35. Poppy
Poppy
I t’s funny, I never thought that waiting for the other shoe to drop would be more anxiety provoking than the moment it finally did.
I turn the envelope over in my hand once more, my eyes scanning the perfectly crisp edges. The pristine presentation is the result of this envelope being hand delivered rather than going through a mail carrier—this is what it looks like when you get served.
Slipping my finger along the seal, I pop it open and withdraw the thick weighted paper. It’s heavy with importance, the burden of my future on these pages.
It’s the mid-morning lull at the bakery, most people are done with breakfast, but not quite ready for a sweet afternoon pick me up.
I can’t help but think Tara planned the delivery of this to find me during the period I usually allow myself to rest. If she thinks that she can rattle my peace this easily, she must not have been listening when I talked on the show about what it meant to be a Wheeler woman.
I pull a stool up behind the front display and pluck one of my rocky road cookies from its glass pedestal.
Taking a bite of the still warm confection, I start reading through the document, but I can hardly make out what it’s trying to say.
Legal jargon is like a foreign language, and I’m confident that the point of the stack of papers in my hand is to elicit fear rather than inform.
It’s better than addressing the red past due envelope that came yesterday, though. I have that tucked away in my tote with a plan to call the construction company later and plead my case for another month’s reprieve—again.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter, glancing at the incoming call on my phone. Putting the forms down, I pick it up instead and swipe to answer it.
“Tara,” I greet her cooly.
“Poppy.” The sharpness in her tone is shifting me further still from anxiety, and now closer to hostility. It’s refreshing after the last few days of waiting and wondering. I have something tangible to fight now.
“So nice of you to have those forms hand delivered to me.” I counter her edge with a honeyed tone. “It is much more convenient.”
“You’re not fooling me,” she bites out. “This is bad for you, Ms. Wheeler. What I want to know—is it really worth losing everything?”
I don’t answer, my mind reeling about what it would mean if I really did lose everything. And yet, when I try to imagine my everything, Hayden is there. He’s always been there.
“You’re mistaken,” I finally say. “I’m making sure that I don’t lose what matters.”
“Let me make this clear, if?—”
“Clearer than your legalese I have in front of me, hopefully,” I scoff.
A shrill laugh carries through the phone, assaulting my ears from afar.
“I want this show. And I get what I want, dear,” she replies.
“I’ll even sweeten the deal, Hayden controls the whole narrative if he gives us his own account of what happened— something he’s never given anyone.
Ever. But he would do it for you, wouldn’t he, Poppy? ”
He would. Which only helps to push me over the edge into indignation towards this selfish woman. I fist the perfectly pristine documents until they make a satisfying crinkle and jump up from the stool.
“No deal, Tara. Oh, and I’ll be talking to you through your lawyers from here on out.” I end the call as she is still sputtering at my audacity. But she has no idea about the stubborn lengths I’ll go to for the people I love.
Grabbing my keys, I flip the sign to ‘closed’ on the front door before locking up and charging down the wharf.
My feet are leading the way, spurred on by my determination.
I’m not even sure if he’ll be there—or if it is appropriate for me to drop in at a rescue station like he does at the bakery. But I’m sure as hell about to find out.
Beachgoers, families on bicycles, and dog walkers all fly by me as I drive along the shoreline and cut inland towards the stations.
They all seem serenely unbothered on their summer vacations—cheerful about being in our town.
These are the people that show was supposed to be for.
It was supposed to be a love letter to Foxport summers and remarkable grandmothers.
It’s as if Tara has spoiled, tainting the rest of the ingredients that make up Small Town Table.
I reach the station in the blink of an eye and park beside a certain classic sports car. Barely out of my SUV, I’m halted by a deep voice that has the ability to send a delicious flutter through my chest.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Hayden marvels.
His navy blue Foxport Rescue tee stretches across his strong frame and his sleeves pull upwards as he leans in the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. I allow myself a leisurely once-over of his handsome appearance in his first responder uniform.
It’s so… him. I can’t imagine him wearing a suit and tie to an office instead every day.
Crossing the parking lot, I hold up the crumpled—and now wind whipped from the drive—paperwork. “Tara sent me a little present today,” I explain.
His smile falls and his brow furrows. When his hand extends, I think he’s going for the legal document and prepare to hand it over.
Instead, he reaches for me, his arm coming around my waist and tugging me against his chest. “I want another minute with you before I have to think about that,” he murmurs against my hair.
It’s only then that I realize I needed this minute, too, and the tension I’ve been carrying with my indignation melts away in his embrace. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, coming here like this. But as my body settles against him, my heart settles too.
He makes everything better. And at least with this problem, I’m ready for him to do just that.
“I needed this,” I mumble against the cotton of his tee. His hand strokes down my hair in response and I let the resulting chill spread the remaining way down my back.
“I’m here for whatever you need, you know that.”
Lifting my head, I meet his gaze and utter four little words I would have never imagined saying so freely to Hayden. “I need your help.”