by Shirley Jump
She wasn’t going to answer the favorite cookies question. Because if she did, Pauline and Esther would think something was up between Greta and Harold and nothing was up. At all.
“You’re old men. What else do you have to talk about besides what your families are up to? Your golf game?” She mocked a yawn.
“We might just be talking about you, my dear Greta.” He arched a caterpillar brow.
Greta rolled her eyes. “Get a grip on your knickers, you lecher. Focus, Harold. There are happy endings at stake here and I’m not getting any younger waiting for you to mature.”
Esther reached for a cookie, but Pauline put a hand on hers. Pauline arched a brow and nodded toward Harold. “Hey, Esther, don’t we have a bingo game to go to?”
Esther made a face. “Bingo? Since when?”
“What Bingo?” Greta asked. What was Pauline doing? She had called the women here specifically to work on her Colt-Daisy plan, and Pauline was dashing out as quickly as she could.
“Since now,” Pauline said, with another hint-hint nod in Greta and Harold’s direction.
“But I didn’t get to eat a cookie yet,” Esther said.
Greta wheeled on Pauline. What was wrong with these two? Leaving at the worst possible time, too. “Where are you two going? We have work to do.”
“You and Harold can handle it. I’m sure he’ll love being your minion, Greta. Or love slave, whatever term you want to slap on the job.” Pauline laughed.
What was this? A mutiny in her three-woman army? And since when did Pauline turn the tables on Greta Winslow? Greta’s face flushed and she waved off the sudden heat in the room. “Harold is not my . . . anything.”
“I don’t know. I kinda like the term love slave.” Harold put out his wrists. “Shackle me, Greta.”
“You’re lucky it’s still illegal to murder someone in your own kitchen,” Greta said. “And even more illegal to murder more than one someone at a time.”
“That’s my cue.” Pauline grinned, then got to her feet and pressed two cookies into Esther’s palm. “Here are your cookies. One for the road, and one for on the way out the door.”
“But, but—”
“Come on, Esther, it is time to go,” Pauline said, taking Esther’s elbow. “I promise, we’ll even stop at the craft store.”
“Really? Because last time you said we were going to the craft store, we ended up at the DMV and I had to wait in line with you for an hour.”
“I have my Michael’s coupons all ready to go, I swear,” Pauline said, patting her purse. She leaned down and gave Greta a one-armed hug. She swore she could hear Pauline laughing as she did it. “Bye, Greta. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which actually leaves the field quite open.”
“What are you doing?” Greta whispered to Pauline. “You know I don’t want to be alone with that ogre.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, just admit you find him hot. Everyone knows you like Harold.”
“Pauline, I do not like him. Not one bit.”
“Whatever you say, Greta.” Then she straightened, toodled a wave at Harold, and hurried out the door with Esther. Had Greta spiked the wrong coffee this morning? What was up with Pauline and Esther? Some friends they turned out to be, leaving her with the troll who lived under the Golden Years bridge.
“Well, well, my dear. Seems we are alone at last.” Harold leaned across the table. “What do you have planned for me?”
Since she’d been deserted by her best soldiers, it looked like the only option Greta had left was to align herself with the devil’s spawn. Or Harold Twohig. Whoever came with the least amount of headaches. And prosecutable offenses.
Sixteen
The straw that broke the camel’s back in Emma’s world popped up in her Facebook newsfeed like a weed in a rose garden. Roger Jennings is separated.
Her husband. No longer. If there was one evil about social media, it was its ability to put a public and undeniable stamp on things. Denial was harder to hold on to when the words were there in black and white.
Emma stared at the sentence for a good five minutes, but the words didn’t disappear. She stared at that singular sentence until her eyes blurred and reality smacked her hard. Her marriage was over. As over as a relationship could get.
Why had she thought otherwise? He had moved out over two months ago. They’d been physically separated all that time, and now he was simply making it official. But for some reason, until she’d seen the actual truth in print, Emma had retained this little nugget of hope that they could fix things, regain what they had lost. That that one night before he’d moved out meant there was still a foundation to fall back on.
By the end of the day, Emma had packed her bags, loaded her car, and called her mother. “Daisy wanted me to take a few pictures of the Hideaway, to use in a brochure. I’ll be back soon. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, totally fine. If I need anything, Masie next door can come by if I need her. Willow is out of town again”—Clara let out a dramatic sigh at Willow’s constant whim indulging—“but Masie is nearby. Besides, I’m feeling better every day.”
Emma thought her mother’s voice sounded stronger, and her spirits were high. At her doctor appointment yesterday, she’d gotten a clean bill of health, as long as she didn’t push herself too hard and cause a recurrence. All good signs, which made it easier for Emma to justify leaving for a few days. A weekend, no more. Just long enough to stop obsessively sending the Facebook dagger a little deeper into Emma’s heart.
The whole drive down to the Hideaway, Emma debated detouring from her path and holing up in a hotel instead. But her mother would have asked questions, and as much as Emma was maintaining a fiction about her marriage, she wasn’t about to outright lie. A sin of omission, like failing to mention Roger had moved out, was far better than a sin of commission, and telling a bald-faced lie to her mother’s face.
A little after eleven on Monday morning, Emma pulled into the circular drive that fronted the Hideaway Inn. Weeds covered the gravel surface, and the once grand wraparound porch sagged in a frown, but to her, it still looked the same. She’d always loved the Hideaway, with its rustic charm and expansive views of the Gulf. For the last five years, those sweet memories had been intertwined with heartbreak, though. As much as Emma wanted to leap out of the car and embrace the Hideaway like an old friend, another part of her wanted to peel out of the driveway and never see the place again.
It held too many bittersweet memories, too many hurts that she had tried to put away. Like her father having a heart attack at the Hideaway the year after Emma’s wedding at the inn. Her mother had left the Hideaway after her husband died and never found the heart to return.
Like the fact that she had thought returning to the inn would work some kind of magic. Two months ago, after one sweet and wonderful night with her husband in her bed, she’d woken up with the crazy idea that if she brought Roger to the Hideaway, to the place where they had been married years ago, maybe she could get over the past, and at the same time reignite the dying flame in her marriage. But she and Roger never even made it out of their Jacksonville driveway. He’d broken up with her, in between taking one suitcase to the car and another to the bedroom, then climbed in his own car and driven away. By the time she got home from work the next day, his things were gone and her marriage was over.
He’d only left one thing behind—and that was the one thing that Emma was going to keep, no matter what.
She got out of her car, and looked up at the building, this time with more critical eyes. Daisy had made the situation sound a lot better than it was. Geez, this place was going to need a bulldozer and a miracle to get it running again.
A pale blue pickup truck emblazoned with STARK CONTRACTING pulled into the drive, followed by Daisy’s ancient Toyota. Daisy was barreling out of her car before she fully had it in Park, and runnin
g across the drive to grab Emma in a tight, fierce hug. “You’re here!”
The embrace was like coming home. Emma hadn’t realized how much she had missed her cousin until she was enveloped in Daisy’s warmth again. It was like being a teenager all over again, with Daisy coming to stay for a weekend of late-night conversations and pizza gorging. It made Emma want to pour out the entire awful story about the demise of her marriage, the mistake she had made in hanging on too long to a dying animal. Instead, she said simply, “Oh, Dase, I’m glad to see you.”
“Not as happy as I am to see you.” Daisy gave Emma a second tight hug, then stepped back and waved at the couple getting out of the pickup truck. Daisy exchanged small talk with the man, who looked familiar to Emma. A second later, Emma recognized him as a friend of Colt’s. The summer Daisy had stayed at the Inn, Colt and his friends had been frequent visitors to the wide swath of beach in front of the inn.
Daisy greeted Nick with a quick, friendly hug, then waved toward Emma. “Nick, I don’t know if you remember my cousin, but this is Emma.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. She could still see the Nick she had met in the boyish charm in his face. “And this is my right-hand woman on the project, M. J. Reynolds.”
“Maggie,” the woman corrected with a smile. “He calls me M.J. so I sound more like a brawny carpenter.”
Emma shook with the tall, sandy-haired Nick and the athletic brunette Maggie. The carpenters sported twin tool belts and scuffed work boots, but there was something in the air between them, a chemistry that charged the space, that seemed to say they were more than friends, or would be soon.
Damn. Couldn’t she get a break? Everywhere she turned, there were happy couples. Roger Jennings is separated.
Emma forced a polite smile to her face. Maybe she was just reading things that weren’t there, just another jaded divorcée-to-be seeing the world as some kind of two-by-two conspiracy. “Nice to meet you, Maggie, and nice to see you again, Nick.” She shaded her eyes, then took in the decaying inn again. “I think you’re going to have your work cut out for you here.”
“Nothing we can’t handle.” Nick grinned. “Would you two like to take a tour, see what we’re going to be tackling, before we get started today?”
If Emma did that, she’d be getting more involved with the Hideaway, with securing its future, and she didn’t want to do that. Daisy could handle the renovations, and Emma could go back to Jacksonville and make some tough decisions. As for the future of the Hideaway, once it was done being refurbished, that was a choice to make down the road. If Emma could talk Daisy and her mother into selling it, then this place would be in her past once and for all.
Exactly how she wanted it. No more reminders of what might have been.
“That’s okay. We can do that later,” Emma said. “I don’t want to tie up your workday.”
“No problem. We’ll get started. The sooner we get to work, the sooner this place can be a Rescue Bay destination again.” Nick nodded toward Maggie, and the two of them reached into the back of the truck and began loading up with supplies.
“Let’s go down to the beach, and I’ll tell you about what I have planned.” Daisy looped an arm through Emma’s. “Are you hungry? I bought a sandwich and some sodas on the way over here, but it’s way too much food for just me, so I’d be thrilled to share. Besides, it’s a perfect day for a Pick-Me-Up Picnic. Don’t you think?”
A smile curved up Emma’s face. It was as if Daisy had read her mind. She shouldn’t be surprised. When the two of them had been together, they’d been more like twins than cousins. “I can’t believe you remembered those.”
“I remember it all, Emma.” Daisy squeezed her cousin’s hand. “Now, come on, let’s go re-create some memories.”
They skirted the building, and picked their way down the rotting steps that led to the beach, with Daisy’s dog following at their heels. All the while, Daisy talked about the changes ahead for the inn, about the outdoor renovations starting today, followed by new plumbing and electrical, some kitchen updates, repairs to the roof . . .
Emma let Daisy talk while her own mind whirled along a different path. Roger Jennings is separated.
Her marriage, her life, crumbling as if it were made out of the soft sand lining the beach. And here she was, hours away and powerless to change any of it. It was as if she was a spectator, watching an especially awful showing of This Is Your Life, Emma Jennings.
They settled on the beach, on a blanket Daisy had grabbed out of her trunk and spread across the sand. Major turned around three times, twisting one corner of the plaid blanket, then curled himself into a ball and fell asleep. Daisy divvied up the lunch, and kept on talking about the inn between bites.
“Now that I finally have the loan from the bank, I don’t have to worry about funding the renovations. And, having those little loan repayment coupons makes me even more determined to make the inn profitable. The inn has a second chance at life, and I want to take it. Which brings me to Olivia and Luke’s wedding. It’s a great opportunity for the Hideaway, and if you came back for that next month, then that might help you get a photography business going down here, too. I know running the inn is going to take a lot of time, but during the slow season, it might be a way to get some extra income and since you are an amazing photographer, it’d be crazy for you not to keep that going.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Emma put up a hand to ward off Daisy’s enthusiasm. “I’m only here for the weekend. Just to take the pictures you needed.”
“Okay.” Daisy leaned back on her elbows and turned her face to greet the warm sun. “But if you fall in love with this place again and want to stay, I’ll be the first to say I told you so.”
“I’m not falling in love again. With anyone.”
Daisy leaned over and opened her eyes. “Did something happen between you and Roger?”
“I’m just . . . talking out loud,” Emma said. Too fast, too defensive. Damn. She picked at her sandwich, trying to avoid Daisy’s assessing gaze. A family settled on a blanket on a spot further down the beach. A husband, wife, with two little girls wearing bright white bonnets to block the sun’s rays. The girls laughed and charged down the beach, then gasped and ran back when the cold water hit their toes. The couple held hands, with the children on either side, and started strolling along the sandy shore. Emma’s chest hurt and she looked away.
“Do you remember the first Pick-Me-Up Picnic?” Daisy said.
Emma nodded. “We were, what . . . five? Six?”
“My mom had gone off on another one of her adventures. She missed my acting debut in the first-grade play.”
“I remember that. You were a spectacular broccoli.”
“Not half as talented as your rutabaga.” Daisy grinned.
“Well, not to be a braggart, but I did have that one hilarious root cellar line.” Emma blew on her fingers.
Daisy laughed. “After the play, I rode home with you. I was so sad and your mom said it was an occasion for a Pick-Me-Up Picnic.”
Emma’s mother was always doing things like that. Making up holidays or special occasions, because either Emma or Jack had had a bad day. She’d welcomed Daisy into that family circle, like a mother eagle bringing one more eaglet under her wing. Daisy had eaten those days up, loving the normalcy, the warmth of them, such a departure from the chaos of her own home. Emma had often felt bad for her cousin and her unorthodox mother, rarely home, rarely plugged in. More often than not, Daisy had been at Emma’s house, like an extra sister.
“We got fast food and ice creams and sat on the beach until the sun went down,” Emma said. “It was one of the best days ever.”
“There’s nothing like a Pick-Me-Up Picnic,” Daisy said. “And the ones that we had when we were older that involved alcohol. Though that’s probably not what your mom had in mind when she started the tradition.”
“But
so much more fun than milkshakes and diet sodas.” Emma toasted Daisy with her bottle of diet cola, and the two of them shared a laugh. Just like old times. For a second, Emma imagined the future if she stayed here, if she and Daisy partnered on the Hideaway Inn and ended every day with a Pick-Me-Up Picnic and the kind of conversations that came from practically being sisters since birth.
Then she thought of the mess she’d left back in Jacksonville, the life half done. Roger Jennings is separated.
Was Emma strong enough to go back and deal with that? Or would it just draw out the agonizing foregone conclusion? Maybe it was time to cut her losses and move down here. Start all over again, far from the reminders of the marriage that had died when she hadn’t been looking.
“You still living with Colt?” Emma asked. After all, she’d come down here to not dwell on the Facebook status. Better to dwell on someone else’s love life than her own.
A blush filled Daisy’s cheeks, something Emma hadn’t seen on her cousin’s face in years. For a second, Emma envied that blush, that flush of excitement about a special person. Clearly, Daisy wasn’t as over Colt or as uninterested as she had professed. “Yes.”
“So . . . how are things going between you two?”
“They’re . . . complicated.” Then Daisy smiled, the kind of private smile that said she was thinking of something that only she and Colt shared.
Again that envy ran through Emma. She tried to brush it off, but the feeling lingered. She wanted to run, to get far, far from people sharing private conversations and special little smiles. “Listen, thanks for lunch. I’m going to get my camera and get some pictures taken. The light’s good right now”—it was a lie; at lunchtime, the light was too high, too bright, but Emma didn’t want to be here another second—“and I want to see what I can capture.”
“Emma, wait—”
But Emma was already on her feet and heading up the beach, away from that happy look in Daisy’s eyes, away from the very thing that she’d once had and lost. Or maybe never really had at all—and had only been deluding herself into thinking she had.
