CHAPTER TWENTY
I curled up on my mother’s couch, a steaming mug of tea cupped in my palms.
I’d written for hours all afternoon—but not about what I thought. Instead of ripping my manuscript apart or mining for gold with a new idea, I read it again, with fresh eyes.
The words flowed effortlessly afterward.
I didn’t touch the core of my novel, which immortalized our community and the special kind of magic found in Bluebell Cove.
My main character, however, needed some work.
It was cathartic in a way. The stupid things I’d done and said were no longer justified—they were flaws.
She’d grow eventually. The reader would just have to give her time.
I was about to call Priscilla, an agent I got along well with, when the apartment door unexpectedly swung open. My mother moseyed inside, a wide grin on her face and a huge paper bag in her arms.
“The diner’s not closed yet,” I said, watching curiously as she set it down on the coffee table with a crinkle and a dull thunk.
“I know,” she crooned, “There’s only a couple more hours. I got someone to cover me.”
My eyebrows flew up. Two meals together in one day? Whatever had shifted between us, I was nervous to hope that it stuck around.
She held up a finger and hurried off to her bedroom, exchanging her uniform for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.
We ate hunched over the coffee table. Hope Floats played on the television—one of my mother’s favorite movies, she told me when she held up the DVD.
Truthfully, I didn’t care what was on the screen.
It should’ve been natural to sit for dinner and a movie with my mother, but the heaviness that simmered around us said otherwise. Usually, I’d avoid the paradoxical unease of unfamiliarity—but today wasn’t like any other day. An invisible tether, brand new but shining, urged me to stay this time.
I hugged my knees to my chest, tea long forgotten as I nursed a chocolate milkshake. Her eyes were glassy as she watched Sandra Bullock and Harry Connick Jr. sway beneath a ceiling of string lights.
The day’s events must’ve made me loopy, because I found myself quietly asking, “Did you ever want to re-marry?”
She waited for the scene to end before speaking. “It wasn’t really on my mind,” she said. “Not much was. If I just focused on gettin’ out of bed each mornin’, puttin’ on that uniform, and gettin’ myself to the diner, I knew I’d be okay for the day. Wash, rinse, n’ repeat.”
“For how many years?” I murmured.
She shrugged. “Some days it’s still hard. Others, I feel a bit like my old self again.” Pausing, she laughed to herself and waved a hand. “You must think I’m crazy.”
“No,” I replied, choosing my next words carefully: “But do you think you might be depressed?”
She folded a napkin in her lap and placed it neatly on the takeout box. “I dunno ‘bout all that.”
“I can give you my therapist’s information,” I blurted before I could stop myself. “She’s really great, and… I think she could help.”
I waited for her to dismiss me with another laugh and a smile. She surprised me, though. After a long, tired sigh, she nodded and replied, “That would be nice, darlin’.”
A grin twitched onto my mouth as we both sank back into the couch.
While the movie swelled to an end, my eyes drifted to my laptop on the table, stomach twisting ever so slightly.
I knew just how much a session with Candice cost. It dawned on me with stunning clarity: now, more than ever, I had a good reason to get back up again and try to publish my book.
If I committed to footing the bill, I needed to be a best-seller. So, that’s what I was going to be.
???
I was editing in my bedroom later that night when the scrape sounded. Loud, as if it was inside the room. Heart in my throat, I jumped from the bed, wielding my laptop in the dark like some sort of rectangular, highly ineffectual sword.
It came again. I whipped my head toward the window, stubbing my toe on the bedframe and hissing as I strained for a look down into the alley.
No cute family of raccoons throwing trash at the glass.
Just Teddy, lopsided grin on his face and a handful of pebbles at his side. His hair, neater than usual, glowed in the bright floodlight. I momentarily considered ignoring him. Then that pesky, glowing ember lit up in my chest, urging me to slide the window open.
“What do you want?” I whisper-shouted at him.
“Come down,” was all he said.
“Not until you answer my question.”
Even from the second floor, I could see his raised eyebrow. “I have about twenty more pebbles. And I think there’s plenty more at the beach.”
I groaned. He held up a hand, as if preparing to throw.
“Okay, okay!” I relented. The window squealed as I shut it.
I spun around my room for a moment, half panic, half indignation.
It was just like Teddy to show up out of nowhere, leaving me no time to do my hair or my makeup or make myself look even mildly presentable.
Muttering beneath my breath, I pulled on a pair of comfortable, fur-lined boots, and oversized sweater I’d gotten while thrifting with Georgie, and hastily wrenched a brush through my hair.
It didn’t occur to me that a grease stain from dinner graced the right knee of my sweat pants until I hurtled halfway out the door into the alley.
Teddy just smiled at me, wide and true, and for a second I thought he’d hug me.
“You can’t laugh,” I muttered, adjusting my sweater.
“Wasn’t going to.”
“Okay, well, what do you want?”
He motioned to his truck like a flight attendant. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away to go back inside. His boots scraped against asphalt as he lurched forward, hand landing on mine around the door knob.
“Please,” he whispered.
My cheeks flushed at the sudden proximity. I hated that he made me so flustered. And I hated that, despite every ounce of me determined to avoid any further pain, the spark in my chest let him lead me into his Jeep.
Teddy sent me a cautious, sidelong glance as the engine roared to life. I crossed my arms and slumped back into the seat. He flicked on the radio to a Sixpence None The Richer song, drumming his fingers against the wheel and peeking at me each time we came to a stop.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was nervous.
I refused to get my hopes up. That’s all I knew for certain.
At the end of Main Street, he paused longer than usual at the stop sign, rummaging through his pocket. I eyed him warily as a band of fabric appeared in his extended palm.
“No,” I said.
Teddy put his hands together, pleading. “This is the last thing, I promise.”
“If you murder me, I’m going to be so mad,” I grumbled. Snatching it from him, I tied it around my face until I couldn’t see anything but a faint outline of passing lamp posts.
He simply replied with a laugh.
The rest of the car ride didn’t last very long, maybe five or ten minutes.
I heard the tires crunch and the brakes moan as we slowed to a stop, followed by his parking brake and a quiet command not to move.
His door slammed shut, then mine was wrenched open, a rush of cold air sending a shiver down my spine.
Teddy grabbed my hand and eased me to the ground, murmuring, “Watch your step.”
My boots sunk into a layer of gravel. “I’m going to trip and break a tooth,” I muttered, slowly following his lead.
“I’m not opposed to carrying you,” he quipped.
“Never mind.”
“That’s what I thought.” The smile was clear in his voice.
A couple minutes later, Teddy directed me to stand still while he ran a few steps ahead.
Metal clinked and something like hinges groaned before he took my hand again and urged me forward.
My eyebrows drew together when I smelled it: fresh-cut grass, mixed with another smell that tugged the depths of my memories.
Our footsteps changed from scraping gravel, to asphalt, to a soft, slippery surface that muffled the noise.
“Okay,” he breathed, “I’m going to take this off—you ready?”
I wasn’t. The second the fabric fell, a tiny gasp escaped my lips.