by Olivia Miles
“It’s summer,” Melanie pointed out. “Tourist season.”
Last summer this had cheered her. Not so anymore. “And date a guy who will be going back to New York or Boston or wherever come August? No thanks.”
“Tell you what, I’ll have a long chat with Chloe and smooth things over if you give the very next man that you meet a fair chance, even if the circumstances don’t seem perfect,” Melanie said.
“Doesn’t that fall under the category of blackmail?”
“It’s a friend wanting to see you happy.”
Technically, Melanie was her boss, but Sarah wasn’t going to get into semantics right now. And she could definitely use any help she could get when it came to getting back on Chloe’s good graces.
Sarah stared at her friend. “What if he’s eighty? Or sixteen? Or…Tim?”
Melanie laughed. “I mean the first eligible man. Age appropriate. Not Tim Wright.”
“Poor Tim,” they both said in unison, and then Sarah did laugh, a good hard laugh that she hadn’t felt all day and deeply needed.
“Do you think Tim will ever get married?” Sarah asked, thinking of the poor guy whose mother desperately tried to pawn him off on every single girl in town, once giving him such a strong shove of encouragement that he nearly lost his footing.
“There’s someone for everyone, if you ask me,” Melanie said.
Someone for everyone. Once, Sarah had believed that. A part of her possibly still did. But the logistics of finding that person in this great, big, wide world felt as impossible as finding that person in this tiny little town of Oyster Bay.
“I guess Tim’s always a fallback option,” she said mournfully, but the truth was that she would rather be single than with the wrong man, even if Tim’s last name was Wright, a pun that his overbearing mother loved to remind every single woman in Oyster Bay, often with a larger than life wink and a chuckle that ended with a snort.
“You have to keep an open mind,” Melanie said. “I know you. You go for the same type of guy every time. Good looking. Outgoing. No real interest in long-term commitment.”
Sarah pursed her lips. Melanie was right about all that.
“I used to go for the same type too. If I’d kept that up, I would have ruined my chance with Jason.”
This too was true. Melanie was all about the jocks and players before. And Jason. Well, Jason was marriage material. Jason was courteous, polite, reserved, sweet, and kind. He wasn’t thrilling. He wasn’t unexpected. He wasn’t going to send Melanie on the emotional rollercoasters that she had become addicted to over time.
Maybe, just maybe, Melanie had a point.
“Fine,” Sarah said, hoping she wouldn’t live to regret this. “The very next eligible man that I meet, I will give him a fair chance.”
Melanie grinned with satisfaction. “I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Sarah picked up her drink. Normally, she’d say the same, but that was a dangerous way of thinking, and from here on out, she was playing it safe.
Chapter Two
Chris Foster pulled his car to a stop at the base of the long, gravel drive and frowned. He’d gotten an early start, mostly because he’d been unable to sleep last night, and it wasn’t even midmorning when he’d crossed the town line into Oyster Bay, his summer destination for most of his childhood, and often some years after that. Check-in at the hotel wasn’t until noon. He didn’t feel like hanging out on Main Street. The beach no longer held the appeal it once did. There was no avoiding what he’d come here to do.
With a sigh, he pushed his foot down on the accelerator and forced the vehicle to the end of the drive where it met the garage, or carriage house, he supposed it was called. Above the four garage spots, the attic held nothing but garden equipment and dust bunnies, of this he was sure after many rainy, humid afternoons of his boyhood spent playing up there, usually by himself or with Uncle Marty’s sweet old Lab, Russ.
What he was not so sure of was the condition of the main house itself. His uncle hadn’t lived here in nearly as long as Chris had been back—three years. Even then, the house was showing signs of neglect: shingles were missing from the roof, paint on the window trim was cracked and peeling, and the furnace seemed to be working overtime to keep up with these Maine winters. By then, his uncle was down to just a housekeeper and a gardener who only visited three seasons of the year, and Janice, the housekeeper, was getting on in years, just like him. More than anything, Chris had come to realize that Janice was Marty’s companion. He was lonely. Widowed before he had fathered any children. Chris’s visits were the highlight of his year, he used to say.
Chris didn’t even realize he was clenching his teeth until his jaw began to ache.
He pulled to a stop near the rose trellis, surprised to see that the flowers had at least been pruned, and that perhaps some maintenance had continued over the years. Who had set this up, he couldn’t be sure. The house had belonged to his grandparents, and when they passed, Marty took over. It was of no interest to Chris’s father, who preferred Boston, and his more reasonably sized home in Cambridge. His father wanted to sell this place off to a developer—something he and Marty had argued over when their parents passed, and eventually Marty had bought him out. Chris supposed it was fortunate that history wouldn’t repeat itself. He was an only child, himself. Had no brother to squabble with over the inheritance of this big, old, seaside mansion. He could do with it as he pleased.
He climbed out of his SUV and closed the door firmly behind him, shoving the keys in the pocket of his jeans. His hands touched something metal there, another key, the one to this house, the one Marty’s attorney back in Boston had slid across the desk to him last week, when Marty’s last will and testament were read to his remaining relatives. Chris had inherited the property, which came as only a mild surprise but still felt strangely surreal. His housekeeper and companion, Janice, had received a generous lump sum. Much of the liquid assets had gone to various charities.
Personally, he’d been hoping for a watch—the gold one that Marty always had on his wrist. He’d been hoping that all this was a bad dream, really. There’d been enough loss of late.
He forced himself to walk over the gravel, the salty sea breeze filling his lungs. It was a beautiful day, a day not so different than the ones he used to spend here as a boy each summer. A day not so different from the day he’d married Jenna, right out back, on the huge terrace facing the elaborate garden.
One foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward. He’d gotten good at that over the years. Mastered it. But being back here…He was stumbling.
He had parked near the back of the house, and it would be a long walk to the front, but that wasn’t why he went through the kitchen entrance, not really. It was out of habit. Out of some memory that was ingrained in him, even if he wanted to banish it. Days filled running through the gardens that stretched all the way to the Atlantic, standing with his bare feet in the sand, letting the waves crash at his legs, not caring if his clothes got wet, and not going back inside until the last bit of light had started to fade.
Chris tried the door first, for some reason surprised that it was locked, and then saddened by this discovery, this hard, cold evidence that things had changed and that they could never again be what they were. They’d hit him in waves, recently. Somehow it was easier thinking of Marty, here in the house, a vague promise to someday return, even if he knew deep down that it might never happen.
Now, it couldn’t happen. Marty was gone. And he’d never even said good-bye.
With a tight jaw, Chris fished out the key, stuck it in the lock, and turned. It didn’t go easily, but eventually he heard the lock click and the door pushed open, swelling against the doorjamb. It was stifling inside the house. Marty never had gotten around to installing central air. Said he preferred to keep the windows open anyway, to let the breeze blow in off the Atlantic, especially in the evenings.
Now, Chris walked to the closest window, just above the
sink. He grunted at the force—the wood had expanded and he barely wedged it free. Old windows. Old house. The floorboards creaked under his weight.
He stared out the window, onto the terrace, feeling the fresh air on his face, and he could almost feel the presence of all the others, the ghosts of moments past, the sound of the band, the smell of the food, the touch of her hand.
He trained his eyes on the ocean, at the waves that pushed and pulled against the shore. At some point he would turn around, take in this house, force himself to have one last good look at it.
And then, he would sell it. And maybe then, he would finally be free.
***
Sarah usually made every effort to be early, or at least on time, to work, especially on the occasional weekends when Melanie had the day off from the shop to work on custom dress orders and it would just be her and Chloe manning the storefront. Those days were busy, stressful, and Sarah was always sure to be dressed in her finest, and careful to watch her every move. No receipts left out on the counter where other clients could see them. No shoes left out of their boxes where someone might trip. Phone calls to clients should be taken in the back room rather than upfront (things could get personal, and there were often tears, as it was amazing how much emotion could be brought out in the weeks leading up to the big day!). But today, knowing that she had no friend as a buffer and that on a scale of one to ten, Chloe was probably at about a twelve with her rather than a nine (Melanie was kind that way), Sarah waited in the window of Angie’s until her watch struck the last minute before the shop opened for business.
Her stomach went all funny when she stood up and pushed in her chair.
“You feeling okay, Sarah?” Leah asked from behind the counter. A relative newcomer to the café, she was always happy to supply the women of Bayside Brides with treats throughout the day, considering they were regular customers. Sure enough, she reached into the glass display case and shoved something into a white paper bakery bag. “On the house. Chocolate cures everything, if you ask me.”
Sarah managed a smile as she approached. “Thanks, Leah. Angie’s lucky to have you.”
“Don’t I know it,” Leah grinned, and Sarah’s hand shook as she reached for the bag. Could her boss say the same about her?
Today’s treat was a brownie, she could tell by the weight of it. She’d eat it on her lunch break. If she still had a job by then.
Oh, dear. There went that funny feeling in her stomach again.
Sarah hurried to the crosswalk and pressed the button, waiting for the signal, but her eyes kept darting to the shop, which looked so innocent from a distance, so sweet and inviting, with a white awning that rippled in the breeze and a glass paned door painted in the store’s signature shade of blue. The planters that flanked it were always filled with boxwoods, but around each Chloe tended to add some seasonal flowers for color—currently, they were pink pansies.
And there was Chloe now, in the window, turning the cute little oval-shaped vintage sign on the door. Damn it. Now Sarah was late. That would be two strikes against her in two days. She couldn’t make it three. Three would definitely be grounds for termination, and then what? What would she do?
Her passion was all things weddings! It always had been! She’d been subscribing to bridal magazines forever. She loved the flowers and the dresses and the cakes and the rings. She loved the fantasy. The dream of one special day when you got to be a real live princess, or the closest thing to it. She positively longed to wear a tiara. And a ball gown. And a train.
But she’d given up on finding all that for herself. Could Chloe really blame her? After all, Chloe was also unattached. Though, unlike Sarah, Chloe didn’t seem bothered by this fact.
And really, Sarah shouldn’t be so bothered by it either. She was single. By choice. She had given up! So she’d agreed to Melanie’s challenge. It was a ridiculous one and also an opportunity to officially silence her suddenly turned optimistic friend once and for all. Melanie was dating the town doctor. He had adored her all his life. She’d found her happily ever after. It didn’t mean everyone else would find it just as easily.
But…she had to check that attitude and quick. Her stomach heaved as she pushed through the door, the wedding bells jangling her arrival. One scan of the room revealed an empty storefront, ready for the day to start. The jewelry case glistened nearly as much as the towering case of tiaras. The veils were fluffed and hanging from their vintage-style rack. The shoes were neatly organized against the far wall, by style, their boxes tucked underneath in various sizes. And the dresses…She would never tire of the dresses. Three walls of wedding gowns in all styles. Bridesmaid and flower girl options were housed in the corner.
Chloe must be in the storage room, Sarah determined. Or the dress closet. Or organizing a dressing room. Sometimes, when there was time, Chloe would hand select a few gowns in expectation of her client’s arrival. She had exquisite taste and could tell what would look good on everyone’s figures—sometimes it warded off unnecessary frustration when a bride wanted a gown that didn’t best fit her shape.
But today there didn’t appear to be any gowns hanging from the hooks near the dressing room doors.
With growing dread, Sarah pushed through the storage room door to see Chloe making an herbal tea with water from the electric kettle. No food or beverages were allowed in the storefront, and for good reason.
“Good morning!” Sarah smiled brightly, hoping her warm greeting would show that all had returned to normal. She was her cheerful, happy, loved all things romance self, and Chloe was…
Still an ice queen.
Chloe’s smile was tight as she tapped her spoon against the rim of her mug—blue, to match the shop’s color scheme, of course. Her equally blue eyes seemed to home in on Sarah, who turned her back to hang her tote bag on a hook. Normally she liked to settle into the day before the flurry of clients arrived, but today she willed for an early appointment, a walk-in, even a disgruntled mother-in-law or a jealous maid of honor. They’d seen it all.
“It’s nice that the rain from last week finally let up!” Sarah said in a shaky voice. Her tone was overly chipper, even to her own ears. She was being forced. She wondered if Chloe could see it too.
“Not soon enough.” Chloe shook her head. “I just found out last night that the Hillside Winery flooded. Someone left a window open.”
“Oh no!” The Hillside Winery was a popular wedding reception spot. The vineyard was small, but the house was set on a hill, with a beautiful view of the fields and vaulted ceilings in the reception hall that allowed for oversized chandeliers to hang dramatically. “Was there much damage?”
Chloe’s eyes widened. “Extensive. And mold. They have to completely renovate the entire cellar.”
Sarah frowned as she considered the implications. “But that’s where Hannah is getting married.”
“Make that where she was planning to get married,” Chloe corrected. Hannah Donovan had been Chloe’s first client when she branched her services into wedding planning this spring. Even though Hannah was a low-key bride and a friend to them all, Sarah also knew how much pride Chloe took in her services…and how fearful she had always been of anything going wrong. “Now we have to figure out a new plan.”
“Does she have a back-up venue in mind?” Sarah asked, hating herself for being almost grateful that they were able to focus on this problem rather than her lack of professionalism yesterday.
“On this short of notice?”
Of course. The wedding was only weeks away. Three weeks from today, in fact.
“What about the Harper House Inn?” Sarah suggested, even though she was fairly sure that Chloe had already considered this, and that she would have considered anything that Sarah could even come up with. Still, it kept the conversation going, and she did want Hannah’s wedding to be a success. She was marrying her high school sweetheart after they’d gone their separate ways years ago. If that didn’t remind her that romance was still alive and blo
oming, she didn’t know what would.
Well, it only bloomed for some, she thought.
Chloe set down her mug and walked back toward to the door to the storefront. Seeing no other choice, Sarah followed her into the room on shaky knees. If only Melanie wasn’t doing home visits for custom gowns today!
“The Harper House Inn is always a fallback,” Chloe said.
“And Hannah has emotional attachment to it,” Sarah pointed out. She walked over to the oversized flower arrangement that they kept on a central table, hoping for something to do, but of course, it appeared that Chloe had already tended to fresh water. “Hannah practically grew up with her cousins in that house. And it’s a beautiful location.” An old Victorian mansion on the shore. Really, what more could anyone ask for?
“It is. But I think Hannah wanted something of her own. Margo and Bridget were both married there, after all.” Chloe tossed up her hands. “I know her father would be happy to host it at The Lantern, but it’s probably too casual, even for Hannah. I don’t see many other options, though. The Oyster Bay Hotel is booked. So is the Botanic Garden. I’ll see about the library today. They have that room on the top floor with beautiful stained glass. It’s my job to fix this mess.”
“You can’t help that her venue flooded,” Sarah remarked. “It’s not like she has a ripped seam and you can quickly stitch up the back of the dress. Besides, you’ve overseen every inch of this wedding.” And it was true. Every element of this wedding was flawless, in a style perfectly befitting to the bride. In this case, it was light, airy, somewhat casual but still elegant. Chloe had nailed everything from the font on the invitations to the exact shade of teal blue ribbon that would be wrapped around the bouquets—a colorful mix of flowers that was both elegant and whimsical.
