22. Justin
twenty-two
The next morning, I call Randy, the florist, and we have a lengthy talk about the appropriate flowers I should send to Chloe, all this, supposedly, confidential.
“I get my deliveries only once a week—Wednesdays,” Randy says when we’ve decided what the flowers will be.
Shit. I’ll have to wait another week? This isn’t going to work out. I need to find another way to apologize. “I can’t wait another week.”
“I hear you. If you’re willing to reconsider what flowers to include, I have a wedding this weekend. I can put together something to die for. But I won’t have yellow roses or blue delphiniums.”
Thank god. “Do people really care about the meaning of flowers?”
“Not if they were born in the last fifty years.”
“Are you sure? I’ve been told it’s important.”
“If it’s important to you, I can have them delivered a week from today.”
Nope. “And you said you can do a bouquet to die for today?”
“She’ll be talking about it ’til Christmas.”
“Alright, deal.”
“And what should the card say?”
Right. I’m keeping that part private. “I’ll bring it to you.” I run to the bookshop, pick up a cute little card with a puppy holding a ‘Sorry’ sign. Then I put it back down. Pick one up that says, ‘Sorry’ in gold cursive. Then I put it down. Grab one that has a novel written inside, a bunch of cheesy crap. I can find my own words, thank you very much. I put it back down, but I’m at a loss.
“I’d take the blank one inside with the watercolor of the covered bridge,” Ms. Angela says. I hadn’t seen her when I came into the bookshop. She must have been between bookshelves. She was my second-grade teacher, and now she runs a bed-and-breakfast. She’s also in everyone’s business, but that’s okay.
A watercolor of a bridge? “I like it. Great imagery,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Good luck,” she cackles.
Yeah, totally in everyone’s business.
I get back to my office, write my apology, and seal the card. Then I bring my card to Randy, pay him, and rush back to the pub.
He was working on the bouquet and said she should have it within the hour.
I pray to god I’m doing the right thing. That it’s not going to backfire on me. That I’m not coming on too strong.
My phone dings with a text message I don’t recognize, with a 617 area code. It could be a food provider. Or someone looking to cater an event.
Hey, Justin, hope you’re well. I need to talk to you.
Gisele
My phone dings again, a picture this time. A blonde who looks familiar.
I don’t know a Gisele.
Do I?
No. I don’t.
Haley barges into my office, looking flustered, so I pocket my phone. “Hey, boss, Declan wants to talk to you.”
Declan is our police officer. What’s going on? “Let him in.”
Ten minutes later, I’m surprised. I shouldn’t be. That little piece of shit Samuel pressed charges.
“The guy had a woman cornered in a locked space, and he was yelling at her. In her face. I’m asking you, Declan, what would you have done?”
“I hear you,” he says, looking at his notepad, pen at the ready. “Did you have any particular reason to believe she was in danger?”
Hell yes. She’s claustrophobic, and that alone is dangerous. But the guy was verbally abusing her. “He was in her face.” She was seconds away from fainting. She could have hit her head. Just having a panic attack is terrible enough. I can’t think of the consequences if I hadn’t been there.
“So they were having an argument.” He scratches his head. “Heard you had an argument with Ms. Sullivan as well. Hmmm.”
Shit. I hate that he’s making the comparison. I hate myself for what I did to her.
“Point is, people have arguments all the time,” Declan continues. “Her staff was there, they didn’t seem to think she was in danger. They actually said it was customary for Mr. Reynolds to have his ‘private’ conversations in the walk-in refrigerator.”
“You find that normal?” I snap at him.
He leans back in his chair. “Help me out, Justin. The guy is pressing charges against you. If you’re not telling me why you jumped him without warning and nearly broke his nose, there’s nothing I can do. Who’ll run the pub when you’re locked up?”
Fucking locked up? Is this guy for real?
“Lemme ask you again. Was there anything to make you think Ms. Sullivan was in actual danger?”
“Yes,” I reply without thinking.
“And what is that.”
Fuck. “I can’t tell you.”
He snaps his notebook shut. “You guys are a bunch of schoolboys. But I have to follow procedure.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t wait too long to change your mind. I’d hate to see your mugshot in the paper.”
Fuck. Me. My fists clench.
“You know where to find me.”
Yup. South access road in the morning, Easy Monday parking lot around noon, outside the high school at three in the afternoon, around Emerald Lake Resort at five, and tucked behind a copse near The Growler after ten at night.
He tucks his notepad and pen in an inside pocket. “I never thought I’d say this, but between you and me?”
What?
“You should hit 420. You need to calm the fuck down.”
Right. “Hey, Dec.”
“Yup?”
“Supposing I suspected someone of stealing from someone else, how would I go about it?”
He leans his impressive stature over my seat. “Supposing you’d grow up enough to not keep secrets from law enforcement, you’d get your thumb out of your ass and get to the station with specific, demonstrated information, and you’d let us take care of it.”
“Gotcha.”