Chapter 3
Instead of waiting at home until the appointed time to call Hayley, I decide to head to the Tasty Tortellini.
I’ve been thinking about their roasted garlic gnocchi ever since she mentioned the restaurant, plus I feel more comfortable being onsite for her blind date.
The location is public and the restaurant draws a decent dinner crowd, so she should be safe, but a girl can never be too careful.
Most of the residents of southeastern Tennessee are exactly how you’d expect them to be: generous, hospitable, and overly friendly.
Fast to smile but with a slow southern drawl.
But then there are the occasional nutcases like Eric Rudolph, the Olympic Park Bomber, who managed to evade law enforcement for years by hiding out in the mountains of Appalachia.
In case Hayley’s date tries to slip her a roofie so he can haul her back to his corner of the hollow, I’ll be here to stop him.
I’m seated at a small table near the middle of the dining room with a clear view of the front door. So far, Sheriff Jacobs has come in with his wife. He’s out of uniform and off duty, but if Hayley’s date has any nefarious tendencies, the sheriff will be close at hand for backup.
Dalton Matthews came in and picked up a to-go order.
His Carhartt dungarees and plaid flannel shirt had a thick layer of sawdust clinging to them.
Probably taking a break from the chainsaw sculpture he’s working on just long enough to get a bite to eat.
Everyone in town is dying to see the top-secret art installation he’s been creating in the town square over the past couple of weeks, but not a single person besides Dalton has laid eyes on it.
The front door opens, a sliver of early evening sunlight shooting through the space and tracking across the wide-planked floors.
A bouquet of white gladiolas sitting in a vase along the half wall separating the hostess stand from the dining room hinders my immediate view of the newcomer.
I tap the screen of my phone. 6:18. Unless Hayley and her date are early, it’s not them.
“Right this way.” The hostess’s sweet soprano voice floats across the distance. She sashays around the half wall with a menu tucked against her body.
I blink at the man stepping around the partition. What are the odds that in a small mountain town I would run into a man twice in one day whom I previously had never laid eyes on?
An uncomfortable feeling in my diaphragm, a unique concoction of shame, embarrassment, and guilt, makes me shift in my seat.
It’s the same feeling I’d get as a kid when Granny would catch me being particularly naughty.
I send up a silent prayer that Tai Davis hadn’t seen me staked out on the other side of the bookshelves.
I doubt he’d be any more understanding of my vigilante bent toward book protection than my coworkers are.
My phone screen lights up at the same time the ping of a text notification sounds. Relief washes over me. I can bury my face in my phone and ignore the world and possibly the accusing glare of the man who—my stomach dips—is currently being seated at the table in front of me.
Because of course he is. There are exactly nine vacant tables, seven of which aren’t in my direct line of sight, but he has to be seated at the one in front of me, in a chair facing me, with no centerpieces or obstructions to hide behind.
If he noticed me at the library, then his subconscious is likely to poke at him until he can place my face.
He sets a book on the table before picking up his menu.
Ping.
I unlock my phone with Face ID and open the text message from my sister, Penelope.
Penelope
Granny and Grampie’s fiftieth wedding anniversary is coming up in a few months. We should do something special for them to celebrate.
Any ideas?
I sit and ponder.
My brain is . . . blank. I’ve got . . . exactly nothing.
My thumbs hover over the screen as I wait for inspiration to strike.
This shouldn’t be this hard. A celebration of fifty years of love and commitment.
Of doing life together. Through highs and lows.
Good and bad. But always together. While my love for romance is unrequited, my grandparents have the real deal.
My phone starts ringing, and I jolt, tapping the accept button with my thumb.
“You were taking too long to respond.” My sister forgoes any greeting to get straight to the point.
“I was thinking,” I explain, careful to keep my voice quiet so I don’t disturb any of the other diners. “Plus, I’m at a restaurant. Can we talk later?”
A server stops at Tai’s table. He turns his head, his neck elongating as he looks up, the rose tattoo unfurling above the collar of his black shirt.
I’ve never been much of a tattoo person, really.
Maybe because of lack of exposure? Maybe because of the undertones in which they were talked about around me?
I grew up in the Bible Belt, attending both church and church schools.
If someone did have a tattoo, it was in a location easily hidden, not paraded about.
So, maybe that’s why this tattoo in particular has me hypnotized every time I see it—the allure of the taboo.
Tai hands the menu to the server. He’s shed his leather jacket, and for the first time, I get a glimpse of his arms. His golden skin gleams under the restaurant’s hanging lights, the silhouette of strong muscles pushing against the confines of the fabric of his tee.
Color and black lines wrap around one of his limbs, disappearing under the hem of his shirtsleeve and illustrating his arm to the wrist.
I swallow, trying to add moisture to my suddenly dry mouth. My granny’s voice in my head tells me not to stare. To mind my manners. Be a good girl.
“I think we should throw them a big party.” Penelope ignores my request that we talk later. She’s a corporate manager for some tech company in Chattanooga, so she’s used to bossing people around—and getting her way. “Give them a second wedding reception, so to speak.”
I twist in my seat and stare at a painting of a provincial Italian alfresco bistro. Tai Davis’s body art is out of sight, out of mind.
“And who would we invite?” I know the answer, so I’m not sure why I’m asking. Maybe holding on to that teeny-tiny sliver of hope that my only sister wouldn’t ask me to—
“Everyone,” she says with the finality of a nail driven into a coffin.
Everyone encompasses the one person I have no desire to ever lay eyes on again.
The server approaches my table with a steaming plate of potato dumplings with roasted cloves of garlic in a brown butter sauce.
The smell arrives before the plate is even set, making my mouth water.
I pull the phone away from my ear. “Thank you so much.” The server dips her head in acknowledgment and heads back to the kitchen.
Taking a sip of water, I begrudgingly return to Penelope. “How about we do something small and intimate instead?” I should save my breath, I really should. My sister has already made up her mind, so no matter what I say, she’s not going to budge. But I plow forward anyway.
“A candlelit dinner in the backyard, hundreds of tealights flickering against the night sky. I’ll cook something really special, or we can order from one of your fancy-schmancy restaurants that you take clients to.
We can serve them like we used to do when we were kids.
You can even serenade them on the violin. It’ll be romantic.”
“Hundreds of candles sounds like a fire waiting to happen, and I haven’t played the violin in ten years. My screeching would be far from romantic.”
“But—”
Penelope’s sigh is a bucket of water on my protest. “You know exactly how we can get away with not inviting him, Evangeline.” Her frustration is evident in the tightness of her tone. She’s probably pinching the bridge of her nose right now, staving off the headache I’m causing.
This is a conversation we’ve had more than once.
Even though I told my big sister the whole messy truth about why Brett had called off the wedding, and she’s had a front-row seat to witness the depths of my pain and the scars that are still trying to heal, I’ve kept the sordid details hidden from my grandparents.
Brett’s grandparents are my grandparents’ best friends and have been for at least thirty years.
It’s how Brett and I met. We grew up together.
The friends-to-more story everyone loves.
Because our two families are so intertwined, I didn’t want to do or say anything to my grandparents that could potentially jeopardize or ultimately end their friendship.
I was already dealing with so much; I couldn’t add the guilt of killing a decades-long relationship too.
Penelope understood my reasons, but she’s also been vocal about her disagreement.
She thinks I’m excusing Brett’s behavior by keeping quiet.
She also thinks I’m not giving either set of grandparents enough credit, assuring me Granny and Grampie are capable of not throwing out a bushel of apples because of one bad fruit.
The front door opens, and Hayley’s laugh tumbles into the restaurant.
“I really have to go, Penelope. We can discuss their anniversary another time.”
“I want to get this pinned down. We need to—”
We probably need to do a lot of things, according to my sister, but this time I don’t stay on the line to hear the itemized list of responsibilities she’s going to delegate to me.
I hang up, grimacing as I do so. My phone immediately starts ringing, and I wince again as I send the call to voicemail.
That’s going to be one angry message, but I just can’t right now, and I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.
Hayley’s eyes widen at me as she follows the hostess into the dining room. What are you doing here? she mouths.