Chapter 14 LOVE BETWEEN THE LINES
LOVE BETWEEN THE LINES
Back at the Pink House, I sprawled out on one of the striped outdoor daybeds and opened the diary I’d found at The Last Word.
After all, I’d never found a diary I hadn’t wanted to snoop through.
(Sorry, Tiff.) And Josephine Lovell’s diary was primed for snooping.
She had lovely languid handwriting full of loops and swirls, and wrote cheerfully about visitors and whisperwinds and the dance parties that had apparently been commonplace at the Whisperwind Cove town hall.
I’d flipped through the volume looking for insights into her love life, but there were only a couple of passing references to someone called Emmett, who seemed to come from a wealthy family a few towns over, and someone called Felix, who worked in Whisperwind Cove over the summers.
And this one line: You only get so many chances to tell someone how you feel.
I owed the diary a closer reading – especially the bits where there seemed to be missing pages – but my attention span was not having it.
Perhaps it was the whipping of the ocean breeze, or maybe it was my impending date with Finn, but my reading session thus far had mostly consisted of gazing off into the distance and running through various romantic hypotheticals as I bopped along to the Belinda Carlisle playlist Rosie had filtering through the portable Bluetooth speakers.
Well, when the speakers weren’t picking up a snatch of movie dialogue or an errant whisperwind about a lost love, that is.
But how could I not be distracted? Finn was frolicking in the ocean rinsing off the sticky remnants of our melted ice-cream outing, and Noah was in the tiny studio down the garden path, poring over his law-school textbooks or quietly working on his latest painting.
Every now and then, I could see his silhouette darken the small window that overlooked the garden, and I’d wonder if he was looking out at me.
Each time, I’d shift my pose to something more painterly, just in case.
Because it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that he was painting me.
He’d done so in the past, when he was practising forms and poses for his high-school art classes.
And though I hadn’t seen actual proof, he’d apparently sketched me at the bonfire.
Perhaps The Last Word should have delivered Noah’s sketchbook instead of Josephine’s diaries. I was pretty sure the former would be more revealing.
Spinning my glass of lemonade on its coaster, I wondered idly if I should go in and offer Noah a drink of water.
Maybe one of Rosie’s éclairs, although she was complaining about how they hadn’t turned out the way they should’ve.
Would it be weird? It wasn’t weird to check on a friend, was it?
A very handsome friend who was possibly painting my portrait?
A very handsome friend whose brother I’d just spent the afternoon flirtatiously eating ice cream with, and who I’d just agreed to go on a date with?
Ugh, this was all so confusing.
The silhouette appeared at the window again, and I hid under the diary. Noah Tucker was definitely looking my way. I adjusted my pose once more, aiming for a sort of sultry lady of leisure. There, that wasn’t too terrible. That was worth painting, wasn’t it?
Oh goddess, he’d caught me looking again.
I waved hesitantly.
The silhouette waved back.
Well now, I had to go see what he was up to, didn’t I?
I’d set down the diary and got as far as hoisting myself off the daybed when Tiff came out, a glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other.
She was part-way through a very long and effusive goodbye, the sort that inevitably resets with a, ‘oh, I forgot to tell you …’ multiple times over, until someone finally says, ‘well, on that note …’
‘Bye, Damien,’ I called, doing everyone a favour.
The silhouette in the studio disappeared. Well, there went that moment.
Tiff rang off and took a perch on the other end of the daybed. She seemed a tad tipsy, and the physics of her usual hammock perch were quite possibly beyond her.
‘You and Lara had fun, I see,’ I teased.
Tiff groaned. ‘Her liver is made of sterner stuff than mine. The B&B is really cute, though.’
‘You do know your B&Bs,’ I noted. ‘With all your jet-setting around the world like Carmen Sandiego.’
In a true big-sister move, Tiff stole the chunky-knit blanket I’d been snuggled up under and wrapped it around her legs. ‘Consulting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Living out of a suitcase, eating wobbly hotel eggs day after day, never being able to commit to a time zone.’
Huh. Curious. According to her conversations with Mom, Tiff was living the dream. But, then, Mom said the same thing, and she mostly seemed to spend her days voice-composing emails and telling Dad that he needed to ‘push the creativity, Rufus. Really push it.’
Tiff sighed. ‘And it would be nice to actually spend time with Damien. In person, and not on a screen.’
I could hear the wistfulness in her voice. Could it be that Tiff’s life was actually not the embodiment of perfection in every possible way?
‘What’s stopping you from going to Damien right now?’ I asked quietly.
She sipped her wine. ‘Geography. And familial obligations.’
I slapped her leg lightly. ‘Tell me how you really feel.’
‘You know I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I did, a bit. I couldn’t miss this year, could I? Not after everything. But at least we don’t have to share a bathroom.’
‘Or make one,’ I added, referring to the disastrous camping trip Mom and Dad had taken us on back in elementary school.
It had become evident very quickly that sleeping under the stars was not our parents’ forte.
Although I had to give Dad some credit for the makeshift toilet he’d rigged up using a bucket and a piece of tarpaulin wrapped around a tree.
‘Anyway, unlike parentally led glamping, Summerween isn’t mandatory,’ I added. ‘No one’s taking attendance. You could jump on a plane right now if you wanted to. Race through the gates like in Love Actually or something.’
Tiff tapped her nails against her glass, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.
‘It’s just that it’s been so long since Damien and I were actually together in person that I’m worried …
’ She hesitated, then went on. ‘I’m worried that there might not actually be anything there at all.
What if I’ve just been clinging to something that’s merely a comfortable routine?
Or a way of excusing myself from actually going out there and dating and …
I don’t know what else. Whatever Lara’s doing. ’
Ah, this made sense now. It was the Lara factor. Lara was so cheerful and vivacious that it was easy to feel like you were coming up short in her presence.
I flapped Josephine’s diary at her. ‘Lara is enjoying her usual Summerween flirtation, which will peter out the way they all do. Then it’ll be forgotten about until next Summerween, and then the whole thing will start all over again.’
After all, just because Lara invited Jack here and was staying with him didn’t mean it was going to end any differently. She’d practically said as much herself.
‘I love Lara almost as much as I love you, Tiff,’ I went on, ‘but she definitely makes the grass look greener. If you have something good with Damien – and I think you do – then you should stick with that. Maybe you should find a way to make sure the two of you can be in one place more often.’
‘If only it were as easy as that.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I countered.
‘Maybe.’ She tucked herself more deeply into the blanket, watching a butterfly flit around the garden. ‘I’m going to go to the reading at the bookshop on Friday,’ she added idly. Idly, with a hint of the confessional.
I fiddled with my ring, thinking of how tongue-tied she’d become when Leon had spoken to her. ‘Do you need me to be your backup, just in case?’
Just in case you do something regrettable, I thought but didn’t say.
‘The more bookworms the better.’ Tiff reached for her glass, but it was empty. ‘Urgh, the kitchen is so far away,’ she complained.
She snapped her fingers, but her magic wasn’t strong enough to drag a bottle of rosé from the house.
‘This is why we have the coolers,’ I said, reaching to one side of the daybed and pulling out some canned hard seltzers from the ice-filled tub. I cracked one open for each of us.
‘Rosie really is the most incredible host,’ said Tiff as she sipped the foam that spilled out from the top of her can. ‘Even … given everything.’
I swallowed back the lump that had appeared in my throat.
‘I worry about her.’ Tiff’s voice was low. ‘She’s been so busy since we arrived. It’s like she’s trying to turn the house inside out. And things are going wrong, have you noticed? The mistakes with her baking. The garden … Have you ever seen the roses like this before?’
I frowned, glancing over at the roses, which did look less vibrant than usual. Some of their petals were slightly browned at the edges, and here and there the plants’ leaves had wilted.
Tiff wasn’t wrong. With all of her home-improvement tasks and efforts to be the perfect hostess, Rosie did seem to be stretched thin.
Maybe us kids could do something to help her.
Perhaps we could be in charge of dinner one night.
Or help out with the tiling job she’d embarked upon in one of the guest bathrooms. I glanced over at the studio, and then at the water, where Finn was now kicking around a soccer ball with a group of teens.
Tiff followed my gaze.
‘So,’ she said, one eyebrow high in anticipation. ‘How was your outing with Finn?’
Was I just imagining things, or had Noah’s silhouette reappeared in the studio window?
‘It was just ice cream. A perfectly normal sharing of ice cream.’
Okay, an extremely flirtatious sharing of ice cream. That had weirdly melted. And had ended in Finn asking me out on an actual date.
‘How very nineteen fifties of you,’ said Tiff.
I reached into the cooler and threw an ice-block at her. She squealed, deflecting it with a burst of magic.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, hands up in apology. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be down on you about it. It’s just fraught. Our families are so intertwined. Mom and Rosie are best friends. And we’ve been doing Summerweens for ever. What if it all goes sideways and you have a falling-out? It’ll be … weird.’
My ring fizzed.
‘It’s obvious that things have changed since we were last here,’ she went on.
‘That both of the boys are into you. Which means that no matter what happens, no matter who you choose, someone’s going to be upset.
Especially if you apply your famously Molly-like decision-making powers to this whole situation. ’
‘Ouch,’ I said.
‘I’m just saying … Maybe the Lara approach is the best one. Choose no one. Just yourself.’
A gust of magical wind picked up, and Josephine’s diary flipped open on my lap, opening to the blank pages at the end. Josephine was trying to tell me something. But what?