgently. “Holly! We can’t have the service until Holly gets back.”

  Fiona and Calista exchange a look. They still have about ten days until Holly’s return, and the general consensus on the island is that the service for Ray should happen sooner rather than later.

  “You want to wait until the first week of June?” Fiona asks gently.

  “I…I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, we can’t do this without Holly—that would be wrong.” Millie’s eyes well up with unshed tears. Holly being gone is just one more thing to handle, and at the moment, it seems like it’s the straw that’s threatening to break the camel’s back.

  “Let’s talk about the date later,” Calista says soothingly, slipping an arm around Millie’s shoulders. “Why don’t we go take a walk on the beach or something?”

  “We could do that,” Millie agrees. “Just to get out of the house.”

  “Okay, why don’t you two do that and I’ll check in with Bonnie and see if she’s heard anything from Holly lately.” Fiona picks up her purse from the couch and slips the strap over one shoulder.

  The women agree to touch bases later, and Fiona heads toward Main Street in her golf cart, her thoughts on the memorial service and the things that need to be accomplished in order to pull off the type of ceremony Ray deserves.

  At the corner of Main Street and Holly Lane Fiona nearly plows into Coco, who is standing in the middle of the street with her phone held in the air. Fiona skids to a stop, her tires grinding against sand at the spot where the paved road of Main Street meets unpaved Holly Lane.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she shouts, putting her cart in park and climbing out. The sun is bright, and the glare has nearly blocked her view of Coco.

  Coco puts the phone down with annoyance. “I was videotaping.”

  “Videotaping your own demise?” Fiona is several inches shorter than both Holly and her mother, but that doesn’t stop her from squaring up to Coco like she’s got the goods to back it up. “Listen,” Fiona says. “We’ve got a lot going on around here and a memorial to plan. I get that you’re going to stay at Holly’s until she gets back, but I think the less people see of you, the better.”

  “Let’s hear how you really feel, Dr. Potts,” Coco says drily.

  “I’m not going to mince words with you.” Fiona lifts her chin, flipping her long, wavy hair over one freckled shoulder. “I know your plan is to just stick around and grind us all down to the point that we give in and do what you want, but you have to know Holly well enough to know that that’ll never work with her.”

  Coco shrugs and holds her phone up again. She taps the screen to start videotaping. “This is the corner of Holly Lane and Main Street, which is ripe for development. If you continue on down Holly Lane, there’s plenty of room to add a two or three story apartment complex, which could house casino workers on a temporary or permanent basis,” she says to an unseen audience. “I think this is a solid answer to the issue of where the influx of residents would live.”

  “Coco,” Fiona says loudly, interrupting the video. “What are you doing?”

  Coco steps around the cart that Fiona’s left parked in the middle of the road, walking down Holly Lane toward the Jingle Bell Bistro. “I’m making a video to send to other potential investors,” she says breezily, not pausing to turn back. “And if we head down Holly Lane, I think there’s the potential to add a small store and maybe another business or two to support the needs of our new residents…”

  Fiona watches in awe as Coco’s toned backside sways in her yellow shorts. She points her phone’s camera at sand dunes and undeveloped plots of land, explaining her vision for the island to the Killjoys or to whomever else she might be trying to sell off her chunk of paradise.

  With a shake of her head, Fiona climbs back into her cart and drives on, parking on the street right in front of Poinsettia Plaza. It’s Sunday and she doesn’t normally open her office unless someone
needs to be seen urgently, but it seems like the only place to go and think without the distractions of being at home or sitting with Buckhunter at Jack Frosty’s.

  Fiona is sitting at her computer with the blinds drawn, splitting her time between updating her notes on the past week’s visits with patients and putting together a timeline for Ray’s memorial service. From the notes she’s got to write up about the small lump she’s found in Maria Agnelli’s left breast, to the considerations of how best to give a proper send off for a friend and neighbor, the darkened office seems like the appropriate place to hide out from the piercingly joyful afternoon sunshine.

  She’s been lost in her tasks for almost two hours when the cell phone on her desk rings. It’s an unfamiliar number and area code, but Fiona answers anyway, thinking it might be one of the many friends or family members she’s left messages for calling her back about Ray and Millie.

  “Hello?” she says, sliding off her reading glasses and setting them on the keyboard of her laptop.

  “Fee?”

  “Hol?” Fiona stands up, shoving her chair back with her legs as she does. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Paris. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time—”

  “Wait, is this River’s phone?” Fiona holds the phone away from her ear and looks at the number again.

  “Yeah, it is. But Fee, I’m coming home.”

  “Wait—now?” Fiona walks to the window and twists the handle on the blinds so that they open to reveal the quiet sidewalks of Main Street. “You’re coming home before the end of your trip?”

  “Tonight,” Holly says. “We’re back at the apartment here and I’m packing. I take off in about four hours, and I land in Miami tomorrow morning. If I go directly to Key West and catch a boat, I can be on Christmas Key by late afternoon.”

  “I have questions,” Fiona says. Her mind is racing. “But I’m guessing you aren’t going to answer them now.”

  “You guessed right.” Holly’s tone is grim. “I need to finish packing, and River and I have a few things to discuss.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. And listen—if you see the news, don’t freak out. We were at the top of the Eiffel Tower when it happened, but everything is fine.”

  “When what happened?” Fiona leaves the window and rushes back to her laptop. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t worry about it unless you see it. But I need you to do me a favor.”

  Fiona sits down in her chair and puts her reading glasses back on. She types CNN into the search bar at the top of her screen as she listens. “Anything, Hol. What is it?”

  “I need you to tell Bonnie that I’m on my way, but I’d rather not have it be a big deal. I’m going to be jet-lagged and I’m kind of in a weird space, so I’d like to just get back to my house as quickly as possible and deal with everything the next day.”

  Fiona chews on her lower lip as she thinks about the stuff that Holly’s coming home to. “Holly…” She needs to let her know that Coco is staying at her house, otherwise her best friend is going to get home expecting a chance to get back on track in peace and quiet at her own bungalow. “I don’t know how to tell you this—”

  “Don’t tell me yet,” Holly interrupts. “I don’t think I can take anything else right now. Seriously. Whatever it is can wait until I’m home.”

  Fiona wants to disagree, but in the end she knows Holly is right. “Okay. Let me know when you’re leaving Key West so I know when to expect you. Have a safe trip.”

  “See you tomorrow, Fee.”

  They end the call and Fiona turns her attention back to CNN. There, at the top of the page above a picture of the Eiffel Tower, is the big, bold headline: TERROR AND CONFUSION AT THE TOP OF THE TOWER. Fiona scrolls down and clicks the link, scanning it for details. Her heart races as she sees the words unidentified nationalities; possibly armed; and unknown motives. She has no idea what’s going on with Holly and River, but the idea of her best friend somehow landing in the middle of a terrorist plot—one that was foiled or not—sends a cold, prickling fear up and down her spine. The most important thing right now is the fact that Holly is coming home.

  23

  “So,” River says, watching her pack as she sets his phone back on the dresser. “This is it? I can’t change your mind? Maybe convince you to give it another day or two?”

  Holly rolls up her jeans and shoves them into one corner of her suitcase. “Nope,” she says, walking across the creaky, uneven wood floors of the ancient building. She flips on the bathroom light and scoops up the bottles and products on the counter that belong to her. “I need to get back. I could tell that Fiona had things she wasn’t telling me, and I’m ready to get to the bottom of it.”

  It’s mostly true, but not entirely. The other part of her has already started transitioning from the mindset of being on vacation and being with River, and in her head she’s envisioning herself back in her own bed, hogging up as much of it as she wants and sharing her house only with Pucci. She’s ready for the comfortable familiarity of her own life again.

  “Holly,” River says on a sigh, sinking onto the corner of the stiff IKEA bed. “I want this to work somehow. It feels like everything was great, and then you got this wild hair about going home.”

  “It’s not a wild hair.” She folds two t-shirts together and rolls them lengthwise like a long salami. “It’s time. I’ve had fun, but I’m ready to be back at home, and you’re ready to move on to Dublin and hang out with Sarah again.”

  “Don’t make it about that, because it’s not.” River’s voice sounds angry and tired. “It’s about your inability to say yes to things in life—including me.”

  Holly would have been more angry at that blanket statement, but she knows it isn’t true, so instead she just smiles. “I have learned some things about saying yes, whether you realize it or not.”

  River inhales patiently, giving her a disbelieving look. “Okay,” he says. “I’m listening.”

  “I realized that I say no way too often in my life to things that could change me for the better. But I also discovered that being able to say no is a privilege that’s important to me. I need the option of saying no.”

  “Okay, so say no to me and to us,” River says, standing up from the bed. “Say yes to the island and forget about everything else.” He puts his hands in the air in exasperation. The apartment has grown dim in the evening light, and neither of them has made a move to switch on the lamps that are scattered throughout.

  “I wish it was that simple.” Holly drops her zipped makeup bag into the suitcase and walks over to River. The wooden floor buckles under her weight as she stands on her toes and puts her hands on his shoulders. “But if you’re going to understand me at all, then you have to understand this: I can’t completely give up control of my life. I tried it, and I don’t like it. And I have a responsibility to Christmas Key and to the people who live there. That’s all.” She’s standing in front of him, head tipped up in the perfect position for him to lean down and kiss her tenderly. But he doesn’t; instead River removes her hands from his shoulders and steps around her.

  “Got it,” he says. “Let me call you a cab so you get to the airport on time.”

  Holly lets her heels touch the floor again, her hands falling to her sides. She feels like she isn’t doing a very good job explaining to River what’s going on in her head, but she isn’t even entirely sure herself what prompted the urgent need to get back to the island immediately. If she knew, she’d tell him. It isn’t as simple as the Eiffel Tower incident shaking her to her core, and it isn’t as complicated as their intricate game of saying yes to everything sending her into an existential tailspin. It’s some combination of everything woven together with the deep, ingrained understanding that she belongs at home. Now.

  From the small front room, Holly can hear River calling for a cab, speaking in choppy English as he gives the address twice and repeats the time that he needs the car to arrive. She carefully places her
black boots from Harrods into the suitcase, crossing them so that the heels are at opposite ends of the bag, and then sits down on the bed to put her Converse on her feet. Her Yankees cap will be the final touch, but instead of putting it in on her head, she slips it into her shoulder bag and zips the purse, then clicks the latches on her suitcase and sets it on the floor. She’s ready.

  The flight to Miami is uneventful. Rather than being seated next to a nervous flier who needs to be talked down from the ledge, Holly is sharing a row with a dapper older man in horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue v-neck sweater. He reads the Le Parisien newspaper from cover to cover without saying a word, then uncrosses his legs, sets the paper on the empty seat between them, unlatches his seat belt, and stands.

  Holly looks out the window into the darkness. All she can see is the blinking of the light on the plane’s wing. The low, steady hum of the engines lulls her. This flight is as full of anticipation as the one that had taken her to London, but in a different way. Now her excitement is for the return to familiarity. She can’t wait to feel the sand under her feet as she steps from the boat dock, can’t wait to see Mistletoe Morning Brew on her right as she makes her way down Main Street, and she’s nearly giddy at the thought of Pucci bounding toward her when he realizes that his mistress has returned.

  There’s a lot to think about and a lot to do when she gets there, and Holly doesn’t want to miss a beat. Throughout this trip with River, layered over the discomfort and unease of never knowing what was around the corner and of having no control over what they would be doing next, was the growing understanding that she needed more of the unknown in her life. She knows now that she needs more opportunity—beyond the one time leap into the world of reality shows—she needs more possibility, and (maybe most importantly) the island needs her to treat it like it’s being run by a woman who’s seen the world and knows what’s out there.

  The man in the v-neck sweater returns and sits in his seat again. He gives Holly a mildly-interested, appraising look over the frames of his glasses and then punches the call button overhead.