Chapter 17 #2
It takes me a minute to realize that I am the someone new and that these locals might show up just to take my measure.
I’m glad I’ll have friends there—or allies, at least. When I think about what it would be like to be real, actual friends with Shelby and Nick and Nathan; to go to Craft Night and chat over the clicking of needles; or, I don’t know, just go have coffee on a random Monday morning without a boss to stare at his wristwatch the moment I walk in the door, it’s like my whole body relaxes a little.
I never dreamed big—I don’t need millions of dollars and boats and a house in the Hamptons, whatever a Hampton is—I just want a little breathing room from the daily anxieties that have hounded me since I was a kid.
I want a lunch date with a girlfriend, enough money to give a nice birthday gift, the opportunity to pick out a couch that doesn’t come with someone else’s butt indentation.
Which only adds to the pressure of this meeting. I’ve committed to staying here, at least for a while, and I’m going to need all the help and goodwill I can get.
I pick up the bird backpack, plus another tote with the two big cups of boiled peanuts I’ve been ordered to bring along, and head down to the alley. It’s well-lit back here, at least. I look up and down both ways, and Maggie chides, “It’s safe, you goose.”
“Tell that to the turkeys,” I mutter, holding a key between my knuckles like bootleg Wolverine.
I quick-walk toward the main street, and as I approach the dumpster, something bangs against the metal. I stumble back, reaching into my tote for the pepper spray that’s somewhere under five pounds of salty nuts.
“Hey!” Maggie barks when I set down her backpack a little too roughly.
“There’s something in the dumpster,” I tell her. I grab the cool metal cylinder and pull it out, my thumb instinctively going to the lever, like Billy taught me.
“It’s just raccoons.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do know that. Go on over and look in. There are usually two. Big John and Buttercup.”
Holding my key in one hand and my pepper spray in the other, I approach the dumpster, which I was bound to pass anyway.
I tell myself that a murderer wouldn’t hide inside a dumpster or make an obvious thumping noise before they jumped out to hatchet-murder me, but my body tells me that Jason Voorhees is in there with a machete.
Another clank makes me jump, and I hear a noise that can only be described as a light skittering. A chubby raccoon appears on the dumpster’s edge, staring at me like I’m interrupting something important.
“That’s Big John. He’s a rascal,” Maggie informs me. When a second inquisitive head pops up, she adds, “And that’s Buttercup. She’s looking pretty chunky. We might get some babies this year.”
“Kits.”
She snorts in my head. “Those are clearly not cats.”
“I know that, GamGam. Baby raccoons are called kits. I guess I need to buy some cat food for ’em, huh? If they’re going to have babies back here.”
“You’re worried about baby raccoons in the dumpster? That’s a new one.”
I put the pepper spray back in the tote, shoulder my backpack, and continue walking as the raccoon-sparked adrenaline ebbs away.
“Listen. I’ve got to say something.” Maggie’s voice in my head is more measured and formal than usual.
“I’ve only known you two days, but it’s clear to anybody with eyes that you’re a born martyr.
Oldest daughter of a rebellious mom, you were always gonna be the little caretaker.
Didn’t have a choice about it. And I’m not judging.
I can tell you love your sisters, and that’s how it should be. ”
“But?” I press, uneasy with where this is going.
“But you’re a Kirkwood, and Kirkwoods don’t take shoo-shoo off anybody.
You got to put your head up and claim what’s yours.
Fight for what you want. I can see the fire in you, but you’ve been smothering it your whole life, at least in relation to fighting for yourself.
This is your chance, Rhea. Your chance to grab what you want. ”
“You just met me, and you’re a parrot. How do you know what I want?”
“I know because I’ve been watching you. It’s pretty boring being a bird, you know?
Every time you’re reading, you’re smiling.
I’ve seen your face when you talk about a bookstore.
It glows. You want this. So whatever happens tonight, you got to remember to put yourself first for once in your life.
You deserve a chance at your own happiness. ”
I want to say something smart, but…no one has ever said anything like that to me before.
Take care of your sisters. Nurse your mother.
Cook for your boyfriend. Keep up the house.
Make my coffee just right (or get a passive-aggressive Post-it).
Can I have a hundred to float me until payday?
Those are the things I’ve heard over and over again.
And I’ve done everything that’s ever been asked of me.
But maybe Maggie is right.
Maybe it’s time to put myself first.
Whatever that means.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, because I know that if I outright agree, she’ll either get smug or start spouting more phrases stolen from Scholastic Book Fair posters with kittens hanging from tree branches.
The downtown square is even more charming at night than it is during the day, with fairy lights strung up in the trees and orange streetlights casting a warm glow along the sidewalks.
The whole scene is just so homey. So welcoming.
I already know my way to the inn, and Shelby is waiting for me on the sidewalk outside.
She waves when she sees me, and my mouth waters when I see that she’s holding a big bakery box.
All I’ve had since lunch was another one of Maggie’s Diet Cokes.
I’ve got to find the nearest store and get something in that fridge that isn’t carbonated.
“You ready?” Shelby asks as we head inside.
“Does it matter?”
She chuckles. “It’s so funny—for me, this is about the same as Sunday dinner at my mom’s, but I guess for you, it’s a pretty big deal, huh?”
I nod. “Feels like a job interview, if I’m honest.”
“Sure, a job interview with twenty nosy people excited to have something to talk about besides whether we need to put the stalls in a U-shape or three lines for the farmers’ market. Don’t worry—once they’re full of sugar and peanuts, they’ll be eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“As the owner of a cockatoo, that’s more dangerous than it sounds.”
The front door of the inn is wide open, and there’s movement and excited chatter wafting out.
I follow Shelby in and through to the dining room where I had the best biscuits of my life and was inspired to turn a dumpy video store into the bookstore of my dreams. The long table seats twelve, but there are already more people than that, and white folding chairs are set up all around the walls.
Shelby opens her pastry box and sets it down in the middle of the table, where it reigns over cheese, crudités, cut fruit, and the supper version of Nathan’s biscuits. “Just pop the top off the peanuts and put ’em down,” she tells me. “They’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Where’s the dog?” I ask her, because that wide-open door worries me.
Shelby looks genuinely confused. “What dog?”
“I saw it my first day here. Long and lanky, stretched out by the fireplace?”
Okay, now she’s looking at me like I’m crazy. “There’s no dog. Nick is allergic. That’s why they only have one dog-friendly room and it’s the farthest away from the lobby.”
I don’t have time to contemplate the nonexistent dog as the room is filling up.
Nathan waves as he brings out bottles of wine, and I spot Colonel hurrying over to get first pick at the monster cookies.
Lindy opens a bag of potato chips with a pop that startles Nick and makes him put a hand to his heart.
Since I grew up without a big extended family past my sisters and parents, there’s a warmth and energy here, a pleasant camaraderie that calls to me.
When I see Hunter Blakely pause at the door, it takes everything I have not to stare at him, so I focus on filling my plate with a cookie, a couple of chocolate truffles, a scoop of boiled peanuts, and some mini quiches that Nathan has just brought out, piping hot, from the kitchen.
“And how are you settling in, Ms. Wolfe?” Colonel asks with cookie crumbs twinkling in his mustache.
“Pretty well,” I have to admit. “Everyone’s been so nice.”
“Well, prepare yourself—”
He’s interrupted by someone clinking silverware against a wineglass.
The room goes silent as everyone looks to the head of the long table, and I’m the only one who hears Maggie mutter, “Oh, shit.”