CHAPTER FIVE
The fight was loud enough to rattle the glass in the kitchen cabinets. I sat just inside my cracked bedroom door, arms looped around my knees, trying to breathe quiet enough to disappear.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ruth.” My dad’s voice was sharp, and I flinched at every word.
“You mean you won’t,” my mom shot back.
I stared at the sliver of light outside my room until my vision blurred. My chest ached, but I didn’t dare move. If I moved, they might hear, and then it would be real.
The slam of the screen door in the back alley was so violent it made me jump. Then, silence. My ears rang at the sudden change, and suddenly, all I wanted was to hear the low rumble of their voices—even if it was arguing.
Arguing was better than nothing at all. And this felt final.
I waited for Mom to come find me—to say it was a mistake, and that he’d come back. All that came was the hollow click of the kitchen clock, and the thunk of their bedroom door closing. Quiet, as if she was resigned to it all.
My legs carried me out of my room and down the back steps before I could think.
It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d spent a few hours wandering the Cove or pacing up and down the alley.
He would be out there, running two hands through his hair, muttering under his breath.
Then he’d notice me and say, “Go to bed, sweet pea. I’ll be right inside—promise.
” I wouldn’t fall asleep until I heard the clink of the door locking and his footsteps padding upstairs.
He wasn’t there that time. And neither was his car.
Something terrible swept through me, and I bent over as the tears formed rivers down my face. I didn’t know why. It all felt final.
The scrape of pavement made me shoot up. Teddy approached, hands in his pockets, hair sticking up from the wind. He must’ve heard everything on one of his late-night solo adventures. He didn’t say a word as he leaned up against the wall beside me.
For a long time, we stayed like that—two kids pressed against the wood, staring at the stars.
When I finally whispered, “He’s not coming back,” my voice ripped open down the middle.
Teddy reached over and took my hand, squeezing hard.
“Maybe he’ll be at breakfast in the morning,” he said, eyes glittering with hope. “You never know.”
That was the night I realized Teddy and I were fundamentally different.
???
PRESENT DAY
I quickly finished slicing my banana and tossed it into the blender. Today’s schedule didn’t leave many gaps for anything—with Fallfest less than a week and a half away, preparations were in full swing. It wasn’t anything like the Summer’s End Festival a month ago.
That was total chaos. This would be a well-oiled machine.
Georgie had delegated most of the technical planning aspects to me—scheduling, informing someone if they’re being stupid, and tinkering with my precious Excel spreadsheets.
With the booming business of her new pottery shop, she did what she was best at: making creative decisions and rallying the community together.
I, on the other hand, was doing an excellent job of fixating on the Fallfest so that I didn’t have to think about my burning trash heap of a life.
Perfectly normal and healthy. As long as no one told Candice.
My nails clicked against the countertop as the blender worked on my protein shake. I desperately needed a proper manicure and a blowout. My standards were slipping.
“Is that your breakfast?”
I clicked the blender off, nearly jumping out of my skin. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to talk,” my Mom said, slipping her notepad back in her apron and entering the tiny apartment kitchen. She looked as if she’d finished taking an order two seconds ago.
“It’s morning,” I mumbled stupidly. “Isn’t there a breakfast rush that needs your attention?”
She shrugged and pulled up a chair, the vintage chrome legs scraping against the butter-yellow linoleum floor.
Even though she was typically a laid-back person, the way she drummed her fingers on her knee and ticked her jaw made every normal movement seem unnatural.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her nervous, let alone in the kitchen at eight o’clock in the morning.
The thought sent a fresh chill of anxiety down my spine.
I swallowed thickly and poured my shake into a glass. “So, talk. I assume this is about New York.” Leaning my back against the counter, I crossed one ankle over the other and took a sip.
Nothing could help me avoid the conversation–it was time to face it head on.
But her eyebrows drew together, her features coloring with blatant confusion. For some reason, my heart sank. Had it even occurred to her that she should ask? Was she really going to tiptoe indefinitely around me?
“What about New York?” she asked.
The question sent an electric flash of anger through me. I chugged my protein shake, held back the full-body shudder, and set it in the dishwasher.
“You know what?” I began, stooping to tug my prized Italian leather Chelsea boots on my feet. “Whatever you need to talk to me about, I’m sure it can wait. I have a busy day ahead of me, okay?” When I finished, my voice had become flat and thin.
She gaped at me as I breezed through the apartment and slipped on my suede trench coat. “I really think we should speak before—”
The sound of the door slamming behind me cut her off.
I barreled down the stairs, through the busy diner, and out onto Main Street.
The churning, ashen clouds above glared at me through the shifting branches and drifting auburn-and-amber leaves.
By all accounts, it was my idea of a perfect day—a chilly gust, trees draped in the colors of autumn, and coffee on the horizon.
But all I could think about as I stormed through the swathes of meandering, glitter-eyed tourists, was the oblivious look on my mom’s face.
So when I burst through the doors to the cafe, the scowl on my lips had turned as dark as the sky.
“Woah, you alright?” Rachel greeted.
“I’m fine,” I replied with a sigh. I reached for my purse, but found nothing. “Only, I don’t have my wallet,” I muttered, casting a forlorn glance over my shoulder and out the door. Perhaps I could slip through the back entrance and avoid the diner entirely.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Georgie covered your drink.”
I squinted at her as if she’d begun speaking a foreign language. “Huh?”
Rachel grinned and nodded to the table by the window, where Georgie sat with two coffees and a mane of curls swept up into a ponytail. I shrugged off my coat as I approached, slipping it over the back of my chair before taking a seat. She didn’t even move from her spot hunched over a notepad.
“You paid for my drink?” I started, eyeing the cortado.
Georgie looked up for a split second. “Yeah, well, I’m barely keeping up with the demand over at the shop. Figured it was time to finally start paying some people back.”
My heart swelled, the conversation with my mom long forgotten.
The free coffee didn’t matter. I wasn’t keeping track of how much I spent on Georgie—although, frankly, I probably encouraged her sugary caffeine addiction a little too much. But I knew she’d felt awful about it, even if none of us cared. It was nice to see that weight off her shoulders.
Even if it was replaced by—
“What is that?” I muttered, cocking my head. Reading upside-down was a super power of mine, but her handwriting would make a pre-school teacher cry.
Georgie dropped her chin into ink-stained palms and rotated the notepad. “This is a list.”
“A list…” I echoed.
“Of potential sponsors.”
“Sponsors?”
“Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “You sound like a parrot.”
I sipped my cortado and didn’t bother trying to read her list. “Sponsors for what, Georgie? Are you secretly a NASCAR driver?”
She leaned over the table. There was that concerning twinkle in her eyes again.
“For the Fallfest.”
My mouth parted. “Sponsors? Since when do we have sponsors?”
“Right now, we don’t.” Georgie leaned back in her chair and pinched her eyebrows until tiny smudges appeared. “And, I mean, I’m not sure if we should.”
I held her notebook up to the light and strained to make out some sort of word.
Whatever twisted form of cursive she used, I’d never encountered it throughout the many unhinged manuscripts that had landed on my desk over the years.
I traced my nail under row ten, which was ever-so-slightly legible, and felt my brows fly up my forehead.
“That’s a huge company,” I mumbled.
“I know.”
“The kind of huge that could put a lot of us out of business.”
“Exactly,” Georgie replied, sounding miserable.
I set her notepad down and draped one leg over the other. “Then you ignore them. Or decline. Or send them a very strongly worded email about how Bluebell Cove supports small businesses. Whatever strikes your fancy.”
“Right.” She hesitated. “But—”
“But what?”
Georgie frowned, the pen streaks on her skin making it look almost comical. “I’m worried, Margot. To accommodate more people, we need more activities. More everything. Apparently, the rooms at the country club are all booked out. That’s more than two hundred guests. And—”
I held up a hand. “You need to breathe, okay?”
Her head bobbed in response as she paused to drag in a long breath.
“We can figure this out. Together.” I snapped her notebook shut. “But what we don’t need is a bunch of corporate sponsors stinking up Bluebell Cove.” The thought of Main Street businesses being bought by chain stores and restaurants made my skin crawl.
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Georgie sucked down the rest of her drink and abruptly left our table to get another, which she most likely didn’t need.
I hugged my arms to my chest, watching through the window as another gale burst through the trees and sent a flurry of leaves drifting in the wind.
Visitors trickled in and out of shops, a parade of colors and patterns in varying degrees of coats, scarves, and hats.
If I closed my eyes, I could see it: the Morning Bell transformed into the leviathan that haunted every street corner in Manhattan, Captain’s Table mutated into some kitschy, soulless corporate Frankenstein.
We’d survived for decades managing to retain our small-town spirit while profiting just enough from the travel industry. Perhaps, though, all of this sudden exposure was more of a double-edged sword than any of us could’ve anticipated.
Georgie sank back into her chair, set her fresh latte down, and rubbed furiously at her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like an ink-stained clown?”
I grimaced. “Distracted, sorry.”
“By—” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “—Teddy?”
I continued staring outside. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I being that ridiculous? I mean…”
Whatever Georgie was saying blurred into a wet, underwater murmur, like someone speaking through a fish tank. The café around me dissolved into a smear of movement and sound—cups clinking, a hiss of steam from the espresso machine, the buttery smell of croissants turning sickly in my nose.
My stomach twisted into a series of knots as I stared, frozen, at the man striding down Main Street outside the window.
The glass trembled faintly when the door swung open for a new customer, and for a moment I thought he’d somehow already seen me.
His coat—dark wool, shoulders hunched against the October wind—was so familiar that I felt like puking.
I wanted to pinch myself. It had to be some kind of nightmare.
My grip on the edge of the table slicked with sweat until my palms left damp half-moons against the wood.
As his face turned my way, a hollow roar filled my ears.
I wasn’t sure if I needed to throw up or hijack a car and drive until I hit the state line.
“Margot?” Georgie’s hand landed on my forearm. The pressure of her fingers barely shook me out of it.
I blinked as the skull-squeezing sensation receded and the café slid back into focus: the low hum of conversation, a spoon scraping against porcelain, the sharp bite of roasted coffee beans in the air.
Then, he was gone. Or maybe he’d never been there in the first place.
My pulse thundered as I shook my head, as if to knock the image loose. “I’m fine. I just—”
Georgie’s color drained until she was a pale sheet framed by copper. Acid burned the back of my throat as I followed her gaze to the window, where a man stood in line for the bakery next door. The wind lifted his hair, and for an instant the world tilted.
So, it hadn’t been a ghostly aberration.
He was real and in the flesh. A handful of feet away, unaware of my existence.
My father was back in Bluebell Cove.