Chapter 2 #2
Next to Wicked Wine and Cheese sits a tiny boutique that sells one-of-a-kind birthday cards and presents. And just beyond that, at the end of the street, is the butcher and greengrocer, where locally grown fruit and vegetables spill out of gorgeous displays.
These businesses are the threads the community of this town is woven from. Hope Harbor is like an extended family; everyone supports one another and celebrates the many talents of our residents.
The hair salon Babs owns with fellow Liberty Lady Mindy is located on the bottom floor of one of the brick houses.
It boasts a raspberry-pink awning, turquoise door, and stoop decorated with tulips and hydrangeas, both in various shades of violet, that I know she picked up from Walker or my mom at the farm.
I keep my head down as I pass, not wanting Babs to spot me. I’m on a mission to deliver Ana’s books.
I’m so focused on avoiding the town’s aspiring matchmaker that I fail to see the person walking toward me until I practically run him down.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite bookworm,” Eli Davis announces, grabbing me by the shoulders to stop me from bowling into him.
I roll my eyes and pull back. Eli is the biggest flirt I know, and there’s an easy smile on his gorgeous face.
It’s devastating how Mother Nature made this man so handsome.
And funny. And good at almost everything he puts his mind to.
Every girl had a crush on him in high school, though he’d tell you playing hockey was his one true love.
Until last year, when he suffered a career-ending injury and left New York, where he was playing in the NHL, to return to Hope Harbor. I can’t imagine that’s how he wanted his career to end, though you’d never know. Eli came home with a grin that hasn’t left his face since.
“Heading in for a haircut?” I ask him now, my eyes straying to the golden locks that curl perfectly above his strong brow.
He’s got a wave that hockey players call a flow, a fact I picked up from all the hockey romance books I’ve devoured.
I know a lot about hockey now. I know a lot about other sports, too. And stalking. And aliens.
Unlike probably every other woman who’s met Eli, I’ve only ever seen him as a friend.
And while all the other girls at school were fawning over him, I only had eyes for one boy.
Though I most certainly am not thinking about him right now.
After everything that happened with Dick, I’m not interested in men.
Or dating at all. And even if I was, that specific man doesn’t live here, and would certainly never be interested in dating me if he did.
“Nah, just getting in my steps.” Eli runs his hand through his amazing hair before flashing me another grin. “You looking forward to Babs’s surprise later?”
Eli is a kindred spirit when it comes to loving the town chat, so I’m not surprised that he’s aware of this latest development.
I grimace. “I wish everyone would stop worrying about my dating life so much.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just tell them you’re dating someone. Isn’t that what happens in all those books you read?” He waggles his brows suggestively. “I could even play pretend if you want.”
“Please.” I scoff. “No one would believe it. You are the perpetual bachelor. But thanks for the offer.”
I give Eli a quick wave, ignoring his pity-boyfriend offer, before continuing my journey to Ana’s house. Is this what my life has come to? Everyone worrying about poor Penny and her terrible taste in men?
The thing is, I know what makes a good boyfriend. He should be attentive—Dick was not. He should probably own a pair of gray sweats—Dick certainly didn’t have anything to show off. He should be kind, funny, and romantic. Nope, nope, and a big fat hell no. Dick was none of those things.
He should maybe also wear glasses and enjoy reading because not only are slutty glasses hot on a man, I also need someone who understands my love of books.
Since I am more likely to find that kind of man on my shelves than on the streets of Hope Harbor, I’m not dating.
What I am is huffing and out of breath by the time I round the harbor.
I’m also covered in sweat. This is why I prefer fall.
Autumn would never do this to me. My thick auburn hair—naturally highlighted from this summer’s sun—sticks to the back of my neck, so I lift and twist it into a ponytail, appreciating the breeze that blows off the water.
Whatever makeup I was previously wearing is probably long gone and the reddish freckles that dot my alabaster skin are likely peeking through instead.
I hate my freckles. They aren’t adorable, and no man is getting turned on the moment he discovers them fanning across my face like they say in books.
Rather, they grow redder the more emotional I get.
Which means, when I’m excited, a sheen of freckles covers my entire body.
A girl can’t hide her innermost thoughts with a condition like that.
My thighs rub together as I drop my hair and continue the walk, though all thoughts about how uncomfortable I am cease when I turn onto my favorite street in town.
Maple Lane may be the soul of Hope Harbor, but this street, and the house that sits at the end of it, has always held the most special place in my heart.
Oversized willow trees line both sides of the road, bending and arching toward one another, almost touching in an embrace.
Today, they create a forested ceiling, which will get prettier when the leaves turn in late September.
Clutching my canvas tote of carefully selected books, I brace myself before allowing my eyes to settle on the Montgomery house.
Monty’s family home is an old, navy-blue Victorian with a grand white staircase that fans out from the front door, beckoning me inside.
Mr. Montgomery makes sure to touch up the paint every year, meaning the house always looks exactly the same. Like a time capsule.
Of course, the reason I used to come here no longer exists. But Ana still likes my company and Mr. Montgomery, my old high school English teacher, who fostered my love for reading, still throws quite a few bonfire nights in the fall for his students, which I always volunteer at.
Though it’s never been quite the same since Monty left. Nothing’s been quite the same since Monty left.
Unable to help myself, I pull out my phone and text Monty another update on my disastrous day. At least someone will benefit from all my ridiculousness. Hopefully, it leaves him laughing, instead of stressing over his bad book sales.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and brush my bangs to the side—a bad decision that I have yet to rectify—and head for the door, where I find Ana peeking through the side curtain.
The woman is short in stature and sports gray hair with streaks of black.
I’m sure that, at one time, long before I met her, she had black hair with silver streaks, but just like this house, Ana never changes.
Now, she gives me a warm wrinkled smile and pulls the big door open.
“Ah, meu amor, come inside before you get too quente.” She ushers me in and I smile at how she switches effortlessly between English and Brazilian Portuguese.
I’ll never not be impressed by the way Ana arrived in this country as a young adult, leaving her family behind in Brazil after meeting her husband, Jake, while he was on vacation there.
Their story, which I begged her to tell me time and again as a teenager, was beautiful: two people falling in love in the span of a few weeks and never looking back.
Despite Jake’s early onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis fifteen years ago, and the difficult years that followed before he was taken from Ana too soon, their love never faded. A truly epic romance.
I step inside and am instantly hit with the familiar scent of garlic, which seems to permeate the air in this house.
Though it’s stronger than usual; Ana must be preparing dinner.
I quickly glance around the foyer, which is over two stories tall and boasts a central wooden staircase that wraps around halfway up and curls in on itself as it continues its ascent.
These old New England houses have all sorts of intricate details.
You could explore them for hours and still find something new.
I smile at the older woman beside me, holding out my tote. “I have your books! It smells delicious. Are you cooking? I won’t keep you too long.”
She waves the bag away—as if it’s not why she asked me to stop by—and steps closer, reaching up to press my two cheeks between her palms. “Relax, meu amor. I made your favorite spiced tea and pastéis.”
Before I get a chance to lie and tell her I don’t want the fried pastries that she stuffs with delicious jams, my stomach betrays me in a low rumble.
“Okay, but just one,” I relent, following her into the kitchen. The problem with having Tally’s bakery just across the street, and me having a serious sweet tooth, is that my waist is not appreciating my sister’s return as much as my taste buds are.
I’ve always been a curvy girl, with larger breasts and wide hips, but the jiggle to my stomach is a new addition since I stopped dieting for the wedding.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to not be watching everything I put into my mouth now, but old habits die hard and unfortunately Dick’s regular commentary about my weight is one of those things I have yet to kick.
But since I’m all about doing the things that I love—especially those that pissed Dick off—I’m going to eat that fried pastry. And I’m going to enjoy it.