Chapter Ten
Storm clouds lingered over Bluebell Cove.
The night before, thunder had rattled the walls, sending a lump of trembling black fur to claim most of my bed.
Though the worst had passed, summer rain still pattered against the windows.
I stood in my kitchen, mug of hot chocolate in hand, and watched the little networks of water careen together on the glass.
My eyes caught on the half-eaten apple pie sitting out on the counter.
Rhett offloaded it to me—apparently he wasn’t much for sweets—and I had spent a few hours last night chipping away at it with some of my favorite rom-coms playing on DVD.
Janice did make a fantastic pie, after all.
It would have been rude to leave it untouched.
I took a long sip from my mug and turned away from the window.
Only to come face-to-face with the glaringly empty corner of my kitchen. Somehow, Rhett had managed to wedge himself into every corner of my life. From Marigold’s to my own home, a reminder of him always lingered.
Which was nothing less than infuriating when I was working hard to forget how he made me feel. Friends weren’t supposed to get warm and fuzzy inside at something as simple as a pair of crinkly brown eyes. Especially not when that friend was determined to leave.
Whenever I thought of his fingers brushing my wrist or that half-smile he reserved for me, I had to remind myself: he wasn’t staying. Somewhere across the country, his real life waited for him.
It didn’t hurt to think about; it was the inevitable reality of my life. People left. I stayed.
This time, when the knock sounded at my door, I had been expecting it. I puttered across the kitchen and to the foyer, steadying Easton before ushering a very wet Margot inside.
Her eyes landed on me, tendrils of wet hair plastered across her forehead as if she’d run here. The suit she wore was pinstriped, impeccably tailored, and probably once grey. Now, though, it clung to her in sopping near-blackness as the water dripped from the hem to my floor.
“Nice day for a walk?” I chirped, suppressing a smile.
She kicked off her heels, absently patting Easton’s head. “My mother, it seems, is still diametrically opposed to the concept of an alarm clock.” Margot carefully peeled off her blazer and frowned. “This was two thousand dollars.”
I nearly spit out my hot chocolate. “For that much, shouldn’t it have come with an umbrella?”
She breezed out of the foyer, leaving a trail of rainwater.
“You didn’t bring a rain jacket?” I called, trying not to trip over Easton as he zigzagged around my legs.
“The forecast promised sunshine,” Margot replied primly, standing in the middle of my bedroom rug and dripping all over it. “And besides, I left in a hurry.” Her words trailed off as she peeked expectantly into my closet.
I set my mug on the dresser and shrugged the blanket around my shoulders onto my bed. She looked too frayed to pry.
Instead, I edged around her dripping form and pulled my closet open the rest of the way. Nothing in there screamed Margot, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I didn’t feel like starting a water damage issue in my home as well as Marigold’s.
My hands located the pink, wooly sweatpants before I saw them. I bit my lip and turned as they unfolded before me.
“Remember these?”
Margot’s eyes narrowed.
“Because I think it’s time they’re returned to their owner,” I continued with a smothered laugh.
She held them at arm’s length as if she’d catch a disease. “Don’t you have anything else?”
“No, Margot. My closet isn’t the mall.” The retort fell out before I could stop it. But this time, I didn’t mind. “Here,” I added, blindly tossing her a sweater and a pair of mismatched socks.
She studied me for a long moment before conceding and shuffling toward the bathroom, Easton practicing his best impression of a speed bump.
A breath escaped me as I sat on the bed. My room hadn’t changed much since she’d last been in it: pale floral wallpaper, thrifted art and framed photos covering the walls, rows of low bookcases bursting with romance novels. Trinkets and mementos crowded the shelves, a chaotic museum of memories.
Among them sat my pottery—some perched on stacks of books, others on the floor.
I’d taken a ceramics class freshman year and never stopped.
A few pieces were lopsided relics of my early attempts, but the rest—vases, candlestick holders, dishes and mugs, some glazed in pastels and others in vibrant patterns—were my hidden pride.
I flopped backward on the quilt, burrowed into my blanket, and closed my eyes.
“You look like you’re ready to be productive,” Margot said from the doorway.
Against my better judgment, I rose and pulled the throw tighter. “And you look fourteen again,” I replied, smiling at her pink-fuzz-clad-glare.
She padded inside, hair damp and frizzed, and began surveying my shelves. “I took the liberty of hanging my suit—I hope that’s okay.”
“No dryer for your two-thousand dollar blazer?” I leaned against the bedpost and crossed my arms.
If Margot was annoyed by my jab, she didn’t show it.
We were still in friendship limbo—bound by a shared childhood, forced apart by seven years of distance.
It would end how it did the first time: Margot back in New York, and me as a faded caricature of home.
I was grateful for her help, though—and if I was honest, she was the closest thing I had to family left.
My lips twisted into an uncomfortable grimace as her fingers grazed one of my first-ever pottery creations.
“Did you drop this one before it got to the oven?” Margot muttered as she held it up to the window.
“Kiln,” I corrected. “And no. That one was all me.”
She quickly set it down and moved to a cream bottleneck vase with black splatters. There were many more like it at Marigold’s, but that was my first successful attempt. “You know, you’re good at this.”
I shrugged. “It’s a fun hobby.”
Margot looked up with narrowed eyes. “You know I don’t blow smoke, Georgie—you could really sell these. You’re on par with boutique artists in New York.”
“That’s probably because it’s so easy,” I snorted, which earned me another glare.
“I’m serious. Why don’t you sell them?”
My neck flushed red. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” I snapped, then sighed. “I own Marigold’s Flower Shop. That’s what I do.”
Margot’s voice lost its usual edge. “Obviously.”
Silence stretched.
“Can we just focus on the festival?” I said finally.
She nodded.
???
“Now this… is an Excel spreadsheet.”
I shuddered. “Is this some sort of cruel torture device?”
Margot rolled her eyes and shifted on her floor cushion.
“Believe it or not, I like this.” She positioned my tablet upright between us on the coffee table and scrolled with her finger.
“There’s a tab for everything on here. Volunteers, decorations, food vendors, booths—all you have to do is input them. ”
“I’m pretty sure Janice never used anything like this,” I mumbled pathetically, frown deepening as the endless slots to fill made my head spin.
“It doesn’t matter what Janice did, Georgie. You’re in charge now.” My stomach churned at the well intentioned but less-than-comforting words. “You have a lot of good ideas. You just need to… organize them,” she added.
Margot once understood me better than anyone. Having both been born in Bluebell Cove, we’d practically been friends since birth. Her mother, Ruth, was probably one of the few people who knew my mom. Really knew her. Better than I did, at least.
I had lost count of the ways things had changed since they all left.
Margot, Teddy, Serena and Wes seemed to think I stayed behind because I failed to launch. That, somehow, taking care of myself and a business with no family to speak of was easier than leaving town.
Margot tapped the screen with her manicured nail. “Uh-oh,” she said with a sigh.
My head snapped up. “What do you mean, uh-oh? You can’t say uh-oh without an immediate explanation.”
She scrolled, squinting at the volunteer tab. “You still don’t have anyone to man the ticket booth for the Ferris wheel.”
I groaned and pressed both palms into my cheeks. “Of course I forgot about the ticket booth for one of the most important parts of the festival.”
Margot’s expression softened, but her tone was brisk. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m sure we can find someone. You’ve got people signed up for decorations, food vendors, even cleanup. That’s harder to fill than tickets.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, tugging the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “You get to swoop in with your miracle spreadsheets and fix things.”
Her brows rose. “Or maybe you do. This is your event, Georgie. Call someone.”
My stomach did a nervous somersault. The only people who came to mind were already overcommitted. Then another name rose unbidden, and I immediately squashed it down.
Not him.
The image of Rhett, sleeves rolled up and smiling as Easton melted into his lap, flashed behind my eyes anyway. He’d probably hate being in charge of tickets; he didn’t strike me as the customer service type. But maybe if I asked…
What was I thinking? Rhett was already doing more than enough for both me and the festival. He’d probably be going back home once the booths were finished, anyway.
I jostled my head back and forth as if I could shake the thought out of existence. “I’ll figure it out,” I said a little too quickly.
Margot tilted her head, studying me the way she always had. “You’re being… twitchy,” she observed.
I forced a laugh. “Maybe it’s just all this talk about Excel and missing volunteers. Anyone would look twitchy.”
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Right.”
???
After an hour religiously waving my blow-dryer like some sort of magic wand, Margot’s clothing was dry.
In that time, I managed to take Easton on a particularly damp walk, shower, braid my hair, start a load of laundry, and pull on my favorite cable knit sweater and a pair of ripped jeans.
I lent Margot one of my most understated raincoats—a black, knee-length poncho that was sure to keep her suit dry. It was decidedly un-chic, and I chose not to tell her about the Callahan’s Garage logo on the back. For my own sake.
On the way out the door, I grabbed my trusty yellow anorak that I’d owned for nearly a decade. The arms had always been too long—I was pretty sure it was actually a men’s coat—but the flannel lining never failed to keep me warm.
Our walk to the café stayed quiet. Margot didn’t seem in the mood to talk as her heels clicked and clacked down the sidewalk and around countless puddles.
That was fine by me. One of the best parts of the rain was the sound.
It pattered steadily against the hood of my jacket, slowly wetting the bottoms of my jeans as it grew in intensity.
The raindrops themselves were cold—the first signs of an impending chilly autumn season—and the breeze nipped ever-so-slightly at my nose as if to say, goodbye, summer.
The Morning Bell was nearly empty. No doubt the teenagers that frequently spent their afternoons there didn’t feel like walking from the school in this weather.
Across the road, Marigold’s caught my eye. The lights were on, but Rhett had taped brown paper to the window and door so no one could watch him work. Remembering how annoyed he got when I hovered the other day, it wasn’t surprising.
Margot wasted no time in ordering. “Seriously, Cameron? I can’t pay with my phone?” She raised her eyebrows and looked to me for commiseration. “Georgie, this town is stuck in the stone ages.”
Cameron glanced between us, face the color of beets, mouth hanging half-open.
Hesitating for a second, I pulled my wallet from a zippered pocket on my jacket. “I can pay,” I muttered and dragged on a smile. “Cameron, can I get a hot mocha? Extra sweet?”
He nodded spasmodically and hurried to input our order on the register. “We’re getting tap pay soon,” Cameron said, but his eyes never left the screen. “Will that be all?”
I handed him my best card and shot Margot a wide-eyed look.
She sighed. “Sorry, Cameron. I’m just not used to how slow things here are anymore.”
He mumbled some sort of response I didn’t hear, because I retrieved my card and immediately retreated to a seat by the window.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I wanted to stare at Marigold’s as if I had x-ray vision.
Watching the rain was one of the best pastimes, made even better by the smell of coffee and pastries and the gentle hum of conversation.
Then the door my stare was glued to flew open.
My heartbeat skyrocketed as Rhett appeared, dressed in a thick flannel, his usual work pants and a backwards baseball cap. He shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing up at the sky for a moment before his dark gaze swept across the road.
And I did the first thing I thought. I ducked.
“Oh my—what are you doing? Have you finally lost it?”
I hissed something unintelligible at Margot and wrenched her down to my level. Hidden by chairs, I peered through the window and tried to see where Rhett had gone.
“Who are we hiding from?” Margot whispered. “These shoes aren’t meant for crouching.”
I wanted to slap myself. Rhett was nowhere to be seen. “No one,” I replied, annoyed at the sullen tone in my voice.
Then the cafe’s bell rang.
And a familiar pair of carpenter’s boots stepped inside.