October 10, Friday
hoop the metal ring that holds the staves together on a barrel
I WAS still feeling pensive when the tour bus rolled up the tour office, and the sight of a familiar silhouette standing in the parking lot did little to improve my mood.
Naomi was back, her sleek black hair glistening in the sun. She wore a fitted burgundy blazer over dark jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and her smile blazed with the kind of warmth that made everyone around her feel special and chosen.
"Jett!" she called out, practically bouncing on her toes with excitement.
He waved back and opened the door. "I wasn't expecting you today."
"Surprise!" she said, bounding up the steps to lower a kiss on his smiling mouth. "I finished my interviews in Georgetown early and couldn't wait to see you. Plus, I wanted to apologize to Bernadette properly."
She turned toward me then, her expression shifting from playful to contrite.
"Bernadette, I had no idea your personal situation was meant to be confidential when I mentioned it to the Biggs family.
Radical honesty is just an occupational hazard of being a reporter—I tend to share information freely without thinking about the consequences. Please forgive me."
The apology was exactly what I'd wanted to hear, acknowledging her mistake while explaining it in terms that made sense given her profession.
"I understand," I said, forcing a gracious smile. "Thank you for explaining."
"I felt terrible when Jett told me how much trouble it caused," Naomi continued, her brow furrowing with concern.
I nodded as if the entire situation was already resolved and forgotten. What choice did I have? Holding onto resentment would only make me look petty in front of Jett, and Naomi's explanation seemed reasonable enough.
"It's fine, really," I insisted. "These things happen."
"You're so understanding," Naomi said, squeezing my hand.
Just when I thought we'd successfully navigated past the awkwardness, her gaze swept over my costume with the kind of casual assessment that made my skin prickle with self-consciousness.
"Oh my goodness," she said with a little laugh. "That outfit is so adorable! You look like a tavern wench from a Renaissance festival."
I gave her a flat smile. "That's the idea."
Jett cleared his throat. "We should probably get ready for the tour. The bus needs to be loaded."
As I greeted the day's customers, I tried to shake off the lingering sting of Naomi's comment. She'd apologized for the genuinely serious breach of my privacy, which was what mattered.
But as Naomi settled into her usual seat behind Jett and her hand caressed his shoulder, I had to acknowledge that her comment about my costume—or even her inadvertent gossip—wasn't fully to blame for the disquiet in my stomach.