Chapter Four
“I’m so sorry,” Rhett said the second I walked through the door at Marigold’s.
One of the fern pots laid on the floor, dirt and roots mixed with a spray of ceramic shards.
“I bumped it when I was inspecting the floorboards.”
He looked miserable. It was the first show of real emotion I had seen since I met him. Running his hand through his hair, he glanced from the mess, to me, then back to the fern again. My brain slowly but surely caught up to the situation.
“It’s really fine,” I murmured, offering him his coffee with a tiny smile. “Accidents happen.”
Rhett’s brows furrowed as if he had never heard the words before.
“I’ll go get the broom,” I said.
I felt his gaze on my back as I set my latte and bag on the counter and moseyed to the storage closet.
When I returned with a broom and a bucket, he was busy folding up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and surveying the damage with a frown.
My eyes caught on the symphony of tattoos stretching from his forearms and underneath the rolled fabric.
I hadn’t expected someone so starchy to be hiding an entire collection of artwork beneath his shirt.
“Those are cool,” I mumbled brusquely, setting the bucket at our feet.
Rhett glanced at his arms as if he’d forgotten they were there and replied, “Thank you.” He paused for a moment before clearing his throat and taking the broom from me to lean it against the window.
I balanced on my haunches and began picking fragments of ceramic from the soil, disposing them into the bucket. From the corner of my vision, I watched as he crouched down and followed suit.
“Can I reimburse you for the cost?” Rhett delicately placed a large piece in the bucket.
“Don’t worry about it,” I responded, tossing a handful of shards with a loud clatter. “I, uh… I made it.” His hands froze. I threw the last of the fragments into the bucket.
Peeking up at him, I noticed the way the light caught his jaw as it clenched.
He appeared different just then—softer. As if, despite how he seemed coiled tightly enough to snap, I’d finally seen a glimpse of something beyond stolid judgement.
It almost made me interested enough to look for more. Almost.
Rhett was silent as I gingerly picked the fern and its roots from the soil.
“Do you need this dirt?” he said suddenly, his voice sounding strained.
I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from my mouth. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just re-pot it,” I murmured, leaving Rhett to sweep up the rest of the pile.
A storage bin of fresh soil and a shelf of pots waited in the closet.
Tapping my chin with one hand, I surveyed the array of ceramics and hummed quietly to myself.
I only ever brought my best creations to Marigold’s.
There was a cerulean drip glaze with handles, a rotund pot with amber checkers, and a taller, speckled and fluted style.
Delicately, I placed the fern on the counter and chose the latter.
I remembered being so proud of myself when I finally perfected this technique—it took several late nights in the studio and many lattes at work while I dreamed about clay in my hands.
The feeling of shaping a damp block into something beautiful and functional was unmatched, even compared to scoring one of the bakery’s specialty apple cider doughnuts.
“Did you make that too?”
If it weren’t for his heavy footfalls, I might’ve dropped it. Rhett watched me curiously from the other side of the counter, hands at his sides as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them. I was beginning to wonder if a benevolent fairy had recently transformed him into a real boy.
I nodded wordlessly, scooping some soil into the pot.
“A lot more interesting than what I do,” he said, dark eyes trained on each of my movements.
The flush that rose to my cheeks was, once again, entirely aggravating “Well, thank you.” I moved a hair from my face with the back of my hand. “But it’s just a hobby.”
Rhett scratched his neck. “Do you… sell them?”
Placing the fern inside the pot, I filled the sides with soil and began dusting the counter off.
“No. Well—” I hesitated and glanced around the shop.
When was the last time I had made a sale, anyway?
“I guess it would be nice if someone bought one, y’know.
But that’s not my job,” I muttered. Absentmindedly fluffing the leaves, I forced a smile on my face. “I sell flowers.”
“But you could sell pottery,” he responded practically.
I drew a long breath and tried to look anywhere but in his discerning eyes.
I never considered abandoning the shop. It was Marigold’s flowers, not Georgie’s pottery studio.
My grandmother had given up so much to step in and raise me.
She was the pillar of Bluebell Cove. There wasn’t a reality I could think of where I would betray her legacy now that she was gone.
No—I wouldn’t entertain the thought.
“What brings you to town?” I said instead, reluctantly dragging my gaze to his.
Rhett traced a finger along one of the pot’s flutes and seemed to study the speckles of sage and lavender. “My uncle left his business a mess. I have to finish some contracts for him before I can sell it.”
My frown was unavoidable. “Sell it?”
“I’m an architect, and I live over two thousand miles away.” He shrugged. “I can’t exactly operate it from across the country.”
I snatched the pot from his reach and marched across the shop. My skin felt like it was on fire when I placed the fern on the windowsill with the rest and turned to him. “You’re going to sell your uncle’s business. The one that he spent his entire life building.”
Rhett might as well have declared that he enjoyed kicking puppies in his free time.
“He’s dead, Georgie.”
For a half-second, I was struck by the way my name sounded on his lips. Then his words sunk in.
“So he’s dead, and you just… move on and pretend he never existed? What about everything he did for you?” My pulse raced wildly beneath my skin. Tears pricked my eyes despite how I tried to will them away.
Rhett crossed his arms. “I have my own life. My uncle understood that.”
“Your own life,” I mumbled in a daze.
I stared at him from across the shop, sure his stony mask was back in place—even as my vision started to blur. Ten minutes ago, I thought maybe I’d misunderstood him. If I weren’t busy trying not to lose it, I’d almost be impressed by how fast he flipped the switch.
Rhett Briggs was unfriendly, selfish, and apparently determined to give me emotional whiplash.
Rushing past him, I plucked my bag from the counter and mumbled something mildly intelligible about going on lunch. It didn’t matter that it was ten in the morning. He could think whatever he liked about me.
I blinked against the brightness of midmorning as I darted onto the sidewalk and out of view.
Leaning on the wall outside the Button Jar, I drew a long, shaking breath and quickly wiped the unshed tears before anyone could see.
The Morning Bell was already bustling—no doubt half-full of lingering tourists or students with a free period—so Rachel would be busy.
That left one place for me to hide: Gulliver’s Books.
At the ring of the bell, Joe greeted me from his perch atop the library ladder.
Nose-deep in a novel as thick as his barrel chest, he was precariously balanced on the highest rung, unfazed by the eight feet separating him from a broken limb.
Silver-and-black braids fell down his back and over his shoulders, his deep brown skin glowing in the light.
He worked the arm of his wire-framed glasses between his teeth, rubbing his short beard as though my presence barely registered.
I gently shut the door, doing my best not to interrupt him further.
Gulliver’s Books was a legend in its own right.
No matter the time of year, it was always quiet here, as if all who entered were enraptured by the sea of golden dust motes and towering cases of vintage novels.
The store was an homage to Joe himself; a sturdy, mystery of a man who arrived in Bluebell Cove with the same inevitability of the sunrise.
It wasn’t one of the many landmarks that stood the test of time, but once Gulliver’s Books opened, it might as well have always been there.
I passed someone engrossed in the historical section and quietly ascended the short flight of stairs toward the back.
The loft-style second floor was the spot I frequented.
With a wide, black-paned arch window and an entire wall dedicated to vinyl records, it felt like a hiding place from familiar eyes on Main Street.
Joe, who I knew was reluctant to sell them at all, also kept his romance collection in the loft, quarantined from the scores of vintage editions and hefty literary fictions.
Only a few sparse shelves adorned the walls, and a table in the center, dedicated to whatever novels he had deemed worthy, stood partially filled. Seeing as the majority of shoppers kept to the first level, I often wondered if he kept these in stock solely for me. Wishful thinking, probably.
Finally clear-eyed, I ran my hand over the covers before me and smiled.
I noticed a few new titles, but between my time at the studio and managing Marigold’s, I still hadn’t worked my way through the bulk of them.
I thumbed through the novel I‘d been considering for the past few weeks and put it down with a sigh.
My lack of business acumen would continue to keep me from having new reading material for the time being.
The chime of the bell perked my ears. Slowly, I peered over the railing and to the first floor.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
“Margot?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth and Joe sent me a thick-eyebrowed look of disapproval from the ladder.
Margot stared up at me from the doorway, her features an undeniable mix of surprise and frustration.
Her dark hair was swept into a glossy, too-tight ponytail, not a single hair out of place despite the breezy day outside.
Everything about her was manicured: from the crisp, tailored suit she wore, to the shining toes of her heels, to the way her shoulders were drawn back into statuesque perfection.
Margot remained frozen as I unexpectedly hurtled down the stairs, across the shop, and enveloped her in a hug. My most natural course of action to break the ice, however unwelcome. She hesitated before wrapping her arms around me.
I wiped the sudden tears before they fell.
Four years since I’d seen my old best friend—four years since they all filed into the church, too afraid to look in my eyes when they reached me at the end of the receiving line.
They each wore black and identical, pitying smiles. Not one of my fondest memories.
“How tall are those heels?” I said, pulling back and peering down at her feet. “I could’ve sworn the Margot I knew was shorter than me.”
There was a laugh in my voice, but when our gazes met, her red lips had drawn thin.
“Your mom said you were coming in a couple days,” I tried again. Stepping away, I absentmindedly smoothed my hair down with my palms.
Margot exhaled and tapped her pristine set of nails on the oak table where the register sat beside us. “You know my mom, schedules were never her thing.”
“Oh.” Realization dawning, I grimaced. “No one was there to pick you up from the airport?”
A curt nod. “One hundred fifty dollars and three hours in a taxi.”
I laughed nervously and wrung my hands together. “Do you want to… go get coffee?”
A beat of hesitation passed.
“Okay.”
I bid Joe goodbye and followed Margot out the door.
She strode down the sidewalk at a breakneck pace for her size, unnervingly confident about her blade-thin heels across the uneven cobblestones.
Her ponytail swung like a pendulum with each step, no strand daring to spring out of time.
I swallowed thickly and kept pace behind her, wracking my brain for conversation topics that didn’t veer into anything as pathetic as the weather.
We were about to cross the street when someone cleared their throat behind us.
I whirled around and narrowly avoided falling off the curb. “Rhett,” I said, barely registering his presence before the word tumbled out.
“Listen,” he began, voice firm. “I don’t know what happened back there, but if we’re going to be working together—”
“This is Margot,” I hurriedly cut in, motioning to the woman with a hawk-like stare trained between us. “We grew up together.”
Margot raised a flawless brow as he briefly acknowledged her.
“You interrupted me,” Rhett continued pointedly, fixed back on me.
“I… sorry?” I mumbled with a flush.
He crossed his arms. “We don’t have to like each other. But we should at least be civil.”
My cheeks deepened in color. I wasn’t sure what I had done to deserve his dislike. He, on the other hand, was selfish, blunt, and unconscionably rude. If anyone warranted disapproval, it would be him.
“Fine.” I huffed a curl from my face. “Margot and I are going to the Morning Bell.”
Rhett’s jaw flexed. “You’re just going to leave the shop open like that?”
“It’s across the street,” I said, gesturing. “If anyone comes in, I can be back in a few seconds.”
He gave a faint, humorless sound—half-laugh, half-exhale. “That’s one way to run a business.”
Something I didn’t know I had in me snapped.
“You know what your problem is?” I said, chin lifted. “You act like nothing’s worth caring about. Must be nice, not to feel tied to anything.”
Rhett blinked, once, then shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away. My pulse refused to slow. I didn’t recognize myself lately—and maybe, in some instances, that wasn’t entirely a bad thing.
Margot’s eyes were hot on my neck as we crossed toward the Morning Bell.