7. Seven
Seven
Juliet
T he first thing I did upon returning to the cottage was lug boxes down from storage and create neat rows on the living room floor.
By the time everything was moved, I was sweaty, aching, and completely covered in dust.
Now that the literal heavy lifting was done, the rest would require more in the way of focus. I surveyed the impressive spread of boxes and bins, then decided my success called for a bath.
The claw-foot tub was massive and the linen closet boasted a wide array of bath products. I chose a particularly fragrant lavender bubble bath, then spent the next hour soaking away my aches and pains.
When the bath water grew cold, I drained the decadent tub and wandered into the kitchen, rifling half-heartedly through the cupboards. Despite my grocery trip, nothing looked appealing enough for dinner. I flipped open the laptop I'd left on the counter, did a quick search for local restaurants, and stumbled upon a place called The Mermaid.
The photos were adorable, the reviews glowing, and the website allowed for online orders, so I perused the menu and made my selections.
Spending a Friday night alone eating takeout while sorting through boxes of dusty artifacts wasn’t a thrilling prospect, but I was used to it after dealing with my mom’s attic back home.
The Mermaid was a cute family-owned place located a bit farther into town than I had previously ventured, its entrance flanked by two golden mermaid statues. This section of Main Street was full of character. I decided then and there that I would come back another day to explore on foot. I spotted a stationary shop, a quaint little bookstore, a yoga studio, and an arched entrance gate to Spruce Hill’s Town Park.
If I was going to make this place my home, I wanted to familiarize myself with everything it had to offer.
After holding the door for an older couple who were leaving with a stack of boxed leftovers, I stopped short just as I entered the restaurant.
Standing in front of me was none other than Henry Walker, looking even more stupidly attractive than he had at the inn. He wore a close-fitting white t-shirt and jeans, and his hazel eyes sparked to life when he spotted me.
“Juliet,” he said, inclining his head with mock civility.
“Henry.” My voice was cool, despite a simmer of annoyance at encountering him again.
I wished I'd done more than throw my wet, tangled curls into a ponytail. My cheeks were still flushed from the heat of the bath and I hadn’t bothered with anything but a swipe of lip gloss before leaving the house. Casual looked amazing on Henry, of course, since I could now see all the lean muscles he’d been hiding under his dress clothes.
It didn’t seem fair that someone so nasty could be so good-looking, especially when I always looked like a slouch in comparison.
“Haven’t seen you around the inn,” he mused, lifting a dark brow. “Bored with playing the boss lady already?”
I forced myself to silently count to ten, but I only made it to four before firing back, “Oh no, I’m here to stay. I just didn’t realize you needed so much supervision to do your job properly.”
The spark in his hazel eyes blossomed into a flame, then the peppy blonde behind the hostess stand called his name and I offered a sweet smile as he turned away. Henry paid for his dinner and stalked out of the restaurant, glowering at me as he passed.
Jackass.
I fought the urge to stick my tongue out at him, applauding myself for my restraint, then smiled at the cashier, paid, and hoped that Henry had left the parking lot by the time I walked out.
No such luck.
There he was, leaning against the hood of the white pickup I’d parked next to, talking to a couple of guys who directed friendly smiles at me as I headed toward my car.
My steps faltered, but there was no way to avoid walking past them. I lifted my chin and went the long way around, behind the cars, setting the bag of takeout on my back seat as the two strangers strolled away from Henry's truck.
Before I could open my door to get in, he strode toward me. I gritted my teeth and braced for a blowout.
“Are you going to fire me?” he demanded, stopping two feet away.
“Because of your little temper tantrum? No,” I shot back, glaring at him. “Are you going to quit because you think I’m some spoiled princess who doesn’t belong here?”
It would be bad for business to lose him. No matter how much I disliked him, with Gerard also on the inn’s payroll, I knew such a move would have a ripple effect that no one would be pleased with.
Henry studied me, his expression fierce, though it looked like he was struggling to stay calm.
“No,” he said finally.
I threw up my hands. “Fine, that’s settled. Can I go now?”
When he didn’t answer, I moved to open my door.
“Juliet, wait.”
His hand caught my wrist before I could slide into the seat, those long fingers wrapping easily around the delicate bones. For an instant, my attention was caught on the sight of his tan skin against my freckles, then just as quickly, my patience evaporated.
I jerked my arm from his grasp. Part of me noted the shocked expression on his face, but I was too angry to care, so I let the words fly from my mouth.
“From what I can tell, you’re doing a good job at the inn and Nan clearly wanted you there, so I will do my best to tolerate you. But if you ever touch me again, Henry Walker, I will break every bone in your hand. Do you understand me?”
His eyes flew wide at the threat. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw a flash of admiration in them, then he flexed his fingers as though my skin had burned him.
“Message received, loud and clear.”
He backed away from the car, both hands raised. I wasn’t sure if the gesture was meant to calm me down or to protect himself in case I attacked like some kind of feral animal—which was exactly what I felt like at that moment.
I experienced a momentary twinge of guilt for losing my cool as I watched him stomp toward his truck and pull out of the parking lot. When I slid into my seat, I folded my arms on the steering wheel, laying my head down against them.
All of my anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared. Henry could have been a great source of information, but our tempers had now burned that bridge.
I swallowed my regret as I tried to focus on the task at hand. The food smelled amazing and I still had a living room full of boxes to sort through, after all. I drove home in silence, distracted from my earlier enthusiasm by the confrontation with Henry. This was a small town—there would be no chance of avoiding him completely, not even if he did leave his job at the inn.
If I was perfectly honest with myself, I didn’t even want him to quit. Now that I had a plan for the next year, I had no interest in taking over the bookkeeping, nor did I want the hassle of finding a replacement for a job I knew so little about.
Dammit .
All I wanted was to focus on the mystery surrounding my family. The last thing I needed was the hot accountant throwing drama my way.
Once I got back to the cottage, I juggled the takeout in one hand and my keys in the other, hoping dinner would soothe my temper. I reached out to unlock the front door only to realize it was unlatched, a bare half inch gap between the frame and the open door.
Had I forgotten to close it all the way? I could’ve sworn I locked it when I left, but my mind had been swirling with information even after the bath.
My fingers tightened around the key as I pushed the door open and peered into the cottage as though someone might jump out from behind the couch.
Silence greeted me, so I stepped inside and set the food on the kitchen counter. I considered calling the police, or even Gerard, but did I really want to invite even more drama into my life here? The last thing I needed was to be known as the silly little woman who forgot to pull her door fully shut and panicked.
No, I could handle this. I methodically checked every room of the cottage with the keys caught between my fingers like claws, in case I stumbled upon an intruder. Nothing looked out of place or tampered with, no one lurked in the shadows. Everything was exactly as I’d left it.
Between my mom’s warning and my irritating run-ins with Henry Walker, my nerves were getting the best of me. I’d just have to be more careful about locking the door in the future.
Reassured, I sat at the kitchen table and finished the first half of my panini with embarrassing speed. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for a moment, then put the other half on my plate and moved to the living room.
I was staring at the sea of boxes, wondering where to start, when my phone rang.
“You are supposed to be enjoying your long-awaited opportunity to travel,” I scolded as I answered the call. “How many times do I need to say this?”
“Andre rolled his ankle on a cobblestone street, so we’re taking a day of rest tomorrow and I’m allowed to stay up late. How’s it going across the pond?”
“Well, the manager of the inn despises me and I might have threatened to break his hand when I picked up my dinner tonight, but other than that, things are swell. I’m surrounded by boxes, again, and I’m not sure I’m going to find any more answers here than I did from my mom’s stuff.”
Sarah was silent for a few seconds before she said, “Uh, can we backtrack to threatening to break his hand?”
Around bites of sandwich, I caved and told her in full detail about my disastrous meetings with Henry at the inn, including a too-thorough description of his good looks, then about this evening’s altercation. As my best friend, Sarah was righteously indignant on my behalf, though she muffled her laughter over my violent reaction to him touching me outside The Mermaid.
“Girl, you better get a grip on that temper,” she warned, then her tone turned serious. “His grandfather works at the inn, too?”
I sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
“So it’s a pretty small operation, right? Tight knit? Maybe Henry is jealous, but it sounds more likely that he’s still grieving.”
I didn’t want to feel it, but a twinge of sympathy filtered through me. Sarah had an annoying habit of being right, which forced me to consider that her read of the situation might be more accurate than my own, even from across the Atlantic. If the staff at the inn was like one big family, then all of them were probably still hurting after Nan’s death.
“Look, I should get to bed, but I expect updates regularly, especially about Henry the Hottie. Do try not to get arrested for breaking his bones, though. It’ll be a bitch to wire bail money from here. Love you, Jules.”
“Love you, too,” I said softly, then tossed the phone aside as I returned to the boxes before me.
Though some of the lids were labeled with an indication as to their contents, others had no such helpful notations. I slid the boxes around like a giant game of Tetris, until all of those with labels were to my left and the unknowns to the right.
As daylight faded and the remainder of my fries congealed into a limp, cold pile, I questioned whether I would ever find actual answers in any of this junk. If Nan hadn’t wanted to confide in anyone about her daughter’s departure from town, was it likely she'd left any clue as to the reason in these boxes?
What am I even looking for?
Frustration got the better of me and I shoved aside the box nearest to the kitchen with my foot. The lid toppled off to reveal a pile of small leather journals, each marked with the year in embossed gold letters. On top lay a bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon.
My mouth dropped, then I lifted a skeptical eye toward the ceiling and called, “Thanks, Nan,” only half-joking.
I sat on the edge of the sofa and lifted the bundle, my chest constricting at the rush of déjà vu. Would these be as life-changing as finding my mother’s letter?
Though each envelope was sealed as though to be mailed, the only thing written on the outside of each was, “To my dearest grandchild.” Briefly, I closed my eyes against a wash of sorrow, then I opened each envelope and spread the contents across my lap.
Letters, cards, a delicate cluster of pressed violets, a tiny watercolor painting of the cottage. Nothing ominous, no warnings or cryptic messages within, only . . . love.
Love for a grandchild she’d never met, whose name she didn’t even know.
I read over each one half a dozen times, stroking my fingertips over the handwriting that was so similar to my mother’s but with a unique swirl to the capital letters. My eyes filled with tears as I studied the little painting, imagining myself as a child, receiving these treasures in the mail.
God, I would've loved that. Even if we’d never met, I would have rejoiced in knowing there was someone else out there in the world who cared.
Maybe I wouldn't have felt so very lost when my mom died.
Eventually, I forced myself to set the bundle aside, more than a little bereft at severing that thread of connection, and turned my focus to the box of journals.
My mother was pregnant when she left town, Mr. Escobar had told me that much. I thumbed through the journals until I found the right year, then put the rest into chronological order. The rainbow of journals made an arc across the floor.
It was almost nine o’clock when I finished sorting, but my heart pounded wildly in my chest and I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I read through at least one journal. As I opened it to the first entry, a wave of anticipation crashed over me.
That was, perhaps, a bit premature. The elegant handwriting appeared to describe relatively mundane events as they occurred at the inn. Martha Jennings wants a June wedding in the gardens. I told her we’re booked solid but she will not stop jabbering about it. Bridget O’Hennessy snuck a flask of vodka into the Women’s Board Tea this afternoon, I thought Chairwoman Hasslebeck was going to have a fit.
The sense of humor evident in even these innocuous entries reminded me so much of my mother that my heart clenched. I couldn’t help but laugh at some of Nan’s snarky commentary—from what I could tell, she had been a tough old bird, unafraid of speaking her mind.
I continued reading, handling the pages carefully, until I finally caught sight of a familiar name. Officer Jameson brought Melissa home last night after a ruckus outside the school dance. I sent her up to bed and he said it was T who started it all, and that he’d seen Missy and T together around town, even though she and Lewis have been an item for years. My heart tells me this will not end well, but she refuses to listen to reason. Lewis is a good boy and simply mad about her.
Nan clearly had no reservations about using full names in any other entry, but for some reason, the initial was the only identification for this mystery troublemaker. Could he be my father?
I bit my lip, staring blindly down at the page. If the boyfriend had gotten my mother pregnant, then there wasn’t much of a mystery to be solved—but why would she have left town and refused to look back? If her fight was with my father, it made no sense for her to cut contact with Nan, to change her name and virtually disappear.
Unless she was in danger.
There had to be a good reason behind my mother’s extreme choices, I was sure of it.
I flipped through the pages, scanning for pertinent information, but the journal didn’t have much more to offer.
Missy is becoming more distant , read one entry, and another simply said, Had a big fight with Missy tonight. Just can’t get through to her.
Most of the other entries were about residents of the town or guests at the inn, but I got the sense that Nan was growing increasingly tense. The initial cheerful sarcasm veered a bit closer to biting criticism.
Though I knew the journals continued for many years after the volume I was reading, the final entry in this one was dated September third. My mother would have been very newly pregnant at that point.
My heart grew heavy even before I read the words. T showed up at the inn last night, drunk as a skunk and demanding to see Melissa. They fought, screaming like banshees for nearly an hour, then he left. Missy is not herself this morning, but I’m needed at the inn to prepare for the Women’s Board luncheon.
And then . . . nothing.
The remaining pages were empty. Was that the day Mom ran away without so much as a word to anyone in town?
I picked up the next journal and thumbed through it, but the entries were short and to the point, and there was no mention at all of my mother. Gazing down at the row of journals on the floor, I wondered if any of them would detail Nan’s search for her. For us.
Maybe she decided to separate her personal life from business records?
It was getting late, and as much as I wanted to throw open another dozen boxes to search for other notebooks or diaries, I didn’t think I could keep my eyes open long enough for the hunt.
With a heavy sigh, I set the journals aside. It would be a lengthy process, sorting through all of Nan’s stuff—I couldn’t expect to find all the answers right away, no matter how badly I wanted to.
This was a journey, a marathon rather than a sprint. I resigned myself to the fact that I would need to take things slow and not let myself get lost in the past.
After all, the past had already taken so much from me—surely I deserved to spend some time dealing with the present, too.