Chapter 5
Artemis
“Be the quirk in the quilt. Stand out.”
—Eloisa Hobby
Artie eyed the knitting woman perched atop the unicycle.
She was small but wiry, with half-moon reading glasses resting on the end of her upturned nose. The knitting needles clacked, punctuated by the squeaking of the pedals as she wheeled back and forth to keep her balance.
“You must be Jeanie,” Eloisa addressed Gran without missing a beat, finishing the stitch, then tucking her knitting into the large front pocket of her skirt and holding out her hand to Gran.
Gran shook hands with the woman and gave a little curtsy as if she was meeting royalty. “Thank you for inviting us to your island. It’s a great honor to be here.”
“Oh, no, I’m the one who is honored. To have someone of your quilting stature travel all this way to take part in our modest contest. Why, it’s my privilege.”
Her grandmother blushed and lowered her head. “You’re too kind.”
Artie resisted an eye roll. Good grief, grown-ups, and their formalities. Truth be told, she was überpissed to get dragged along on this dumb excursion to an old lady quilting convention or whatever.
Right now, she should have been in Italy with her dad and Beck. The month before Dad got murdered, they’d started planning a Roman holiday just for the three of them while Mom took a girls’ trip with her friends to some fancy spa in Arizona.
At the thought of her dad, Artie tamped down her grief and iced it over with a layer of I-don’t-give-a-shit. She missed him like crazy, but if she let herself think about it too much, she’d lose it.
Mom hadn’t coped well, and Artie wanted to be the exact opposite of Luna. Especially after Artie found out about Dad gambling away everything. It had come as a jolting shock and Artie was ticked at her father for putting Mom in this position—having to live with Gran in a worn-out oil field town like Julep.
Maybe that’s what would keep Artie busy this summer—planning her future and deciding who she wanted to be when she grew up.
A low chirring noise drew everyone’s attention back to the path just as a six-person, Day-Glo-green golf cart wrapped with a map of Hobby Island motored into view. Behind the wheel sat a tall, sturdy-looking older woman dressed in vibrant red. With a booming laugh, she goosed the electric engine and zoomed closer.
Artie beamed. Maybe this old lady island wouldn’t be as boring as she feared.
“Cheers!” the driver called, cheery as sunshine after a May rain shower. The woman had a booming British accent, and she sounded the way butterscotch tasted, rich and sweet. “Your chariot has arrived, dear guests!”
Mom shot the driver a skeptical look as the woman parked the elongated golf cart alongside Eloisa Hobby. Her mom distrusted everyone, but she distrusted flamboyant people most of all.
Artie was intrigued.
Her grandpa Jack had been flamboyant. Grandpa hadn’t been afraid of anything or anyone, and she missed him with a passion. He told dirty jokes, sang naughty songs, and did things—he drove stock cars, water-skied, and went bungee jumping.
Once, when he was supposed to be babysitting them—while Gran had surgery and Mom sat at the hospital with her—he took Artie and Beck to a nightclub, slipping them in through the back door.
They glimpsed a jiggly woman with no clothes on, and Grandpa Jack let them have a sip of his beer. It tasted awful, but Artie pretended to enjoy it to impress him. Beck spat it out, and Grandpa Jack poked fun at her brother.
Mom nearly had a stroke when she found out and, after that, refused to leave her and Beck alone with Grandpa Jack ever again.
The driver unfurled from behind the wheel, smoothed down her red pinafore, and patted her steel-gray hair mussed wild from the golf cart ride. The woman’s knobby elbows stuck out like oak tree knots, and her hands were as big as Frisbees and speckled with dark spots. She wore ribbed red knee socks and scuffed Doc Martens boots, just like Artie’s.
The woman tromped over and stuck out a palm. “You must be Artemis.”
How did she know?
Speechless, Artie bobbed her head and shook the woman’s hand.
“My name is Dorothy Higginbottom, originally from Manchester, England. These days I’m Hobby Island’s artist in residence and you may call me Dot.”
“Hi, Dot. Please call me Artie.”
“Oh, I like that. Artie the artist.”
“I’m not an artist.”
“Everyone’s an artist. They just don’t always know it yet.” Dot let go of Artie’s hand. “And you’re mine.”
“Y-yours?” Artie stammered, irritated at being thrown off her game. “What does that mean?”
“Eloisa assigned me to look after you while you’re here.”
“Assigned?”
Eloisa pedaled over on the unicycle. She was knitting again, fingers flying, needles clacking. “All our guests under eighteen get an auntie to look after them. Dot’s yours.”
“What’s an auntie?” Artie asked Eloisa. “I mean besides the obvious definition.”
“An auntie acts as your guide to the island,” Eloisa said. “She sees to your every need and keeps you safe.”
“Every need?” Artie arched an eyebrow.
“Within reason, of course.” Eloisa’s smile was cryptic.
Artie whipped out her cell phone. “Hey, Dot, can you hook me up with cell service?”
“Happily, no.” Dot shook her head and waved at the hilly peak rising from the middle of the island. “Trouble Ridge blocks the cell towers from the mainland.”
“Trouble Ridge?” Mom asked, scanning the area. “That sounds ominous.”
“Happily?” Artie scowled and clenched her cell phone.
“Dot’s a Luddite,” Eloisa said. “But don’t worry. She’ll keep you so entertained you’ll never miss your phone.”
“I seriously doubt that’s true.” Artie snorted.
“Trouble Ridge?” her mother said again. “I don’t like that name. This island is supposed to be peaceful and idyllic. That’s what the brochure says.”
Artie groaned and slapped her forehead with her palm. “Mom, it’s just a name. It means nothing. Roll with it.”
“Dot sometimes looks on the shady side of life. It’s one of her quirks, and we do love her for it. She keeps us grounded,” Eloisa said. “But she’s the only one who calls it Trouble Ridge. To the rest of us it’s Opportunity Ridge.”
“That’s a significant difference,” Mom said, “between trouble and opportunity.”
“Yes, exactly.” Eloisa beamed as if Luna was a straight-A student. “It’s all in your perspective. Life can be a trouble or an opportunity. It’s your choice how you see things.”
“As if it’s that easy,” Mom mumbled, “turning your thinking ‘off and on’ like a light switch.”
Eloisa sent Mom a look of such kindness that Artie liked her even more. “Every challenge we’re presented with can be a gateway to either trouble or opportunity. Like half a glass of water. Is it half full or half empty?”
Nanette fluffed her striking red hair and joined in the conversation. “It’s like choosing a lens through which to view the world.”
“Precisely.” Eloisa nodded. “The universe doesn’t label events as good or bad. It simply presents them to us. It’s our mind that creates heaven or hell right here on Earth.”
Mom swung her attention to Dot. “What do you think about the glass of water?”
“I question if it’s even water.” Dot chuckled. “It’s dangerous to assume.”
Mom grinned at the extraordinarily tall woman. “I think you just might be my spirit animal.”
“We’ll get along swimmingly.” Dot laughed and stuck out her hand to Luna.
“Interesting.” Eloisa pulled a notebook from her pocket and jotted down something.
Artie itched to know what she wrote.
“Load up, mates. We have a schedule to keep.” Dot waved an index finger over her head in a circle.
“Indeed,” Eloisa said. “Everyone, go along in the golf cart with Dot. I’ll take a shortcut through the glen and meet you in Crafters’ Corner for orientation at four. See you there!”
With that, their enigmatic host cycled off through the jacaranda trees.
“What about our luggage?” Artie asked Dot. She didn’t like leaving her things behind even if the island was as safe as could be.
“No worries. Orion will pick up your suitcases and deliver them to your rooms,” Dot said.
Orion?
“Who is Orion?” she asked.
“The gardener’s kid.”
Kid? Did that mean Orion was a teenager? God, she’d kill to have someone her own age around here. With her luck, the guy was probably twelve.
Artie’s pulse quickened. In Greek mythology, Orion and Artemis had quite a tragic love story. Artie had never met another person named for a character from Greek mythology and she was curious. Who was this Orion? Could he possibly be near her own age?
She pictured him with tousled hair, windblown by the ocean. And his eyes? Oh, perhaps a lively blue, like the midmorning sky when not a cloud dared show its face.
Maybe he was tall and lanky, with shoulder-length curls and a mischievous grin. Or perhaps he was short and stocky, with close-cropped brown hair and deep gray eyes that sparkled whenever he smiled. Would he wear a baseball cap and say “Morning, miss!” in a chipper voice? Or perhaps he was more the shy, nose-in-a-book type? It’d be fun if he knew about the whole Artemis-Orion bit from mythology. They could laugh about it together.
Artie giggled to herself, thinking of their first meetup. She’d probably end up tripping over her own two feet or saying something goofy like Hello! Fancy being named after a constellation, eh?
The merry laughter of her mother, grandmother, Sharon, Isabelle, and Nanette climbing into the golf cart brought Artie back from her daydreams. It was good to hear Mom laugh.
Everyone else settled into the back seats while Artie took shotgun beside Dot. The large woman gave the cart some juice, and they bulleted down the cobblestone pathway to their destination.
Behind her, Mom, Gran, and the other ladies discussed crafts and hobbies and Artie tuned out their conversation.
Dot swerved to miss a squirrel when the little fella darted across the path. Nanette shrieked as the golf cart bounced and the wheels left the ground for a second. Artie laughed her ass off.
“Hold on tight!” Dot hollered over her shoulder.
Artie clutched her seat and peeked out at the scenery.
Everything around them was as vibrant as a dreamscape—bright green grass, lush purple trees, pink seashells along the shore, and endless azure ocean that stretched for miles in either direction.
Now and then, they’d pass through a field of wildflowers—a mix of pinks, purples, yellows, and oranges so bright it hurt to look at them.
Dot pointed out interesting sights as they drove through the countryside.
She showed them the road that led to the turtle preserve and butterfly hatchery, then directed their attention to sailboat rentals and a lighthouse open to guests.
The golf cart coasted down the small incline toward the quaint little village by the sea.
“We have one main street in Crafters’ Corner,” Dot said. “But we’ve got everything you need.”
“Except for the internet,” Artie said.
“Give us a month,” Dot said. “We’ll make a Luddite of you yet.”
“Over my dead body.”
Dot laughed. “You won’t miss that phone at all. You’ll see.”
The cobblestone pathway forked just before they reached the shops and restaurants. Dot veered left away from the village and headed toward a row of ten Victorian-style houses, all with B&B signs on the front lawn.
“When you come out of your B&B, you’ll walk straight up Main Street to Crafters’ Corner.” Dot waved in that direction. “We’ll meet in the quad for orientation at four.”
Dot guided the golf cart up the winding drive of the last B&B in the uniform line of houses.
The B&B was a majestic blue two-story with gables and shutters painted a soft cream color.
It looked a lot like Gran’s house in Julep, except in better shape.
A wraparound porch issued an invitation for guests to sit on the white rocking chairs and enjoy the potted plants and sea view.
“Welcome to the Nestled Inn!” Dot said as they got out.
Dot showed them around the grounds and explained the history of the Nestled Inn.
Inside, the house smelled like someone was baking sugar cookies. The aroma of vanilla and cinnamon drifted into the hallway. Artie wanted to eat the delicious air with a knife and fork. She licked her lips, anticipating.
“Yoo-hoo! Vivi!” Dot called. “We’re here!”
“Right on time!” A vivacious older woman whose voice was as smooth as silk pajamas appeared in the foyer. “Hello, I’m Vivian Faraday. Welcome, welcome to the Nestled Inn.”
Vivian was retro in a cornflower blue headscarf and dramatic wide-framed glasses.
She had on a sleeveless, short-hemmed Barbie-pink sundress, matching designer stilettos, and deep crimson lipstick.
She was as spindly legged as a thoroughbred horse with ample cleavage spilling from the plunging V neckline.
Their hostess radiated goodness at them, her big blue eyes shining, and a wide gap between her two front teeth punctuated her smile and gave her a strange innocence.
“Come on in.” Vivian ushered them into the living area.
The women in this place were wacky AF, and Artie loved it.
Through the panoramic window, Artie spied the idyllic ocean, an endless vista of waves, aqua blue and white caps, rolling onto shore as if to say, Come on in.
Umbrellas, sun worshippers, and surfers dotted the pristine beach.
The nautical theme ran across the floor, ceilings, and walls.
The wall color was a soft shade of sea blue, the floor a beachy brown, and the furniture a dark aqua, decorated with beige and white throw pillows.
The room made Artie feel peaceful just standing in it.
“Jeanie, Luna, Sharon, Nanette, and Isabelle,” Dot said. “Vivian will show you each to your rooms while I get Artie settled in.”
“We’re not sharing a room?” Gran interlaced her fingers the way she did whenever she was nervous.
“No, you each have your private space.” Dot smiled.
Luna met Artie’s eyes. “Will you be okay on your own?”
“Pfft. I’m fine.” Artie waved a hand. Mom was so freaking overprotective.
“Let’s get settled in and then meet here in the foyer at three forty-five.” Mom smiled and Artie loved seeing her in a cheerful mood. “We’ll walk to Crafters’ Corner together for orientation.”
Vivian took the adults in the opposite direction on the first floor.
Divide and conquer? Artie scratched her chin and slid up her guard. Just like Mom, suspicious and assuming the worst. Dammit.
“Artie?” Dot hovered on the bottom step of the staircase. “You with me?”
“Yes, yes.” Artie nodded. “I’m coming.”
With that, she left her family behind.