16. “PRESSURE, PRESSING DOWN ON ME, PRESSING DOWN ON YOU”
“PRESSURE, PRESSING DOWN ON ME, PRESSING DOWN ON YOU”
The power hadn’t come back on until eight that morning. Jocelyn had spent the last hour of the outage in the dark with a flashlight propped in a coffee mug, hair dripping from a cold shower, cursing the storm that had rolled over Hideaway Bay the night before and dragged the grid down with it.
Her phone—not charging all night like she told it to—died sometime before her alarm was scheduled to wake her up. And now, on a day when she planned to take a bazillion pictures, she was running late, dealing with air-dried, frizzy hair, and less than half a charge.
The second the lights flickered on, she’d attacked her hair with the blow dryer, but it was too late, so she flat-ironed the shit out of the frizz, accidentally burning herself twice.
Not that it mattered. In a coastal town, the day after a storm, the air was more water than oxygen and the second she stepped outside her hair swelled up like the untamable mane of a sea witch.
Already an hour behind, she sped into town only able to shoot Soren a quick text letting him know that she was, in fact, crazy for thinking she would be able to pull this off with any sort of calm.
“God, I hate surprises,” she muttered, whipping around a bend as the mason jars clanked in the backseat.
Hauling ass toward town, her brain did a quick calculation of the day ahead. It was already ten o’clock. The surprise went off at two-thirty. Guests would start pouring in at two.
Who was she kidding? There was bound to be a few old birds who would undoubtedly arrive early. It was best to try to get everything guest-ready by one thirty. That would leave her fifteen minutes to freshen up before things truly went crazy.
Four and a half hours—
No, three and a half. Shit.
“Come on, come on, come on, come on.” As soon as the traffic light turned, she sped through the intersection toward Main Street.
Three and a half hours was doable. She only had to transport all the décor, dress the room, and see that all the favors and signage made it to the right places. And the cake. She couldn’t forget about the cake.
“You’ve totally got this,” she muttered to herself, stealing the spot right in front of Vine & Barrel.
Jocelyn crammed what she could into her tiny hatchback, but half the centerpieces and both boxes of favors still sat stacked in her foyer at home.
She reminded herself to snatch her makeup and hair straightener on her next trip, figuring she’d need to freshen up again, once all the running around was done.
God, she wanted a fucking drink already, but had a hard rule there could be no cocktails until the majority of the work was done.
Two more quick trips—maybe three—back and forth across town and she’d have everything there by eleven and a cocktail in her hand before noon.
“Hey, Jocelyn,” Simon waved as he crossed the street. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Perfect timing, Simon. Here.” She shoved a box in his arms. “Take this inside, then come back and help me unload the rest.”
“On it.” Simon was always a good extra set of hands to have around.
They had the car unloaded in no time, but that still left them short-handed until the rest of the décor arrived.
She should have taken Soren up on his offer to borrow the Escalade.
Maybe if she called him on his way over, she could flatter him into swinging by her house and grabbing the rest of the boxes—saving her a few trips.
She tried calling him again, but it went to voicemail. Frowning, she wondered why he hadn’t responded to her two earlier texts. That wasn’t like him.
Maybe his phone died too.
She laughed before even finishing the thought. Knowing Soren, that was impossible. The man had the Batmobile of phones and probably a whole generator to keep his house plugged in during any storm.
She carried the last box inside.
Vine & Barrel anchored the quiet end of Main Street. Leather and mahogany whispered sophistication beneath dark wood beams. Deep emerald velvet booths tucked into the corners, built for candlelight and low conversation.
It was the perfect setting for her shower theme, and she couldn’t wait to decorate.
Brass anchors and vintage fishing gear mounted along the walls with curated, refined care that backed off a beat before things got tacky.
Her baby-blue and ivory touches were going to make this place abso-freaking-lutely adorable.
The restaurant wore its maritime bones like a tailored coat, and Jocelyn had run three ticketed events under these beams before, so she was familiar with Richard, the owner, and the staff. She knew every outlet, every restroom, and every server by name.
Shouldering through the door with her arms full of tote bags and centerpieces, she tried not to drag in any more wet leaves, but it came down to either tracking in a mess or busting her ass on the pavement trying to kick the slick foliage off her shoes.
“We’re gonna need a mop up front,” she called, dropping the box with the others on the tables closest to the doors.
Wet October air dissipated as the door shut behind them. That was when it hit her like a bait bucket to the face.
She instantly covered her nose. “What the hell is that stench?”
Fish. It was rotten fucking fish.
“Yeah, I thought something smelled off,” Simon said, as if this wasn’t a catastrophic crisis.
“Ya think?” She scanned the back with wide eyes. “Is Richard here yet?”
“Who’s Richard?”
No time to waste on introductions, Jocelyn rushed to the back kitchen where the stench only got stronger. Richard was dressed in black rubber gloves and a soiled apron, tossing rotten fish out the back door into a trash bin.
“Richard, what the hell happened?” she said, breathing through her hand.
“Power went out, and the generator never kicked on. I’m working on the situation.”
Her eyes widened at the sight of so much food being thrown away. “What are the guests going to eat?”
“I already called every supplier within forty miles. But it’s Saturday. Nobody’s picking up. I’m hoping we can borrow some frozen options from the Chowder House to get us through, but they don’t open for another hour.”
That was never going to work with the fall festival still going on. The Chowder House needed their own food. “I might be able to get you some backup fish.”
He dragged an arm over his sweaty brow, holding the black rubber glove away from his face. “That would be great.”
She pulled out her phone. “You just keep working on the smell.”
No fish meant no menu, and she had fifty guests to feed in a few hours. Esther’s cake and a bowl of mixed nuts were not going to be enough.
Her stomach turned from the odor as much as it did from tension. She texted Soren, asking him to call her as soon as he got her text. He was the CEO of Hawthorne Fishery. He had VIP access to all the fish in Hideaway.
“Okay.” She dropped her purse on the host stand and flattened her palms against the wood to steady herself.
“Okay,” she repeated, talking only to herself as others bustled around her.
“What covers up rotten fish?” She rubbed her temples, unable to think through the suffocating stench, then yelled, “Can someone open some windows and maybe find an air freshener or twelve?”
She tried calling Soren again. Her phone beeped in her ear, alerting her that the battery was back to ten percent. That’s what happened when she didn’t start the day with a full charge. The damn thing never seemed to catch up.
She dug through her purse, looking for a charger that—of course—was not there.
Growling when the call once again dumped into voicemail, she sent another text, past the point of pretending she was calm.
Fish emergency. Half the menu’s dead. Are you getting here soon? I need you.
She hit send. The phone chirped in her palm. Athin, mocking banner slid down the screen.
Low Battery 5%
“You have got to be kidding me. It’s been ten seconds.” She jabbed the banner away and buried the phone in her back pocket, refusing to acknowledge the small, cold dread that tickled under her ribs.
The bell above the door chimed.
“Yoo-hoo!” Esther swept in behind a tower of white bakery boxes stacked to her chin. The warm perfume of vanilla and butter briefly—mercifully—cut through the stench of decaying fish. “Where do you—” Her words abruptly cut off. “Oh, Jocelyn, love, what is that smell?”
“Fish. We have an issue, but it’s being handled. Here, let me help you with that.” She carefully removed the top box from the pile in Esther’s arms.
“Phew!” She blinked as her eyes started to water. “Where do you want the cake? It’s four tiers, so I’ll need a sturdy table, nothing wobbly.”
“Back left, by the windows. There’s a reinforced table already set.”
“And the whoopie pies?”
“Same table.” She set the smaller box down. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.” Esther bustled off, and the bell jangled again before the door swung shut.
Astrid and Bodhi drifted in on a cloud of patchouli and dried herbs.
“What are you guys doing here? The party doesn’t start for hours.”
Astrid cradled a woven basket to her chest. “We brought the favors, of course.”
Jocelyn’s eye twitched. “I already made the favors.”
“But do yours have crystals?” Astrid lifted a fistful of little muslin pouches knotted with hemp string. “Rose quartz for the heart chakra, plus a sprig of dried sage for cleansing. One for every guest.”
They were catastrophically off-theme for a nautical shower, but Jocelyn had bigger fish to fry—as soon as she found some that were fresh. “They’re beautiful. Set them over there, and I’ll see that the guests get them. Thank you both so much.”
“Do you smell something?” Bodhi asked.
“Where, dear?” Astrid scanned the restaurant as servers draped the tables in white linens. “Oh, I do smell something, now that you mention it. A bit like a medieval brothel. Jocelyn, did you know it stinks like rotten fish in here?