Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Present Day
Landon brushed his fingers through his hair and watched as she closed the thick wooden door behind them.
Celia gestured at the sparse entryway, the living area that she’d recently voided of furniture and trash, the front desk that had once shone in the Maine sunlight.
Landon probably had a thousand memories in this very inn.
How many times had he come traipsing up the steps to find her at the front desk?
How many times had Celia’s father chased him out of here and scolded her for letting him distract her?
But that had been before—before she’d left, before she and Landon’s friendship had abruptly stopped.
“How did you know I was here?” Celia asked finally, clasping her fingers together and trying not to gaze too intently into his eyes. Don’t freak him out, she told herself. Don’t freak yourself out with how grateful you are to see him here. You’re strangers.
“You know how the gossip channels run around here,” Landon said.
“What are they saying this time?” Celia remembered the other rumors that had spun around Bluebell Cove about her. Some had said she was pregnant; others had said she’d had an affair with a married man who’d paid her to get out of town, to flee. Her cheeks burned at the memory.
“They’re saying you’re here for the summer,” Landon said.
“Ah. Well.” Celia laughed gently. “I guess this time they’re right.”
Landon leaned against the pillar in the foyer and folded his arms. “You’re going to refurbish the place? Open it back up?” He looked bemused.
“That’s the plan,” she said. She decided not to go into the stipulations of the will. She didn’t love talking about James Harper.
“What about your sisters?” he asked. “Where are they?”
Celia let her shoulders drop. “I’m taking over for the first few months.”
“Wow. You can get away from work for that long?” Landon raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, I know about your career with the Washington Post and the New York Times and the Guardian and, gosh, just about every major newspaper I can think of. I think I’ve read just about all of your articles.
You’re brilliant, but I know that doesn’t mean anything coming from me.
You must remember my articles from back in high school. You attacked them with a red pen.”
Celia’s heart swelled so much that it pained her.
“That’s nice of you to say,” she offered, because she couldn’t tell him that nobody had complimented her writing in what felt like ten years.
She refined her lie about her career and realized how easy it was becoming to say.
“But I talked to my editors and asked for a leave of absence.” No editors were waiting for her pitches; there was no article awaiting her on her computer.
She added, “I’m basically freelance, anyway.
I can write a few articles from my hotel and can keep my head in the game from here, so to speak.
And it’s summer in Maine. I can’t imagine a better place in the world to be. ”
“I’ve never found a better summer spot. It’ll be great to have you.” Landon’s smile widened. “Maybe you think it’s weird I’m still here. Heck, perhaps I should have moved away a long time ago. But after college, I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
“I don’t think it’s bad you came back,” Celia said hesitantly, remembering her dank apartment back in Washington, DC, the alienation she often felt in her adopted city, the rising rent, and the animosity between city dwellers.
“I think Bluebell Cove is an incredible place. I can’t believe I couldn’t see how beautiful it was when I was younger.
” But even as she said it, a strange voice in the back of her mind told her to run.
Landon raised his shoulders. “I was a dumb teenager. I didn’t see it either.”
“Nobody was as dumb as me,” Celia said.
“Yeah, right. Weren’t you valedictorian or something?”
Celia rolled her eyes, remembering the silly label, the assurance from her teachers and peers that she was “going someplace.” She’d used that inner fuel to take herself to Washington, DC, she supposed. But the fuel had run dry.
“I knew it,” Landon said. “But I haven’t forgotten much about that time. I guess nobody forgets their high school years. For better or for worse.”
For a moment, Celia imagined that they were seventeen years old, dancing by the bonfire, scream-singing their favorite songs. Back then, all she’d wanted was to be an older professional woman with her own money and thoughts. Now, all she wanted was to go back.
Celia led Landon through what she could of the inn, through the spaces that the construction crew had said were safe to enter.
She outlined the general plans for the next couple of weeks: what needed to be cleaned, painted, repaired, and sanded before she and her sisters discussed furnishings and redesigns.
“They want to wash their hands of this place, but at the same time, they all have a thousand opinions about everything from wallpaper to curtains to what kind of fridge we should put in the kitchen,” Celia said.
“I can’t imagine your little sisters as anything but little girls,” Landon confessed. “It’s strange to imagine them as modern women with big opinions and arguments.”
“It was hard for me to see them like that,” Celia said quietly. “I ran into Juliet at the airport, and it was so awkward.”
Landon winced. Celia wondered what it had been like for him to decide to come over here.
Had he considered what they might say to one another, what their conversation might sound like?
She’d tried many times over the years to look him up on social media, but he didn’t have a single online profile.
Although he wore no ring, she didn’t know if he’d ever been married.
She didn’t know if he had children. She didn’t even know what his job was.
“Listen,” she said, fear rising in her stomach, “do you want to get a cup of coffee?” What was she doing?
Intrigue flickered in Landon’s eyes. “I would love a cup of coffee,” he said.
But a split-second later, as though the universe itself planned to curse them all over again, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he said, “Gotta grab this.”
Celia stepped away from her ex-best friend and hunched over the foyer desk, pretending not to listen to his half of the conversation. It was clear from his tone that he spoke to someone he loved, someone he was responsible for. As a mother, she understood.
“Slow down, Isaac,” Landon said, putting his hand on his hip. “What’s going on?”
Celia furrowed her brow, watching as he kicked his leg out and put his foot far in front of him, which was a move he’d often done when they were teenagers. It always meant he was nervous.
“I’ll be there right away,” Landon said. “Hold tight.”
Landon hung up and showed Celia his pale face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My kids came down with something this morning. I thought it was just a cold, so I stepped out of the house to take care of a few things. But now it looks like my daughter has taken a turn.”
Landon’s hands shook so much that they looked blurry. Celia hurried over and touched his shoulder. Two kids, she thought. Old enough to be left home alone, but young enough to call when things got scary. They were the same age as the two of them had been when they’d known each other best.
“I can go with you, if you like,” she said, surprising herself.
Landon blinked at her. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Let me walk you at least,” she said. “I need to get out of here. All this dust is driving me crazy.”
Outside, Landon and Celia hurried the ten minutes to Landon’s quaint two-story house, the same one Landon’s uncle lived in when they were kids.
Celia knew the house well. They’d once snuck a bottle of vodka into the spare bedroom upstairs and gotten tipsy watching old Saturday Night Live reruns.
During their walk, they spoke sparingly. Landon’s mind was on his children.
Celia considered telling him that she had a daughter, too, and that Sophie was packing her things and preparing to fly to Maine very soon.
Her daughter was figuring out what they had already learned—that life never turned out how one planned.
But it felt too heavy to bring the reality of Sophie into this strange world with Landon. It was like Celia didn’t belong.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Celia said when they reached the front steps. “Tell me if I’m intruding?”
Landon whipped around and gave her a bug-eyed look that made him look sixteen or younger. “Can you wait here with my son while I take Mallory to the doctor?”
Celia was taken aback at the request, but not because she didn’t want to say yes. She was surprised that Landon trusted her again so quickly after everything that had happened. “I’d be happy to,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. But was she happy about it?
Landon didn’t hesitate before opening the front door and leaving it open for her to follow him in.
She entered to hear the familiar soundtrack of a movie she’d seen over and over again: The Mummy, hilariously.
A teenage boy with bright red pimples across his left cheek stood in the foyer, panic etched across his face.
“Dad,” he said, “I didn’t know what to do.
” And then he looked at Celia, ice in his eyes, and asked, “Who is she?”
“This is Celia,” Landon said. “We were best friends in high school.” With that, he swept past Isaac and into the hall, where he disappeared into the bathroom.
Celia could hear the young girl crying. “Daddy, I’m sorry.”
Celia cupped her elbows and told herself that Isaac wasn’t scary. She was familiar with teenagers of all kinds and believed she could handle this. “Your dad said you aren’t feeling well,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”