20. Marnie
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marnie
Marnie Strange, what’re you doing? I nearly stumble, leaving Grady Tripp’s impressive chest and strong, melt-me-like-butter-on-a-hot-day arms. I let go of the poor man, blushing from embarrassment and flushed with something else —I dare not speak it.
“Sorry, Grady. I’ll refrain from taking advantage of you for free hugs. You’re not the hugging type, are you?”
He looks confused. “No, but it’s okay.”
“Not okay,” I argue, finger-wagging. “It’s not every day that I score the protection and help of a pirate captain. I got carried away.”
“First of all, you’re the captain. And if I thought you were overstepping, I would’ve told you. For you, hugs are allowed. Encouraged, even. Let’s keep it between us, though. I can’t let anything ruin my Grouchy Tripp reputation.”
He makes me smile, and everything feels lighter. “Understood.”
His hands perch on his hips as he takes in the oversized, rundown convenience store behind us. “Are you sure about this? I didn’t know how bad it’d gotten. Trying to turn this place around seems like agreeing to take a nosedive into a pool of shit.”
“Wow, what creative imagery,” I chuckle. “I’m sure.”
“Truth?”
“Truth.” I don’t mention that, yes, the place is overwhelmingly awful. The clean-up alone will take weeks of hard labor. Half of his products have expired. There’s definitely a bug problem, perhaps rodents, too. And any rebranding attempt means getting Wade and company to change their ways—a feat in and of itself. Diving into a shit pit is an accurate assessment of the undertaking.
And yet, I can’t think of anything else I’d want to do, partly because challenges and special projects are my jam. Seriously.
But more than that, I want to do it for Grady. He saved my life—he should have his back. If taking this job alleviates his guilt and restores his peace of mind, then, of course, I’ll do it for him. He needs this as much as I do.
By the time we finish working out details with Wade, darkness falls, turning the swamp into black ink and gray shadows. Heading toward Grady’s truck, I pull my sweater on to battle the chill in the air.
“Hungry?” Grady asks.
“Um, yeah.”
“Marigold doesn’t like eating out on the fly, but how about we take her home and raid Mom’s kitchen?”
The question surprises me. “Are you sure she wouldn’t mind?”
He smirks. “She’ll be ecstatic. Trust me. Only let’s not mention the Wade situation. Okay?”
“Okay, why not?”
“Did you hear that Marigold? We aren’t discussing Wade or the G he was in charge of sound.
Carmela reaches me, going straight for a gentle hug and then grabbing my free hand to pull me into the house. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She means it, though I feel like a spare card mixed into the wrong deck.
“Come to the kitchen. It’s taco night. Hope you’re hungry.”
With me occupied, attention diverts to Grady—his father asking for his help with hay tomorrow, Colin reminding him about Zoe’s bake sale, Gil asking about a trip to GameStop, and other requests that I don’t hear as Carmela moves me into the kitchen.
“Hope you like tacos… I could warm up something if you don’t… How’re those headaches?”
I ramble off quick answers, dazed by her beautiful but intense attention. I see where Grady gets it from, though I imagine he wouldn’t like that observation pointed out.
Mom’s voice stirs in my head. “Let’s move south, find out if there’s anything to Southern hospitality.” Her idea took us to Virginia briefly. Then, six towns in North Carolina, like we were having trouble finding the elusive cliché. Until Seagrove, where I found it, but she didn’t. I wonder if Mom’s still searching.
The grand kitchen island seats eight with bar stools around all sides but one, where Carmela moves to turn off a burner and fixes me a plate.
Games resume in the great room. Pop music plays on the large TV perched above the mantel, and a light show matches the beats on the screen. Elena follows us into the kitchen, grabbing an open bottle of red from the drink station.
“Wine, Marnie?” she asks. “Are you a red or a white?”
“Um, I don’t know.” I rarely drink wine unless at Cora’s house for a dinner party or at the Seagrove Lake Club for one of the Sullivan’s charity events, and then, I always take what they hand me. “Surprise me.”
She smirks at the challenge and contemplates the bottles.
Carmela presents a plate with two meat-filled, crunchy tacos. “Help yourself to all the toppings, chips, and dips.”
The island is crowded with condiments and dips: seven-layer, bean, queso, cheese, avocado, and fresh salsas of every variety, with little index cards indicating what they are and their spice level. Tiny splotches of tomatoes, chip crumbs, and cheese drizzles dot the granite surface between dishes, revealing that the family has already been through the line.
“So, um, how often do you guys have game night?” I ask, piling veggies on my tacos.
Grady helps himself, moving around his mother and sampling as he goes.
“Once a month,” Carmela answers, her eyes darting to a huge wall calendar near the fridge. It’s jam-packed with Sharpie-marked events. Zoe’s horse shows. Zach’s soccer matches. Trivia night at Rebellion. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Book clubs. Church events. I can’t find one empty space.
“Wow, you’re a busy family.”
Elena hands me a long-stemmed wine glass. “I went with red. You are a red, after all.”
“It’s a mutation,” I blurt before taking a gulp. Why am I so freaking nervous all of a sudden? “My hair. It’s a genetic mutation.”
Grady eyes me curiously, his lips twitching in a smirk.
“Oh, that’s… I didn’t know that,” Carmela says.
“Um, thanks for the wine and dinner.” I tip my glass toward them. Elena stands next to Carmela on the other side of the island, both seeming to scrutinize me.
Willow strolls in, smiling. “Your aura is lighter today, Marnie. That’s nice to see.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Zoe and Zach race in, bumbling around Grady for more chips and gloating about how they just stomped their grandfather in Farm-opoly , an irony since he’s the farmer.
I take another long sip of wine, wondering how long before the alcohol will mellow me out. It makes no sense to feel so anxious around these wonderful people.
But these aren’t my people. And this isn’t my stomping ground.
Colin weaves into the kitchen, shuffling around Grady and rounding up his kids. “Oh, Marnie, do you know if Ashe is still buying that house?”
I almost choke on tacos. “House?”
“The four-bedroom place near his parents?” Colin clarifies so matter-of-factly that I first think he’s confused his clients. Ashe has a condo near the beach and no house plans, as far as I know. We discussed buying a house later, once we settled into our store manager positions and found a good middle ground between them.
“I’ve been trying to reach him,” he goes on. “The owners are ready to keep his security deposit and move on if he doesn’t finish that paperwork. Should’ve closed already. They accepted his offer nearly two months ago.”
“Um, that’s news to me. I don’t know.” I force a smile. “You should try calling him at the Carolina Beach store. That’s where he’s working now.”
“Will do, thanks.” He rushes from the room like he might make the call now.
Suddenly, everyone in the room stares at me—not helping my nerves. “These tacos are delicious.”
Grady looks practically murderous, hovering at the bar’s end, his teeth clenched and his muscles flexed like he might rip the granite off its foundation.
A beautiful lakeside house gets added to The List of Things Marnie Lost in the Accident . Is that what’s transformed Relaxed Grady back into Grouchy Tripp? Or is he mad at his brother for dropping the bomb? Or both? I don’t know, but I feel bad either way. Spending time with me might hurt Grady more than it helps.
I finish the wine and hold my glass out to Elena for a refill.
“I knew you were a red,” she smirks.
“So, Marnie, do you like board games?” Carmela asks.
Do I like board games? It’s like asking if a bank robber likes money or a race car driver likes going fast. I don’t like board games; I adore them. Study them. Build them in my head. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a killer concept for my next project and can’t go back to sleep. That’s how much I love board games.
And yet, my thoughts jumble and race. Instead of relaxing with the wine, I’m overrun with angst over one sharp, prevailing thought.
I don’t belong here.
I’m just the woman with the ruined life, latching on to the man who pushed over the first domino.
“Bathroom?” I ask instead, the bar stool scraping the floor as I push out of it.
Seconds later, I’m behind a locked door of a guest bathroom. My hips ache as I shift to the counter and wobble against my cane. I’ve done too much today, and my body’s retaliating.
Worse, so is my head.
Warmth from the wine spreads through my belly, but it’s not giving me the jubilant feels I need for the occasion. It’s a game night, for goodness’ sake! It should be fun, witnessing a family at play.
Instead, it makes me wearily sad.
Sad for the house I never stepped foot in. That he never told me about. That he bought without me, knowing I’d go along with anything he wanted.
Sad for the home outside this door, the family game nights, kids running around, and big dinners that’ll never happen for me.
No wonder I don’t feel like I belong.
I don’t.
The last time I felt this out of place was, weirdly, that one night in high school that changed my trajectory. Was that a mistake, too? I miss Mom.
But I can’t think about that now. Deep, determined breaths firm my shoulders and help me resume my safe position on the riverbank of my rocky, emotional rapids.
No frowns, no fears, no tears.
When I leave the bathroom, my warmest, widest smile accompanies me.