“About four weeks. And don’t worry, Fred.” Connie reached across to cover the man’s hand. “Locating a place for you and Mona is at the top of Pastor Wilkins’s list. And a few others’, as well.”
“Thank you, Miss Connie. I don’t suppose our Ellie can come along with us, could she?”
Brightening at the man’s vote of confidence, Ellie tightened her grip on Mona, whose agitated rocking had commenced even before Connie had begun to speak. Though mostly disconnected from the everyday, the elderly woman’s reactions often reflected a prescient lucidity and intuition that belied her confusion. It was as though Mona knew about the pastor’s earlier phone call, when he told Faith that all area facilities with memory care were full to bursting at the moment, with waiting lists even, but that he wasn’t giving up.
“I wish I could,” Ellie said. “But I’ll come visit you, wherever you are. With this guy.” Ellie patted her stomach. “And we’re not giving up hope yet. Tell them about the campaign, Faith.”
Summoning all the cheer she could muster, Faith demonstrated the fundraising website to the silent diners, and fled to the kitchen immediately afterward. Wiping her sweaty palms on a dish towel, Faith leaned her forehead against the cool refrigerator door, where the calendar hung, the heavily circled foreclosure date a damning reminder. Faith’s heart beat a cadence, a stopwatch ticking off the seconds until the December deadline.
What if the campaign missed the mark? What if the inn’s target audience of past guests turned out to be perfectly content to memorialize The Mermaid’s Purse exactly as it had been during their stay, preserving it as a lovely memory and nothing more—memories that wouldn’t cost them a cent? What would that mean for the present residents? For the Wave’s End families in shelters and seedy motels waiting for housing? For her own mother?
“So what does this foreclosure mean for Faith Sterling?”
Faith spun to find David carrying a plastic tub of dirty glasses. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” she said, taking the tub to rinse the glassware. “Your father must have told you.”
“He didn’t. I swear. Scout’s honor.”
Faith waved away his two-fingered peace sign. “I don’t think that’s the right symbol.”
“Don’t avoid the question.”
“Me? I’ll survive. I’ll head back to New York, eventually find a new job and apartment. But those poor people in there—” Faith loaded plates into the dishwasher. “I hate to think that their last memory of The Mermaid’s Purse will be of us booting them to the curb.”
“Aha! A little soft spot in that shell.”
Shell. What had Grace said that day on the porch about the contributions of a mermaid’s purse? “Of course a soft spot. How could I not?” Watching the boarders’ dejected faces as Connie broke the bad news, Faith had felt as though she were putting her own family out on the street—which, in a sense, she was.
At that moment, she resolved to take every remaining meal in the dining room, elbow to elbow with the boarders. With her friends. To hell with boundaries. Her mother had gotten it right all along. This wasn’t business as usual. The inn was a port in a storm, however temporary.
Frustrated with the unfairness of the situation, Faith slammed the dishwasher rack so hard it clattered against the appliance’s rear wall.
“Whoa. What are you doing?” David detached Faith’s hand from the rack, lacing his fingers lightly in hers.
“I’m . . . I’m just trying to do my job.”
“Maybe you don’t need to work so hard.”
“But that’s why I’m here. To help.”
By now, David held both her hands and drew her closer to him, his gaze intense and disquieting. “Everyone here knows how much you care about them.”
“I don’t think they—”
“Trust me. I’m one of them.”
“But I’ve been so awful. Making all these rules. And, oh, my God, what I said to your father today . . .”
“I’m sure he’ll survive.”
“No. You don’t even know, David. I was like a crazy woman—”
“Faith. Please.” Freeing a hand, he cupped Faith’s chin and lifted it, giving her no choice but to look at him. “Do me a favor. Shut up.” With that, he leaned in, his gaze seeking permission, Faith granting it by closing her eyes and surrendering to his sweet and savory kiss. He tasted of pancetta and brie and other ingredients from the meal he had just prepared. As his lips consumed hers, Faith struggled to remember the last time, any time, a guy had cooked for her.
None came to mind. Not because they hadn’t offered, but because she always refused, the kitchen her domain, Faith too terrified to relinquish control. Too insecure to be nourished by someone else.
This time, she had let go. As David’s kisses warmed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, Faith realized she’d been letting go all along, since the first time she allowed David into her space, her world, accepting his paper bag spices. The day on the back porch, so engrossed in conversation with him she nearly burned her roasting vegetables. Salvaging the soup, with his help. From there, the potpies. Their Thanksgiving collaboration. His originality and resourcefulness tonight.
Too many cooks, indeed. Instead of the flameouts Faith envisioned, the letting go had felt delicious.
Faith lifted her head, her neck igniting as David nuzzled it.
Truly, truly delicious.
72
Finding the Beacon’s entrance locked, Faith sighed with relief. Turning away, she headed back to the car, grateful for additional time to finesse her apology to Bruce.
“Faith! Wait!”
At the newspaperman’s call, Faith dropped her head, did an about-face and slowly walked back to the open office door where Bruce stood. Okay, let’s do this.
“Hey, there,” she said, too brightly.
“Happened to glance out the window and saw you. I take it you’re looking for me?”
“Who else?” Oh, Lord. Insert foot.
“I’m working on tomorrow’s issue. Come in if you’d like.”
“Thanks. Listen,” Faith began once inside, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. “About yesterday: I was way out of line. To put it mildly. I had absolutely no right, no basis for saying those things.”
“That’s right,” Bruce said. “You didn’t. I run an honest business here, Faith.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have—”
“And yes, the days of this little community newspaper might be numbered, but I built the Beacon. I’d never resort to sensationalism just to sell papers. It may not compare to your fancy New York newspapers, but the Beacon has scruples. I have scruples.”
“I know that.” Faith gazed up at him. “I don’t know what came over me. Ever since I arrived in Wave’s End, it’s as though Nadine turned my whole life upside down. And my mother’s. Nowhere near the way the storm affected people here, of course,” she hurried to clarify. “Just . . . emotionally. I’m trying to figure some stuff out. Please forgive me. I know my mother likes you, and that’s good enough for me.” Faith extended her hand, and Bruce shook it.
“Apology accepted. I like her, too. And because of that, as nasty as you were to me, I have to admire the way you stood up for your mother.”
Faith grinned, leaning against the door frame. “Force of habit, I guess.”
“And by the way, I was against this lottery idea from the start. Walker put that contest idea into Maeve’s head, too. Probably saw more dollar signs. Unfortunately, it only resulted in heartache—aside from bringing you and your mother to Wave’s End, that is.” Bruce smiled. “I must say, my son seems to enjoy having you around.”
Faith coughed at the mention of David, her face warming as she flashed back to their latest encounter. “Speaking of Walker, when do you think he’ll turn up?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here today. The feds arrested him late yesterday at JFK Airport. I’ve been up all night writing the story. Let me give you a preview.”
; Sitting at Bruce’s desk, Faith read the headline intended for the Beacon’s next front page:
LOCAL CPA NABBED EN ROUTE TO CAYMAN ISLANDS; CHARGED WITH MONEY LAUNDERING, TAX EVASION
“Holy . . . Was I right, or what?” Faith crowed. “I told my mother that’s where they’d find him. Does Maeve know?”
“Called her first thing. You would have heard from me the second I finished.”
Faith read a little further, learning Walker faced up to twenty years in prison if convicted. “Now that they’ve got him, what are the chances Maeve will get her money back?”
“In time to avoid foreclosure? Slim to none. It may take months, even years, to recover the money he siphoned. She’ll have to take a number. Apparently, this guy was in pretty deep with a number of clients.”
“Still, we should go back to the bank with this news. Tanya said we had to demonstrate financial hardship. These charges certainly illustrate that.”
“It’s worth a shot. I’ll stop by there first thing Monday. Do you want to join me?”
“Of course. But even if the bank grants a delay, I still think we should launch the campaign. Did Maeve mention she approved it?”
“She did. Said you were quite convincing.”
“I was only thinking of my mother. And of the boarders, of course.”
Bruce leaned over and hit a few keys. “That reminds me of another update I’m working on. The beach fires. The fire chief closed his investigation.”
Faith shut her eyes. “And what did he conclude?”
“Here. Read it yourself.” Bruce hit the return key, and the next headline filled his screen.
73
FAULTY GAS LINE TRIGGERED BEACHFRONT FIRE; ARSON RULED OUT.
Faith spun in Bruce’s chair to face him. “So that’s it? No suspects? No arrests?”
“None. The salt water corroded the utilities, creating a fire hazard. In fact, most of the gas and electric at the beachfront will have to be ripped out and replaced, just as a safety precaution.”
“But that chain they found . . .”
“Evidence kids had been messing around up there, for sure. There were some beer cans as well, apparently. But ultimately, nothing connected them to the fire.” Bruce tapped the screen. “It’s all there, if you want to read the details.”
“No, thank you,” Faith said, getting up. “That’s all I need to know.”
74
Her conscience eased, and bursting with the news of Gage’s exoneration, Faith bounded up the inn’s back steps and into the kitchen, where she found David prodding simmering turkey carcasses with a wooden spoon. “Turkey soup! You read my mind. David, you’ll never believe—”
“I’ll believe anything, if you just come with me.” Dropping the spoon, David grabbed Faith’s hand and pulled her out onto the dark recesses of the porch. He proceeded to kiss her hungrily, sabotaging her attempts to speak until Faith finally pulled away, laughing.
“Stop already,” she said, leaning against a porch column. “I really need to talk to you. I saw your dad today. I apologized.”
“Good. Now you can stop beating yourself up about that meltdown of yours.”
“I’ll need a minute for that. Anyway, he’s a good guy. He told me they got Walker.”
“About time. Hope he gets what he deserves.” Coming toward her again, David reached for Faith’s waist, but she sidestepped him.
“Wait.” She slapped him playfully. “He told me something else: that the beachfront fire wasn’t set. The gas line caused it.” Faith watched him closely for his response.
Exhaling, David leaned against the wall. “That’s a relief.”
“I knew it! You knew that was Gage’s chain.”
“I’m just glad he’s off the hook.”
“Did he tell you where he was that night?”
“No. But he swore he wasn’t involved in any fire, and I believe him.”
“Still, we have to make sure he’s okay.”
“Gage is fine. He’s out of trouble.” Approaching Faith again, David clasped her hands and attempted to nuzzle her neck.
“No, I mean really okay.” Wriggling to thwart his advances, she angled her face toward his. “I have an idea. Will you help?”
“I already taught the dude to surf.” David drawled, kissing Faith’s nose lightly. “What’s next, flyboarding?”
“I have no idea what that is, but this idea is strictly land-based. Are you in?” Faith yanked David’s hands, gazing at him expectantly.
David sighed in mock exasperation. “If I say yes, woman, will you stop talking?”
Starting the coffee the next morning, Faith felt her cheeks flush at the memory of last night’s porch interlude. Surely her mother, or especially Ellie, would notice the change in her, spot the evidence of David’s affections, even if Faith was playing it close to the vest for the moment.
But neither woman said a word. Fueled by the news of Walker’s arrest, Connie and Ellie were already in full campaign-launch mode. The Save The Mermaid’s Purse site was going live at nine o’clock on this final Sunday morning in November. They’d synched the launch with the delivery of an impassioned e-mail composed by Faith and blessed by Maeve to the inboxes of all prior inn guests.
“I can just imagine everyone sitting around drinking coffee and reading this,” Connie said, rubbing her hands together.
At exactly 9:12 a.m., ignoring the piles of dirty breakfast dishes, Connie sat at the kitchen table glued to the laptop, eagerly awaiting the outpouring of support, while Ellie paced the dining room. Assigned by Faith to manage the launch logistics, Ellie tapped her Bluetooth earpiece, spouting real-time statistics from her site administrators in the city. The metrics on hits and opens and click-throughs and other digital benchmarks were completely foreign to Connie, but, judging from Ellie’s broad smile and thumbs-up, their message had hit its mark. Their target audience had already swarmed to the fundraising site in very encouraging numbers.
Connie stared at the thermometer on the main page for evidence of activity. “It’s not budging,” she said worriedly when Ellie passed next.
“You have to refresh the page.” Reaching over her, Ellie clicked the circular arrow at the top of the screen. As the page reloaded, the bottom of the thermometer bulb flooded with color.
Connie clapped her hands. “Look at that! We’re already at five thousand dollars. Five thousand, Faith.”
Faith covered her ears. “Don’t tell me. It’s too stressful. There’s too much riding on this.” She had remained in the dining room as long as possible to avoid hearing anything.
But when Ellie squealed over something on the “Memories” page, Faith found herself lured back to the screen in spite of her earlier resolve. Sure enough, one donor had already posted a remembrance, which Faith proceeded to read aloud:
“‘So sorry to hear about your troubles.’”
“I thought you didn’t want to know,” Connie teased.
Ignoring her mother, Faith continued reading.
“‘The first time I ever saw a beach or the ocean was when my family stayed at The Mermaid’s Purse. I’ve brought my own family many times since. I will never forget that sight, or your lovely inn.’”
“That’s so sweet,” Connie murmured.
“So’s her picture.” Ellie clicked to enlarge the accompanying image: a sunburned young mother in a red swimsuit kneeling on the beach, arms around a towheaded boy playing with a plastic bucket and shovel. “I wonder if Maeve would remember her,” she mused.
“How much? How much?” demanded Faith.
“Well, that’s surprising.” Sitting back, Ellie licked her lips.
“Five thousand? Ten thousand?” Connie pressed.
“No,” said Ellie, her tone subdued. “No donation at all.”
“That’s okay. There will be others to make up for that one,” Connie said confidently. “I’m going to call Maeve right now and let her know we’re off to a good start.”
Despite that disap
pointment, dozens of Mermaid’s Purse memories popped up on the campaign site over the next few hours. The addictive page drew them to the laptop throughout the day, attracted like zombies to sweat to serially refresh the screen.
By evening, however, a disheartening trend had emerged: while posted memories and images piled up in earnest, donations inexplicably had stalled. Beyond the initial blip at the site launch, the thermometer gauge had not budged, and not a single naming opportunity had been claimed.
Faith did her best to reassure them. “It’s too early to freak out. People aren’t going to just hop on and make a twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation. They need to think about it. Move some funds. Be patient and give the campaign a chance to work.”
75
Faith and Bruce met at the bank at nine a.m. on Monday morning. Once they presented evidence of Walker’s arrest, including the naming of Maeve as a victim of his alleged criminal activities, the bank agreed to reexamine the inn’s case. Under a process known as forbearance, the creditor could offer the inn up to six additional months to catch up on its payments, the bespectacled loan officer explained.
“That’s wonderful,” said Faith. “So Maeve now has until June?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “We’re just the local branch. Those decisions come from our corporate foreclosure division, after a formal review.”
“But it’s right here in black and white.” Frustrated, Faith slid the Beacon across the loan officer’s desk.
“I see that. We value Ms. Calhoun as a customer and member of our community, and we’re pleased to see justice being served. But you both must understand. We have to protect our assets, especially in this turbulent period after the storm.”
Faith and Bruce exchanged troubled glances.
“Tell you what,” the officer said. “I’ll do what I can to expedite this. I should be able to get back to you in a few weeks.” Standing, he extended his hand.
Meanwhile, Faith and David indulged their furtive flirtation over the next few days, exchanging meaningful glances at mealtimes and stealing kisses in the inn’s nooks and crannies when they thought no one was looking.
At Wave's End: A Novel Page 20
