Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next morning, I found myself at Cove Market, determined to focus on Sunday’s festival and not the heap I’d left for myself in Marigold’s. Rhett’s leftovers hadn’t lasted long, and now even the Morning Bell’s day-olds couldn’t fill the constant hum of hunger.
So I idled at the deli counter of the Market, arms crossed, basket dangling. Mr. Henderson, the butcher, gave up on trying to help me long ago.
Steaks weren’t in my budget, even if I could figure out how to cook them without transforming it into some sort of meat rock. Chicken or turkey were my best bet. Sure, I had no idea what to do with those either, but they’d make less of a dent on my emergency credit card.
The seasonings Rhett brought would have to do. I was pretty sure hot chocolate wasn’t a good poultry marinade.
“Did you hear?”
My ears perked, though I tried to stop it.
“About the governor? Oh, yes!” Another woman replied, the voices coming closer behind me. Footsteps grew louder against the linoleum. Panicking, I lurched backward and crouched behind a display of fish on ice.
Was it ethical, as the head of the Summer’s End Festival, to spy? Perhaps not. But I also had no desire to be subjected to another gala conversation that was just gloating dressed up as pity.
“I can’t believe Claire really got him to come.”
That was Dot. I’d know the thinly veiled brag anywhere. Which would mean the woman with her was probably her Button Jar counterpart, Florence. She was kind—but in a way that was too kind, causing her to be dragged along by Dot’s whims and grudges.
I set my basket on the floor and tried to adjust my squat without my sneakers squeaking.
“It does make you wonder who else will be there, doesn’t it?” Florence said with a gasp of veritable glee.
Dot grunted. “Lots of VIP’s, I’ll tell you.”
“Do you think we’ll feel out of place?” I saw Florence’s orthopedic shoes shift closer from beneath the display. “My closest black tie dress is twenty years old,” she whisper-yelled.
“How about we go to the mall in Port Camden tomorrow?” Dot replied.
Florence clapped. “Oh, yes. Let’s. Although—”
Dot groaned.
“Don’t you feel bad for little Georgie?”
Heat marched up my neck. I pressed against the display and tried my best to defy physics and sink into the floor.
“Georgie’s not little anymore,” Dot retorted with a scoff. “She had every opportunity to join us at the gala. Turns out she’d rather make a statement and risk bankrupting half the Main Street businesses in the process.”
Focused on attempting to melt into a puddle, I hadn’t realized that they were rounding the display until they stared down at me.
Florence smiled and pushed her cat-eye glasses up her nose, the chunky acetate earrings she always wore dangling in the process.
Dot squinted as if she caught me stealing from the cookie jar.
“Hi, Georgie! What are you doing on the floor?” Florence’s eyebrows knitted together as she blinked at me.
“I’m—”
“She’s spying,” Dot interrupted and crossed her arms.
I started to protest—then remembered I was crouched on the linoleum. “No, I was at the deli counter,” I responded, awkwardly ambling to my feet. “And I… er— thought I saw a leak in the display.” Nodding, I patted the hard plastic covering the fish like a concerned mechanic.
Florence began, “Well, isn’t that thoughtful—”
“Claire just told us that there’s no more tickets available for the gala,” Dot cut in again. “So, if you’re trying to weasel your way in, it’s not going to happen.”
“She did?” Florence asked, cocking her head like a bird.
I threw my hands up and took a step back, abandoning my basket. “The Summer’s End Festival is still happening. Trust me when I say I have no interest in the gala.”
Well, maybe a teeny-tiny amount of interest that kept me staring at my phone and wishing someone would call.
“I take it you haven’t seen the forecast,” Dot replied with a smirk.
The dumb expression on my face must’ve been enough. Florence pursed her lips and cast her eyes to the floor. Dot’s smile began to look suspiciously Grinch-adjacent.
“Needless to say, the storm’s a sure thing now,” she began. “It’s predicted to flood Main Street.”
My knees nearly buckled as her words sunk in.
I pressed a hand to my chest, faded memories from the last heavy storm fifteen years ago flashing through my mind.
The row of dead fish to my left made my stomach turn—I could practically feel the chill of the calf-deep floodwater lapping at the curbs as it receded. It took many of us years to recover.
And Dot stood there, smug and rude and openly crowing about the possibility of another one.
“Why are you smiling?” I snapped, surprising myself and both the Button Jar ladies. “You were there the last time there was a flood. You know how bad it was.”
I didn’t bother to hide my scowl from her.
Dot took a step backward and touched her heart as if I’d terrorized her. “We have insurance, Georgette. If the others don’t, that’s not my fault.” She turned to Florence and murmured, “C’mon. We can come back for a pot roast later.”
Florence didn’t meet my eyes as they hurried out the Market doors.
I clutched the display to keep from collapsing, guilt wrapping around my stomach like a vise.
I’d never done that before—no matter how many times Dot deserved to be put in her place, I would smile and nod or pretend I didn’t hear.
Certain things I couldn’t abide, though, and gloating over destroyed businesses and homes was one of them.
Then the guilt burned off like a marine layer under sunlight, leaving something stronger in its place—the same resilience my grandmother carried, the kind I’d never understood until now.
And just like that, it clicked into place. I would never be one of those glorious, force-of-nature women. My kind of fortitude was quiet and soft—not the crashing kind that moved mountains, but the kind that held them steady.
That didn’t mean one was better than the other. I just had to learn to use what I had instead of sanding down my edges and covering them with smiles.
Rhett’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of my head, smug and annoying and entirely right.
I hated that I almost grinned.
???
I was headed toward the Morning Bell, thoughts of a grocery list abandoned, when a familiar face crossed my path.
“Hey, Joe,” I greeted, coming to a stop as he swept the stoop of Gulliver’s Books.
He looked up, eyes flickering with something akin to guilt as he gently leaned his broom against the glass. “Good to see you, Georgette.”
“I haven’t seen you around lately,” I said, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down.
Joe rubbed his chin, new flecks of silver peeking out in his beard. “Things have been a bit uncomfortable. What with the gala, and all.”
“I tried to make it clear that I support everyone’s decision.” Clearing the lump in my throat, I added with a dry laugh, “Even if I don’t particularly like it.”
“I don’t believe that everyone shares your sentiments,” he replied.
I watched as he slipped the glasses from his nose and cleaned the lenses with his leather-elbowed cardigan. Without them, I could see the dark shadows and the way his eyes drooped at the edges.
Resting a hand on the forest green of Gulliver’s Books, I said, “No matter what, you’re gonna be okay. And with the gala, your shop will be saved.”
“I know,” he whispered, putting his glasses back on and looking out onto Main Street. “But what good is that if I’ve lost the people here?”
My heart squeezed. I wanted to reach out and hug him, but I knew he wasn’t much for that.
“You always have me, Joe.” Leaning in, I dropped my voice conspiratorially and added, “Besides, Bluebell Cove has a short memory. Remember that time Mrs. Henderson tried to organize a gluten-free protest outside Captain’s?”
His eyebrows drew together.
“Exactly,” I said, patting him once on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just give it some breathing room.”
Joe sniffed and shook his head. “Since when did the little girl who came to me for advice start doling out wisdom?”
A wide smile stretched across my face, and I shrugged. “I dunno, Joe. Seasons are changing!”
He sent me a wave as I crossed the street.
I knew it wasn’t much, but I hoped it helped.
By all accounts, attending the gala was the right thing for Gulliver’s Books.
I wasn’t worried about the businesses who decided against the festival.
If anything, I was worried about everyone that had put their trust in me.
I just hoped that they weren’t going to end up regretting it.