Chapter Six
I’m looking for a local diver willing to search for a diamond ring.
My fiancé proposed to me at the end of the town pier, and he dropped the ring.
Please be nice in the comments. He feels really bad.
We might be able to scrape up a little payment, but he spent the rent on the ring, so we’re hoping for an act of kindness here.
First comment: Your fiancé? You mean you said yes after all that?
—Wayward Harbor Online Community Group
Lucy was curled up in a porch rocker, thankful the furniture was large enough to accommodate her and her nest of blankets. It had been two days since she’d gone into town with Nick, and she was bored.
Sitting around the cottage alone while he was working all day wasn’t cutting it anymore.
She’d cleaned everything that could be cleaned.
She’d even puttered around outside. Though she didn’t know enough about plants to pull anything that might be a weed or might be a perennial waiting for warmer weather, she’d cleaned up the obvious stuff.
Dead leaves. Sticks blown in by winter storms.
She’d even cleaned and reorganized the gardening shed while hunting for a pair of gloves so she could cross it off the list. Unfortunately, Gran’s hands were smaller than Lucy’s, so that task remained pending.
Lucy wanted to find a job. Though money wouldn’t be an issue for a while yet, she needed something to occupy her time. And even though her anxiety spiked at the thought, she needed to meet people and socialize. She wasn’t wired to spend so much time with her own thoughts.
And besides going door-to-door, the best way to find out if anybody was hiring locally was with Facebook.
Now the passwords for her social media apps were in one hand and her phone was in the other, but she hadn’t done anything with them yet. She knew she couldn’t keep her head in the sand forever—she needed to know if the scandal was dying down or if the Fairee fandom still wanted to destroy her.
But the idea of letting the world back in had her stomach tied in so many knots, she wasn’t even sipping the coffee sitting on the side table next to her—in an insulated mug with a lid, of course, to keep it hot.
She could call her mom. Iris hadn’t followed up at all, checking to see if she was still in Maine. Or if she was doing well. But she knew if she called Iris—just seeking the comfort of a familiar voice, if nothing else—she’d just end up fending off questions about Gran’s property.
Gran had sent her photos that morning from the entrance of some kind of theme park centered around alligators, so Lucy didn’t want to interrupt her fun, possibly dangerous adventure.
It was time to rip the bandage off, she told herself.
The internet wasn’t the fastest she’d ever used, though she was grateful to have it, so it took her almost an hour to re-download and sign in to the apps she wanted back on her phone.
For several of them, she’d deleted her accounts entirely, and she didn’t bother with those.
Maybe once she was in Miami and wanted to build up her new brand, she’d make fresh accounts.
If Miami was still on the table.
She still hadn’t sent a message to her friend Sydney, down in Miami. Lucy had been squirreling away money for a solid two years or more, planning to join her and make the dream of designing signature cocktails for a living come true.
When her coffee date lit up the tabloid world, Sydney had reached out, asking if she was okay. Already burned by so-called friends and in a dark emotional place, Lucy had told her she was okay, but needed space and didn’t want to talk. That had been a mistake.
But as the weeks passed, Lucy had put off reaching out to Sydney, afraid her friend would want no part of the Fairee circus. Lucy would have been crushed, and she hadn’t felt ready for that kind of risk. She still needed hope on her horizon.
Now she sent Sydney a long overdue text message, apologizing for disappearing and promising to call within the next few days to explain everything.
Facebook was the hard one. She’d kept on top of her privacy settings, so there wasn’t a lot of negativity.
But there were a lot of people who’d taught her there was a difference between being a friend and being somebody you knew socially and who’d hit the Like button on the photo of the cute shoes you scored on sale.
By the time she’d deleted all of the insincere messages fishing for details poorly disguised as concern, and unfriended everybody who wouldn’t be a part of her life going forward, she was left with five people.
Gran. Iris, who she would unfriend if not for the drama that would ensue. Sydney. And Sydney’s husband and sister.
That was depressing, she thought as she carried the blankets back into the cottage. It was tempting to turn on the television and lose herself in blankets and mindless entertainment for a while, but she actually wanted to move.
It only took five minutes to clean the bathroom. At first, having never shared a bathroom with a man before, she’d been expecting the worst. She’d heard a lot of horror stories over the years. But Nick was very neat and good at cleaning up after himself, so it hadn’t been a problem.
There was a sweatshirt in the tub, though, and she remembered him saying he’d gotten caught in the rain yesterday, and that he’d do a wash when he got home today. Lucy had a few things, so she added the wet sweatshirt to make a load and started the washer.
Gloves, she thought.
She’d run to Smith’s Hardware and buy herself some gloves. And she’d have some time to browse the eclectic offerings and maybe find something else she needed.
When she walked into Smith’s Hardware and the old-fashioned bell over the door rang, Don looked up from the counter. He didn’t smile and call out a greeting the way he had when she was with Nick.
He just stared at her for a moment, gave a curt nod and went back to whatever he’d been doing.
Maybe he was just busy, she told herself as she wandered the aisles. Not customer busy, since she was the only one in the store as far as she could tell, but paperwork busy.
She found a good pair of leather work gloves, along with a lighter pair of gardening gloves. There was also a cute, pink-handled hammer she couldn’t resist, but Don’s cold reception had sapped the idea of exploring the store of its charm.
When she set the gloves and hammer on the counter, he looked up again. This time his eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t look much like your mother.”
“No, not really,” she said, taken aback by his abrupt tone. She hoped he wouldn’t follow it up by asking if she looked like her father because she had no idea. She’d always assumed she must.
“Helen’s good people,” he said. “We look after her in this town.”
Heat prickled across Lucy’s chest and up her neck. The man didn’t care who she looked like. He just wanted her aware he knew she was Iris Macauley’s daughter and they’d be keeping an eye on her.
She forced her lips into a stiff smile. “I’m glad Gran lives in such a great community. Have a good day.”
Before he could say more, she headed for the door. Between the Facebook culling and being reminded this town would hold her mother against her, she wasn’t in the mood to explore any of the other businesses.
When she got back to the cottage, she left the gloves and hammer on the counter. After throwing the load of laundry into the dryer, she put some chicken breasts in marinade for supper later. And she took great satisfaction in crossing gloves off the list.
She read until the dryer buzzed, and then made quick work of folding and putting away her laundry. She wasn’t sure what to do with Nick’s sweatshirt, but he probably wouldn’t mind if she just set it on the bed.
It felt slightly wrong to open the door, but when Lucy stepped inside the room, it was still very much her grandmother’s space.
Like the rest of the cottage, the bedroom had a warm, comfortable vibe without a lot of clutter.
An old maple dresser Lucy knew was older than Iris.
A matching bedside table with a lamp and a short stack of paperbacks.
A gorgeous wooden rocking chair she knew her grandfather had bought for Helen when she was pregnant with Iris.
A soft braided rug covered much of the hardwood floor, and a large window looked over the backyard.
Lucy could remember sitting in that window, watching the birds and butterflies in the garden with Gran, and the memory made her smile.
As did the framed photo of Helen and Lucy walking the beach together when she was maybe twelve years old.
It was the only photo on the dresser besides Helen’s wedding photo.
There were no photos of Iris anywhere in the cottage that Lucy had seen, which was sad.
And there was very little sign Nick had been sleeping in this room.
The phone charging cord on the nightstand.
Two duffel bags on the floor next to the rocker, which held a stack of folded blue sweatshirts.
A pair of sneakers sat under the rocking chair, though Lucy had never seen Nick wear them.
He usually stepped in and out of his work boots at the door, not bothering with tying them.
And there was the fact the quilt that was meant to cover the bed had been folded down out of the way, and was currently half shoved between the mattress and the maple footboard.
Since Nick seemed to never be cold, it didn’t surprise her the flannel sheet was enough of a cover for him at night. And even though she spent a lot of time awake at night, unable to sleep, she rarely heard the mattress creaking or shifting. He was probably a heavy sleeper.
Maybe because that bed looked incredibly comfortable.
And she was tired after an emotional day.
Nick probably wouldn’t be home for hours. She could stretch out and take a comfortable nap. Just a short one, and then she’d smooth the covers and feel ready to make a plan.
And Nick would never know she’d been in his bed.
* * *