M.J. headed for the phone on her desk when a voice in the doorway stopped her.
“She left, M.J. Gone.”
Tanya Gordon stood in the doorframe with her hands on her hips and an “I told you so” look on her face.
“What do you mean, ‘gone’? Maybe she’s in the basement, in her office.”
“Yeah, you’d think. She spends a lot of time down there. But nope, not this time. I checked. Soon as her four o’clock was done, she split, like she had a plane to catch or something. Out of here. Vroom.”
M.J. frowned. “Did she say when she’d be back?”
Tanya’s thin shoulders lifted and fell. She ran her fingers through her hair. “You never know with her. She’s, like, secretive. Especially lately. Doesn’t tell me much. She must be PMSing or something.”
“Well, thanks, Tanya.” M.J. turned back toward Izzy and Nell.
Tanya took a step into the office. “Well, I could stay, if you want. I mean, I could easily handle the appointments and stuff for Izzy’s wedding.” Her red-lipped smile was directed toward Izzy, the words at M.J.
“We’ll take care of it, Tanya. Thanks. You can go now.”
The sound of Tanya’s heels tapping angrily on the tiled hallway floor told them she had left.
M.J. shook her head. “She’s still upset with me because I promoted Tiffany to our special events coordinator. Then, when I started renovating that old storeroom in the cellar and turned one of the rooms into an office for Tiff, Tanya went through the roof. She thought she should have gotten the job—and the office—because she’s been here longer. The girl is short on manners but high on ambition.”
M.J. laughed at the expression that flitted across Izzy’s face. “That look tells me you know Tanya.”
“No, not really. She comes into the yarn shop sometimes. She’s fine, really, just a little loud and . . . well, gossipy, I guess you’d say. And frankly, I can’t imagine her dealing with Great-grandmother Chambers. She’ll be quite particular about how she looks that day.”
Nell laughed at the thought of the matriarch of the Chambers clan dealing with a flighty, not-so-capable stylist. Izzy’s words were an understatement. Adelaide Chambers—not to mention some of Izzy’s dad’s sisters—was commanding and demanding. They would make mincemeat of Tanya in the time it took to heat a curling iron.
“Tanya will mature. Hopefully, anyway. And she might even get over being mad at me—and Tiffany, too. But the fact is, Tiff is a good stylist; she’s nice to people and doesn’t talk too much. And she’s patient. Tanya has a way to go.” She looked at the clock. “I know Tiffany’s absence today isn’t great verification of her competence, but if she left, she had a good reason. In the meantime, I apologize for wasting your time.”
“It’s not wasted,” Nell assured the salon owner. She held up her glass and smiled. “This is a fine glass of wine.”
“And we’ve plenty of time before the wedding,” Izzy added. “Just have her call me tomorrow morning, and we’ll figure out another time.”
M.J. walked with them to the front of the salon, assuring them once more that it wouldn’t happen again. Tiffany had looked pale that morning. M.J. suspected maybe she’d gone home sick. A reasonable excuse.
But Tiffany Ciccolo didn’t look ill two hours later when Nell, Birdie, and Izzy climbed the steps to the Artist’s Palate deck for the Fractured Fish’s evening performance.
Izzy nudged Nell and pointed to a picnic table near the railing of the old deck. Tiffany sat alone, large sunglasses covering most of her face and her sandals tapping the wooden floor. At first the tapping seemed to be accompanying the plucking of Pete’s guitar as he tuned the strings. But soon it turned into a nervous staccato, and Tiffany’s gaze, as best they could tell, seemed focused on Andy Risso, not on Pete at all.
Andy sat on a stool, his ponytail hanging over one shoulder, and his long torso leaning forward. His eyes were on the drumhead as he fiddled with the lugs. The clicking sounds made by his key were picked up by Pete’s mic.
Tiffany watched, as if the process of tuning a snare drum was the most important thing in her life at that precise moment.
She finally pulled her gaze from Andy and looked around the deck, as if noticing the gathering crowd for the first time. She stopped suddenly, her eyes on Izzy and Nell. Her hand flew to her mouth and she started to get up from the bench. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed.
For a moment Nell thought she was about to cry.
“No problem,” Izzy mouthed back, and held up her phone. “Call me.”
They followed Birdie to a table in the middle of the deck and quickly claimed it, piling sweaters and bags on the benches to make sure Ben, Sam, Cass—and whoever else might show up—would have a place to sit.
Izzy looked back at Tiffany. “She looks embarrassed, poor thing. It’s not a big deal. People forget things.”
Nell nodded. Tiffany was back to watching the band, but the look Nell had seen in her eyes was more than embarrassment. There was a touch of that, but something else. Worry? But missing an appointment didn’t merit that, unless she thought her job was at stake.
Whatever the cause, something seemed not right.
Tiffany Ciccolo had been working at M.J.’s salon longer than Nell had been a client there. Nell remembered her as so shy, one barely noticed her as she swept the floors and straightened products and magazines. She was tall, slightly awkward, as if she weren’t completely comfortable in her own body. Then, with encouragement from M.J., Tiffany became a receptionist and some of her shyness faded. Finally, she’d gone to beauty school and returned with more confidence and a new hair color—a deep shade of red as smooth and shiny as copper tile. She was still quiet, but after beauty school, she seemed competent, more assured, and M.J. had rewarded her efforts with another promotion and even an office of her own.
Nell liked the young woman—the little she knew of her, anyway. But that was the crux of it. She didn’t know her well, not really. So why did she think something was wrong? Perhaps it was the details for Izzy’s wedding crowding her head and her life, making her see problems where none existed.
“Yoo-hoo, Nell, are you with us?” Jane Brewster sat down on the picnic bench next to Nell, her long patterned skirt billowing in the breeze.
Jane’s husband, Ham, was right behind her, one hand touching her shoulder. Ben followed close behind, balancing a tray of icy beer mugs, baskets of fried calamari, and bowls of dipping sauces.
Nell hugged her friend and motioned to Ham. “Come sit, all of you. Ben, you’re all sweaty.” She grimaced.
Ben leaned over her shoulder and kissed her soundly. He straightened up and walked around the table. “Salty kisses are good omens.”
“You’re full of it, Ben,” Jane said. “But as long as you bring food and drink, we’ll put up with you.”
“Little Merry Jackson is rarin’ to go,” Ham said. The watercolor artist—and one of Nell and Ben’s oldest friends—looked over the tops of heads toward the stage. “She’s itching to start moving.”
They all looked over at the diminutive blonde, whose husband, Hank, owned the Artist’s Palate and the valuable strip of shore upon which it sat. She was snapping her fingers, gyrating her body to the sound of Andy’s drums as he teased her with a few beats. Merry was clearly enjoying performing on her own turf.
When Pete had formed his band a few years ago, it was more for fun than for public entertaining. He and Andy Risso would get together, Pete strumming the guitar and singing and Andy on drums. Merry Jackson had heard about the jam sessions. Always looking for an excuse to get out of restaurant duty, she showed up one night at Andy’s place with an old keyboard under her arm and enough energy in her tiny body to power their amps. Soon after that, the Fractured Fish was born. Now, no prominent Sea Harbor festivity was complete without the band livening it up a notch.
“Pete says he’s doing more vocals with Merry now. They’re thinking of adding another guitarist.”
“We should get autographs while they’re still speaking to us,” Izzy said, dipping her fingers into the basket of calamari.
Cass and Danny wandered over with Willow Adams, a young fiber artist, and soon the picnic table was shoulder-to-shoulder bodies with conversations crisscrossing one another as news and food were shared in equal proportions.
As Pete began his first number, bodies began swaying with the beat, humming along with an old Beatles tune. Waiters, mostly college kids home for summer vacation, wove their way through the crowd, balancing burgers and fries, fish sandwiches, and hefty jugs of beer.
A gull swooped down beside Nell, then flew off with a piece of bun in his beak. She laughed and soaked in the salty night air. It was definitely summertime when you shared your meal with birds.
“What do you think of my girl?” Hank Jackson asked, leaning over Birdie’s shoulder and acknowledging the others with a welcoming smile.
“A bundle of talent,” Birdie said.
“Yep.” Hank’s head moved up and down as his eyes took in her every move. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? How’d I get so lucky?”
Nell watched Hank watch Merry, and smiled to herself. They were an interesting couple, odd in some ways, but marriage seemed to work for them. Although fifteen years older than Merry, Hank’s looks were a striking complement to his young wife’s—his darkly handsome face and over-six-foot frame a contrast to Merry’s delicate blond beauty. It was a surprise to many Sea Harbor people when the cheerleader married the handsome community-center coach.
Ben had told her that Hank Jackson was a hard worker. After graduating from UMass, he’d come to a town he’d once known only in the summer, visiting a relative with a place near the sea. He’d loved Sea Harbor and, together with the energetic Merry, he accomplished his dream—a bar and grill that the Sea Harbor artists’ community couldn’t do without. Hank loved it, loved being his own boss with the woman he loved at his side.
The place was comfortable, with a wooden deck that swung out over the water on one side and hugged the small restaurant on another. When weather allowed, the Artist’s Palate deck was never empty.
Like tonight. Festive and filled with happy customers, it hummed with the sounds of summer.
A bartender waved a white rag to get Hank’s attention, and the owner hurried off, surveying the crowd as he went, his body swinging slightly to the beat.
“Will you be that sexy when you’re his age?” Cass asked Danny Brandley. She bit into a strip of calamari, her eyes following Hank as he made his way around the crowded tables toward the bar, greeting customers along the way.
Danny followed her gaze, furrowing his brow in thought. “No,” he said finally.
Cass’ laugh floated into the darkening night air as the music pulsed and pounded around them. Her hand on his leg told him she thought otherwise.
Soon the crowd joined in, clapping and singing. Over near the bar, a small clearing allowed a group to get up and dance to the pounding beat.
When Pete announced the end of the first set and stepped down from the makeshift stage, the crowd cheered and hands waved to waiters, demanding more beer and burgers.
Pete made his way over to his friends and squeezed down next to Willow, helping himself to a long swig of her beer.
She took it back and elbowed him in the side. “You rock star, you,” she whispered. “Are you trying to have your way with me?”
“With your beer, anyway.” Pete reached for it again, this time sloshing a stream of pale ale along the table and onto Willow’s lap.
“Ugh,” Willow complained, leaning back from the table.
They were just friends, she and Pete—at least that was what Willow claimed—but the glances and gestures told Nell that it was a friendship growing deeper by the day, something that they’d all cheer for if that happened. When Willow had come to Sea Harbor several years before, looking for her father, she was a lost soul, a “waif,” Birdie had called her. She fit the description perfectly. But in time she came to grips with who she was—and with her father’s death. Now Willow Adams was a vital part of the artist community, her reputation as a fiber artist growing each year. And she’d turned her father’s Fishtail Gallery into something he’d be very proud of.
Nell got up and headed for the bar. She grabbed a pile of napkins and began weaving her way back through the growing crowd.
She glanced at Tiffany’s table as she passed. Andy Risso was there, straddling the bench. One elbow was on the table, his shoulder lifted in an uncomfortable pose. He was listening intently.
Tiffany’s eyes were intense, her face alive with urgency. She held out one hand toward him, her palm raised, as if presenting him with something that would change his life forever.
Nell moved an inch closer just as Tiffany stopped talking. She sat back, her face now expectant, waiting for a response.
Nell looked at Andy.
His mouth had dropped open, his eyes wide as he stared at the woman in front of him. Whatever Tiffany had presented him with was jarring—and disturbing, from what Nell could see. His brows were pulled together, his jaw set.
Beside him, Tiffany started talking again, her eyes large and her hands moving frantically in the air as if to wipe away his response.
Andy continued to listen, but his posture was rigid, his expression disbelieving. He forked one hand through his long hair and pulled himself up from the bench.
Nell turned away, but the harshness in Andy’s voice stopped her, and she looked back once more to see Andy leaning forward, his palm flat on the table. “Blackmail?” she heard him say. “Is that what this is?”
Tiffany tore off her sunglasses, and Nell saw the tears gather, then quickly begin to roll down her cheeks. She reached out and touched Andy’s arm.
He pulled back with a jerk as sudden as if she’d pressed a lighted cigarette into his arm.
Nell looked around. All around her people were laughing and talking, table hopping to greet friends; waiters scurried to replace pitchers and platters and baskets of fries. No one seemed aware of the drama playing out at the small table near the railing.
Just then a young waitress carrying an enormous tray attempted to move around Nell, and only then did she realize she was standing still, blocking traffic. Quickly, she headed back to her own table, looking back only when she’d handed off the napkins to Willow.
Andy was gone. She spotted him at the outdoor bar, grabbing a beer that the bartender slid across the counter.
Tiffany’s eyes were on Andy’s back, and the look of longing on her face was so intense that Nell quickly turned away. It was an awful, sad longing.
“You okay, Nell?” Pete stood next to her at the end of the table, wiping calamari from his hands.
She managed a smile, then looked across the deck, where Andy was heading back to the stage. “I’m fine. But is your friend Andy okay?”
Pete followed her look. Then he glanced over at Tiffany. “I hope so. I see she’s here. No surprise. We can always count on an audience of one.” He laughed, but his eyes were serious.
“You mean Tiffany?”
He nodded. “She’s okay, I guess. Kinda quiet. At first I thought she was just a groupie, fawning all over Andy. It bugged him. But after a while he warmed up to her. They knew each other when they were teenagers, he said. So they started hanging out, mostly at Tiffany’s instigation, I think. But Willow says, what’s wrong with that? Men can pursue women and no one thinks anything of it. She has a point, I guess. Anyway, they were together a lot these last months. But lately, I don’t know.
“The last couple weeks it seemed to get to Andy. He’d get this trapped look on his face. She came over early today, when we were setting up, offering to help. Andy tried to ignore her, but she wouldn’t let him. She said they needed to talk about things. It was important, she said. I thought I heard her say something about . . .” Pete stopped. He frowned, then laughed, scattering his words as if he shouldn’t have spoken them in the first place. He
looked toward the stage. “Looks like we’re ready for another set. Gotta go.” He gave Nell a pat on the shoulder and melted into the crowd.
Nell watched him walk away, an uncomfortable feeling growing inside her. Across the room, Tiffany Ciccolo sat alone, her glasses back on and her face turned toward the stage. Her expression was unreadable.
By the time Pete had tapped the microphone to life, people had moved to their crowded tables and settled down, ready for another go-round.
The music grew in volume as the night darkened and the crowd thinned out, some settling in for the last few songs, others moving off toward home. Sam and Izzy left to take Birdie home, and by the time Pete stretched and Merry began belting out “Scarlet Begonias,” Nell’s lids were drooping. Beside her, she felt Ben’s head nod once or twice.
“You’re waking up just in time to help us tear down,” Pete said, coming up alongside Ben and clapping him on the back. “Good man.”
Hank followed him over and thrust a beer in his hand. “Good job, Pete. Here’s one for the road.” He looked around, spotted his wife across the deck, and waved her over.
But Merry ignored him. Instead, she walked over to the table where Tiffany sat alone, her elbows on the table, her head resting on her hands. She was staring off toward the water as if she’d lost something there.
Tiffany looked up as Merry approached. A neutral look, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming.
Merry sat down and put one arm around Tiffany’s shoulders. From the stage, Andy seemed not to notice. He wrapped up the thick cords and began to pack up his equipment.
Nell finished a cup of coffee that Hank had thoughtfully brought over and suggested to Ben that they leave.
“You folks go on,” Hank said. “I’ll help the band get their stuff together.”
The Wedding Shawl Page 4
