23. Finn
twenty-three
Finn
I ’m a complete dirtbag. That’s what keeps running through my mind as I wait the following afternoon inside Bayside Table.
The mountain of evidence pushes against my neck, oppressively bowing my shoulders.
My first offense had been yesterday at the fair when Cordelia’s phone call pulled me away from Vivian.
Fortunately, there wasn’t another crisis in the land of Otto.
My sister called to chat like she often does.
The hardest part of my father systematically removing me from our family has been not seeing my sister in person.
She’d been fourteen when I left and very much beneath our father’s thumb, despite her teenage rebellion in securing a burner phone and sending me gifts.
Fortunately, our close relationship had weathered the distance and obstacles—even more of a testament to my sister’s cleverness.
Since I’d had to keep so much from Cordelia over the years, I vowed to tell her as much about my life as I could.
She always knows the latest library gossip—her favorite topic—how things are going with Alec—she’s not a fan—and what projects I’m trying to implement.
That’s why Cordelia called yesterday with the perfect idea for my library fundraiser.
“A Worthington Ball?” With the ocean wind whipping through the boardwalk, I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly.
“They’re a whole vibe. Anastasia had one for her twentieth last weekend, and everyone is obsessed. Of course that means I can’t use it for my upcoming birthday.”
“You’ll come up with something better,” I say in response to my sister’s pout.
“Undoubtedly.”
A smile curves my lips until I glance back at Vivian’s empty tent. I know Vivian didn’t want help today, but the idea of her going home defeated is as appealing as brushing my teeth with cat urine.
The words are out of my mouth before I can second-guess them.
“Cor, I need a favor.”
When the owner of a trendy Virginia Beach boutique arrived an hour later, I had to feign surprise. The woman evaluated Vivian’s workmanship, pleasantly surprised to find it immaculate. Each of her garments are made of quality fabrics, have incredible structure, and are finished with French seams.
Vivian had done that silent, open/closed mouth thing for a few seconds when the woman suggested taking thirty dresses with her for consignment.
The boutique owner warned Vivian that the dresses could be returned if they don’t sell in forty-five days, but I’m confident they’ll sell themselves.
Garments this intricate just need to be in front of the right audience.
Acid burned in my stomach at the underhandedness of the whole interaction.
But when Vivian’s bright-green eyes landed on mine a second before she launched herself into my arms with glee, I told myself it would be okay.
A large part of business is who you know, the connections you’ve made.
Begrudgingly, my father had been right about that too.
“I’m so excited,” Letitia says, entering the private room that I reserved for this impromptu meeting and yanking me from my memory. When I sent out a library-wide email last night, almost everyone immediately confirmed.
“The town is going to love this idea,” she tells me, pulling several notepads and books from a backpack.
“Did you know that, in the fifties, they used the library for public dances all the time? Here.” She flips open a weathered book, her fingernail tapping on a black-and-white picture of couples crowded onto the main floor.
The photographer must be standing on the stairwell to get the aerial shot.
“I’ve already coordinated with Margot—she teaches beginning ballet and jazz to most of the Wilks Beach kids out of her garage. Leading up to the ball, we can host weekly lessons for locals to learn the quadrille, the waltz, and some country dances.”
I open my stunned mouth to tell Letitia thank you—this was more than I expected on such short notice—but Patricia speaks first as she sails through the open door.
“I spoke to my eldest daughter,” she says, plopping herself next to Letitia and launching right in.
“She’s in the high school chamber ensemble that meets after school.
They’ve played a few weddings and would happily perform at the ball.
” Patricia opens her phone to a screenshot and pushes it across the table to me.
“Those are the songs they already know, but they are willing to learn more.”
Before I can even read the screen, she pulls it back. “Oh, and this is from Robert. He couldn’t make it today but wanted you to see this.”
I glance at the text message.
Robert
BOUT TIME I GET A CHANCE TO SPIN MY WIFE AROUND AGAIN. BEEN TOO LONG
Letitia and Patricia talk over each other as Trudy and Maxwell, the collections librarian, join us. A server sweeps in and collects drink orders for sweet tea before disappearing again.
“I think a lot of islanders will want to buy their tickets in person, but Greg could whip up a website with event information and a spot for online ticket purchases. We can link it to the main library webpage if patrons in Virginia Beach would be interested in driving out for the event.” Patricia tucks her hair behind both ears before tapping on her phone again. “He’d do it pro bono, of course.”
Trudy elbows Patricia with a knowing smirk. “More like payment is taken care of since you’ll keep him pro—”
“Alright.” I stand with a clap, bringing that potential NSFW conversation to an end.
“Thanks for meeting on short notice on your day off, but I think the quicker we get this fundraiser coordinated, the better.” I quickly make eye contact with each of my staff from my position at the head of the table.
“I looked at the calendar, and though it’s a tight window, I think it would be best to host the event Saturday, June 24th. ”
A collective gasp echoes through the room.
“That’s in three weeks,” Maxwell says.
I raise an outfacing palm. “I know, but our biggest benefactor, Dave Prescott, is taking his wife on a month-long tour of Asia for their thirtieth wedding anniversary in July. It would be best for both of them to attend.”
“What about August?” Trudy asks. “That would give us more time to plan.”
Directorship interviews are expected to be scheduled in early August. Having a successful—and lucrative—event behind me rather than in the works would be more favorable during my application process.
Patricia makes a dismissive noise. “It’s too hot in August. Everyone would be melting in their period dresses and top hats.”
“Ooooh, costumes,” Trudy coos. “I didn’t even think of that.”
I had. That’d been the second thing that had popped into my mind, imagining how excited Vivian would be by the idea of sewing herself a Regency gown for a ball celebrating the books she adores.
As if my thoughts have conjured her, Vivian walks past the hostess stand and into view, a chatty Atticus on her heels.
She is why I’m hosting this meeting at this specific location at this time—and the second reason why I’m a complete scumbag.
I acknowledge that it’s beyond inappropriate to stalk Vivian while she’s with Atticus, but every time I began the email to my staff about meeting on Monday, this location and time kept popping up on my screen.
My tight spine sags at the sight of Vivian in cut-off shorts and an oversized t-shirt, her curls in a messy bun. She didn’t dress up for their meeting. Even though this should be a steppingstone to her securing a formal date with Atticus, Vivian didn’t wear one of her butter-soft dresses.
My jubilance is efficiently squashed when her hairstyle transports me to the memory of yesterday. It’d been nearly impossible not to drop a kiss on the nape of her neck. And then she’d turned, sucked in that unsteady breath, and reason darn near went out the window as—
“Vivian!”
I flinch at Patricia’s loud call through the open door. “Come here, hon.”
It’s work to keep my hands from fisting. Dragging Vivian in front of a group is going to make her uncomfortable. Patricia should know better.
Vivian glances over her shoulder, and the second our gazes crash, the air is punched from my lungs.
Her quick perusal of my attire only takes a millisecond, but I feel stretched beyond the capacity of my skin as it flits from my slacks to my rolled dress shirt to my unstyled hair.
Then her nose wrinkles as those expressive eyes drop to her sandals.
“Um.” She pauses a beat before stepping toward the door. “Hi.”
“Patricia, we don’t need—”
“What do you think about making dresses for a Regency ball?” Patricia interrupts me.
Vivian’s gaze bounces from Patricia to me, and a burning radiates from behind my breastbone. I wish I’d told her last night. She’d been so effervescent coming home from the fair, and I’d been too torn about my role in it to mention my conversation with Cordelia.
I swallow, reminding myself that my staff is watching. “We’re thinking of hosting a Regency ball as a library fundraiser. This is our first meeting to get some ideas in place.”
“Doesn’t that sound fun?” Patricia asks.
“It—” Vivian’s hands loosen their death grip on the straps of her tote bag as her polite smile graces her lips. “It does.”
“Can you beautify the fine ladies of Wilks Beach in three weeks?”
Vivian squints, her gaze drifting off. “No. Not in that timeline, but I can alter dresses. I’ve seen on social media that there are several affordable options online.
Annie Ardent did a Regency-themed book signing in Charlotte last year, and almost everyone in attendance dressed up.
Perhaps you could coordinate with attendees and make one purchase to save on shipping.
If you send them to my shop, I’ll make appointments with each guest to have them fitted. ”
A broad smile splits my face, watching Vivian relax into her savvy business persona.
I saw it for the first time yesterday after the boutique owner left with several overfilled dress bags.
Vivian had spoken to each subsequent customer with a comfortable grace, selling more than she had in the morning simply from the confidence boost.
“I can do that,” Letitia says, scribbling notes. “I’ll give locals a few days to decide on a style and pay for their dresses, and I can make a single purchase on my account.”
“And if anyone decides to buy their own dress and bring it to me, that is fine too,” Vivian adds. “Just have them come by to have it fitted. I’m always available for after-hours appointments too.”
“What about the blokes?” Maxwell strokes his trim bread.
Vivian’s laugh—her full laugh, not the whisper of one she usually uses in public—bursts from her, sending liquid sunshine weaving through my ribs.
“Same for you. I’ll happily alter anything you bring me.” She bites the corner of her lip, her joyful expression falling. “Sorry I can’t create new garments for everyone.”
“Don’t apologize.” I pause, clearing my throat of its gruff tone and upping the wattage on my grin. “We appreciate any help to make this fundraiser a success. Thank you, Vivian.”
Her eyes do a sweep of my face, pausing on my smiling lips before fixating on my hair. Subconsciously, I run my fingers through it, and Vivian’s lashes flutter.
“That sounds like an interesting fundraiser.” Atticus’s voice breaks the tension between us like a boulder crashing through a frozen lake.
“Glad you like the idea.” Patricia rises to walk to the doorway where Vivian and Atticus are hovering. “If you’ll excuse us, we have a lot of planning to do.” She closes the door, staring at it for a second before wheeling on me. “Sit down, Finn. We need to have a chat.”