Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Emelia
Baylor sits on the bed in front of me while I weave her hair into a French braid around her crown. It’s not easy work, and it’s made even more difficult by her constant shifting.
“Does your dad usually do your hair every day?”
The question is my sly way of figuring out whether her mother is in her life. I haven’t seen a woman around the house in the past week, and from what I can tell, Baylor has been here every night, so I don’t think there’s a custody-sharing situation between Elliott and an ex.
Why am I so curious? I have no idea. But I am.
“Yeah. He tries hard, but he’s not very good at it.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
I’m surprised that Elliott agreed to let Baylor come here and have me do her hair. When she asked me last night and I agreed, I thought for sure Elliott would shut down the idea. But she was knocking on my door bright and early, just like she said she’d be.
“All my friends’ moms do their hair. It always looks so pretty.” The longing in her voice causes my chest to tighten.
So I’m thinking, no mom?
I know what it feels like to be different from everyone else, even if you’re surrounded by love. And I may find Elliott irritating and presumptuous, but he loves his daughter very much and probably wishes she didn’t have to go through not having something most others do.
“Men have those big hands and thick fingers. It’s harder for them.”
She giggles.
I’m just finishing up when a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in.”
I look over my shoulder as Elliott walks into the bunkie wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that stretches across his chest, betraying the lean muscle underneath. Can’t he look less jumpable?
“Morning.” I keep my voice even, although my pulse is hammering.
He glances around at the clothing strewn over every available surface, the food wrappers still sitting on the kitchenette counter, and lastly, the unmade bed. “The walk-in closet not big enough?”
My face heats because I’ve always been the messy one in my family, and they all loved to point it out. Mostly, I hate feeling inferior to him somehow.
I don’t bother answering him. Instead, I turn around and put the final touches on Baylor’s hair before resting my hands gently on her shoulders. “All done. Why don’t you go take a look in the bathroom mirror and see if you like it?”
“Be quick about it,” Elliott says. “We need to leave for school.”
“Yay!” She bounds off the bed and runs into the bathroom, forcing me to interact with Elliott.
Neither of us says a word. We each stand there in some sort of weird stalemate, as if we’re playing the childhood game of whoever speaks first loses.
Baylor bounds back into the room. “Thank you, Emelia.” She wraps her arms around my legs and squeezes.
“You’re very welcome.” I smile at her and notice from the corner of my eye that Elliott turns his back to us.
I inwardly roll my eyes. He probably doesn’t want to see his self-appointed enemy making physical contact with his daughter.
Baylor pulls away, gazing up at me with those big blue eyes that make me want to wrap my arms around her to keep the nasty shit in the world away. “You’re the best.”
“You have a good day at school, okay?”
She gives me a firm nod and then walks over to her dad, taking him by the hand. “Let’s go, Daddy. Gabrielle is going to love my hair.”
Elliott pushes the door open with his free hand, then glances over his shoulder at me. He looks as if he wants to say something, but he just nods and leaves.
I’m not sure why it gets under my skin so much that he has such a low opinion of me, but it does.
Whatever. I’m not here to make peace with Elliott. I’m here because I have a job to do, and today that involves checking out the Hollow Pine Café and chatting with the owner.
Half an hour later, I park my car on Main Street and make my way along the sidewalk to the café.
Directly across the street is a hardware store and the Bait & Tackle shop that seem to share a small parking lot.
The weight of someone’s attention presses on me as I make my way up to the door of the café.
When I turn to investigate, I spot three older men with coffee thermoses in hand sitting on lawn chairs in front of the Bait & Tackle store, all staring at me.
Unsure what to do, I raise a hand, and they return the gesture.
I’ll have to make time to stop and chat with them at some point.
I step inside the café decorated by someone committed to several competing aesthetics. There are antlers on the wall beside a huge framed photo of the Rat Pack and a pink neon sign that says OPEN. Checkered curtains top off the overall look, adding a grandma vibe to the place.
The woman behind the counter is maybe fifty, maybe older, and has on bright red lipstick the same shade as a firetruck. Her dyed blond hair is pinned up in a way that appears effortless, but I know it probably took her at least a half hour. She’s pouring coffee for a man in a flannel jacket.
“I told him you’d never catch me on one of those reality dating shows, airing out all my dirty laundry for the whole world to see. None of those relationships ever work out, and you can’t tell me any different.” She finishes pouring and looks at me. “Hey, sweetheart. Go ahead and sit anywhere.”
I slide onto a stool at the counter a few seats down from the man. It seems he’s just finishing his meal because no sooner have I sat down than he stands and throws some cash on the counter.
“Thanks, Rick. Don’t be such a stranger.” The woman gives him a flirty smile and slides the bills off the counter, straight into the pocket of her apron. It’s such a smooth, practiced maneuver that I can tell she’s probably done it a thousand times.
“Coffee?” She’s already walking toward me with the coffeepot in hand.
“Please.” I pick up the coffee mug in front of me and turn it over, and she pours it. “Thanks.”
I lift the mug to my lips and take a sip. My eyes close of their own volition at the mouthful of heaven sliding down my throat. I’ll have to get a coffeemaker for the bunkie.
When I open my eyes, the woman in front of me is smirking. “People expect crappy diner coffee. I love to surprise ’em.” She winks, then extends her hand. “Dottie Kerns. I own this place.”
I take her hand. “Emelia Greene. I’m—”
“The one who works for a developer. Staying in Elliott’s bunkie.
From Boston, but if I’m hearing right, not originally?
You’re prettier than they said. Gotta admit, I don’t love the competition.
” She laughs and sets down the pot. “Oh, look at you, unsure what to say. This is Echo Lake, sweetheart. The Thermos Crew filled me in.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I’m not sure what to say. I mean, news never traveled this fast in Sunrise Bay.
Dottie waves her hand in front of her. “They don’t mean harm. Just a bunch of old men with nothing but time on their hands. You eaten?”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
She makes a buzzing sound. “I’ll bring you some eggs. Or do you prefer toast or pancakes? Don’t say toast. You look like you could use some pancakes. Heartier for the bones. Maybe with some strawberries and whipped cream on top.”
“Um…okay, the pancakes, I guess?”
“Good girl.”
Dottie disappears back into the kitchen, reappearing less than a minute later. She leans on the counter across from me, chin in hand, studying me with frank curiosity.
I might have come here to chat her up and get a read on her and her feelings about a developer coming into town, but she’s obviously just as curious about me.
“So how’s the bunkie?”
“The bunkie’s great.” I take another sip of the delicious coffee, trying to figure out the flavors hitting my tongue.
“And how’s Elliott handling having you fifty feet from his back door?”
“I think ‘handling’ is generous.”
Dottie laughs—a real one. A loud bark that slips into a giggle and it’s enough to have two people sitting near the window glance over.
“Oh, I like you. He’s a good man, Elliott.
Quite the looker too. But he can be stubborn and bullheaded.
” She taps the counter once. “He doesn’t do change, if you get what I mean, but don’t tell him I said that. ”
I nod and sip my coffee, unsure what that means, but knowing it’s not my business to ask more questions because I’m sure Elliott wouldn’t be happy to be discussed about with me.
“You’re a good listener. That’s good. This town has plenty of talkers.” She nods toward the window, and I look over my shoulder again, eyeing the guys in front of the Bait & Tackle shop. “The Thermos Crew is no harm. Don’t worry about them.”
Oh, so those guys are the Thermos Crew. Good to know.
Remembering what Deacon said about her while I was in the bakery, I ask, “How’d you end up in Echo Lake?”
Dottie’s eyes sparkle, and one corner of her mouth tugs up. “Witness protection.” She says it with a straight face. “I bet your pancakes are up. Be back in a minute, sweetheart.” And with no more explanation, she disappears.
I stick around the Hollow Pine Café and chat with Dottie for another hour.
We talk a little bit about what possible development could mean for the town, and Dottie’s consensus is pretty much the same as everyone else’s that I’ve chatted with thus far—the summer months are good for business because they bring in more people, but once the weather starts to turn, things dry up.
A more consistent clientele would be welcome, but not at the cost of ruining the charm of the existing town.
I feel the same and tell Dottie so. While I’ve been met with skepticism from people in town, Dottie seems to trust me.
I have no interest in being a part of bulldozing an entire town and losing what makes it special.
My boss has assured me that the firm has no intention of doing so.
We’re merely hoping to develop some land on the lake into low-rise condos.
Before I leave, I invite her to the town hall next week where I can present the developer’s plans, and residents can ask questions.
I’m walking back to my car to head back to the bunkie and file my first report with my boss when my phone rings. I stop on the sidewalk and fish it out of my purse, answering on the third ring without having a chance to see who it is first.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Emelia Greene?”
“This is she.” I hike my leather bag further up on my shoulder.
“Emelia, this is Dr. Fenmore.”
A prickle of unease needles through me. She must be calling me about the physical and bloodwork I had before I left Boston. “Hi, Dr. Fenmore. Is everything okay?”
“I’m calling because something was flagged in your bloodwork, and I wanted to ask you a few questions about it to assess your risk before we have you repeat the test.”
As I come up beside my car, I stop walking. “What is it?”
“You had an elevated ANA level.”
“What does that stand for?” I unlock my car and toss my bag inside on the passenger seat.
“Antinuclear antibody. It’s something that can alert us to the possibility of autoimmune conditions like lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. This alone doesn’t mean anything, and there’s a chance it could just be a false positive as well, which is why I’m going to have you redo the test.”
“I didn’t even realize you were testing for something like that.” I probably should pay more attention, but I’ve been busy with my job, and honestly, most of what’s on those forms doesn’t mean anything to me anyway.
“Well, you mentioned that you’d experienced more fatigue than normal recently. That, coupled with the rash a couple of months ago that you mentioned…it was merely a precaution.”
I lean my back against the car, facing away from the road. “I’m out of town for a few months. Do I need to redo the test right away?”
“Not at all. I was going to suggest that we wait a few months before we redraw your blood, so as soon as you’re back in town, just go get another blood draw. The order will be in your chart.”
“Okay, sure.” A sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. “You said you had some questions?”
“I do. Autoimmune conditions are strongly hereditary and disproportionately affect women. They also tend to run in maternal lines. Does your mother have any autoimmune diseases that she’s been diagnosed with? Any chronic fatigue, joint pain, skin issues, kidney problems?”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out because I don’t have an answer. Because the woman I consider my mom, Molly, has no issues, but she’s not my biological mother.
“Emelia, did I lose you?” Dr. Fenmore asks.
“No, sorry, um…I don’t know. My mom died when I was three.” I leave it there, not offering any more information.
“I see.” I can hear the click-clack of the keyboard keys echoing over the phone line. “And your father…anything on his side of the family?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “No, not that I’m aware of.”
“All right. I think the best course of action is to have you redo the test when you’re back in town, then based on those results, we’ll move forward with a plan of action.”
My voice shakes a bit when I say, “Okay. Thanks, Dr. Fenmore.”
“Emelia, I don’t want you to be alarmed. Most of the time, something like this is either a false positive or an isolated result that doesn’t indicate anything serious. But call me right away if anything changes with your health. Try not to worry.”
Not worry? She has no idea who she is talking to.
“All right. Thanks for calling, Doctor.”
She says goodbye, then ends the call while I stand for a beat, still holding the phone to my ear.
It’s not exactly the kind of phone call you expect when you’re a healthy thirty-two-year-old woman. But what’s even worse is that I couldn’t answer any of her questions about my maternal side of the family and will never be able to.