Chapter 19
Know your own happiness. —Sense and Sensibility
Edward
I still have my job, so there’s that. And Elinor’s letter is secure in my notebook—a tangible reminder that even after what happened on the beach, she forgave me enough to write me.
Of course, that doesn’t mean she’s not angry.
I found the note in our mailbox last week, immediately after Lucinda’s visit to Norland Park, so Elinor left it before learning the truth about Bumble Cottage.
Regardless, I’m afraid Lucinda’s efforts to drive a wedge between us has worked.
I texted Elinor to let her know I’d be visiting Norland Park this weekend, and she replied with a thumbs up.
That put me firmly in my place. I can’t try the direct approach and ask her on a date, because I still haven’t broken up with my maybe-girlfriend.
Not for lack of trying! I did my best to schedule time with Caroline, but she’s been too busy.
Or perhaps she’s just not that interested. I know I’m not.
My focus this week has been Elinor. More specifically, finding some way to save Bumble Cottage.
If I can solve that problem, maybe I haven’t completely ruined things between us.
I’ve reviewed the plans for Norland Park, looking for a better location for the restaurant.
The only other option I can see is the field where Lady Whimple stands.
But there’s no way we can cut the tree down.
When I explained this to Lucinda she just cackled, “Edward, it’s a tree! ”
I don’t bother explaining to her that it’s a wishing tree.
Or that, before leaving Norland Park, I asked Annie for a ribbon and a sharpie.
I had intended to write Elinor on my ribbon.
But it seemed kind of wrong to wish for a person.
So instead I wrote: A miracle. I climbed the tree and tied the ribbon on a high branch, all the while willing my thoughts to God—or the universe, or Grandpa Reginald—to help me to fix this mess.
It felt good to do something, to see my wish rippling in the wind.
But I’m not going to tell Lucinda—or anyone else—about it.
I spend hours at my kitchen table writing draft after draft in reply to Elinor’s note.
Mrs. Peacock watches me litter the floor with my failed attempts, swatting the crumpled balls of paper from time to time.
I go back and forth between writing an apology or continuing the farce that we are simply childhood pen pals who don’t interact in real life. I settle on something in the middle.
I hope it’s enough when I place my letter in the mailbox Friday evening. The sun so is low that all the morning glory blossoms have twisted closed. Long shadows alternating with honeyed light pattern the gravel road leading up to Brandon’s empty cottage, where I’ll leave my luggage before dinner.
Brandon texted me and told me to meet him and Pepper at the Taphouse and sent a pin for the local pub.
The place is hopping tonight. It’s full of locals greeting each other by name with hugs, effortlessly jumping into conversations that sound like they’ve been going on for the past decade. I stand out like a sore thumb.
Each knot of friends steps aside to let me pass on my way to the bar.
After I place my order, I take my number to a booth in the most out-of-the-way corner.
I can’t help but eavesdrop on some of the conversations.
Some guy updates a woman about his sorry dating life.
He’s long held a torch for Annie Greenwood, but has decided that she’s too young for him.
I sneak a glance at him. He’s wearing a ball cap that reads Beaver Tree Service.
He appears to be on the wrong side of forty. Definitely too old for Annie.
“What about her sister?” suggests the woman.
“Elinor? The ice queen? Good luck with that. Everyone knows she doesn’t date,” says a different voice.
“Such a shame,” says Beaver Tree Service.
I take a sip of my beer and nod.
“Speaking of Elinor, look who just walked in,” says one of the locals.
I stand up without thinking. Through an archway I can see the entrance and bar.
Sure enough I see her, making her way through the crowd.
She’s so lovely and self-contained; she stands out in the crowd like a perfect seashell on a rocky shore.
Several guests stop her for a hug before she reaches the bartender—definitely not an ice queen.
Another person calls her name, and she turns back and notices me, staring at her. The only option is to wave.
She waves back with a cute, dazed expression, then returns to the bartender to place her order. I slide back down in my booth, feeling more like an outsider than before as various guests continue to call to her.
“Elinor!”
“Look who finally took a night off.”
“I love your hair down!”
She laughs. “I even blow-dried it,” she says.
I find myself itching to crane my neck to get a second look at her—and to see who she’s talking to. To distract myself, I pull out my phone. But nothing on it holds my interest as much as all the loud voices welcoming Elinor.
“You’re finally doing something fun!”
“Good for you!’
“Sit with us!”
I hear her voice again. “Sorry! I’m meeting my sister. Have you seen her?”
“I wish!” I think that was Beaver Tree Service.
“I’ll just see if I can get a table.” Her low, sweet voice sounds closer now.
I look up from my phone right as she enters through the archway into the area where I’m sitting. Seeing Elinor, I break into a huge grin like a lovestruck fool. I can’t help it. She gives me a small smile, like she finds me amusing, and walks straight to my booth.
“Edward? What are you doing here?”
“Meeting Brandon for dinner.”
“That’s funny! I’m supposed to meet Annie, and she went with Brandon and Pepper to the aquarium.”
“Maybe they were planning on us all eating together?” I suggest. “We’d better find a bigger table.” The booth I’m sitting in is very cozy.
“Um . . . I don’t think . . .” Elinor begins. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it.
“Don’t overthink it,” I say.
“Sorry,” she laughs. “But overthinking is what I do best!” Her phone buzzes. As she glances at her phone I sneak a peek at mine.
Brandon: Have to bail! Sorry! Bad traffic! Don’t wait on the nachos—they’re best eaten hot.
Traffic? Is there really traffic between here and Monterey? I drove the route not more than an hour ago, and it was smooth sailing.
“Looks like Brandon’s standing me up,” I say to Elinor. “You can have this table if you want.”
“Well, what do you know,” she says with an annoyed smile, “my sister just texted to say she won’t make it.”
A server sets a massive platter of nachos on the table between us. He looks at Elinor with some surprise. “Elinor! How nice of you to grace us with your presence. Who’s this bloke?”
“This is Edward Frechette, a business acquaintance. Edward, this is Joe Middleton, the mayor and part owner of this establishment.”
“Good to meet you, Edward.” Joe shakes my hand vigorously before turning suddenly serious. “I’m warning you. We love the Greenwood girls, especially this one. So help me, if you hurt her . . .” he ends with a laugh, but I’ll admit I’m intimidated.
“Easy there,” Elinor says. “Edward and I are definitely not together.” Does she have to sound so adamant?
“Fine, fine. Just let me know if he’s any trouble.” Then, to me: “I’ll be watching you.” And he does the whole pointing-two-fingers-at-his-eyes thing.
“Should I be nervous?” I whisper as soon as the guy leaves. “He looks like he owns a shotgun.”
Elinor laughs. “You should be fine. Anyway, since Annie’s a no-show, I’ll just go home and have a quiet evening.”
“Stay! Please!” I sound a little desperate. “I can’t possibly eat all these nachos,” I joke to soften my plea. “I mean, you blow-dried your hair and everything.” She looks at me funny. I shrug. “I heard everyone complimenting your hair, and . . . it really does look nice.”
Her eyes light up, the only sign that my compliment affects her. “Okay, sure”
She sits down opposite me. The booth is so snug that our knees bump.
“May I?” She points to the nachos.
“Of course!”
She reaches for a chip, and I follow suit. The nachos are loaded with carne asada, two types of cheese, and fresh pico de gallo. They hit the spot.
I take out my notebook and pen.
“That guy’s name was Joe Middleton? And he’s the mayor?”
“Yes, he’s also chief of the volunteer fire department. He owns this restaurant with J.J.’s brother.”
In my notebook I write: Mayor Joe Middleton—fire chief, owns Taphouse. After I put my notebook away, I load up another chip with meat and cheese.
“Brandon was right about the nachos,” I say before taking my next bite.
“What did he tell you?” she asks, sounding a little suspicious.
“He told me to be sure and start with them.”
“Did he?” Elinor lowers the loaded chip she was about to eat. “Oh . . . she is good.”
“What do you mean?”
“This has Annie written all over it. She knows these nachos are my favorite thing on the menu. She’s playing matchmaker.”
“With us?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes,” she says, eyes fixed on her cheese-covered chip, “and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s a hopeless romantic . . . or if she thinks that if you fall for me, you won’t kick us out of the cottage.”
“I’m not kicking you out,” I say with certainty.
She looks up quickly. “But you should. You don’t owe me a thing. You can sell the property—we’ll be okay,” She sighs as she sets the chip back down and wipes her hands on a napkin. “All I ask is that you keep me in the loop. I don’t want to be blindsided by bulldozers outside my front door.”
I appreciate Elinor being so understanding. What she is saying has some merit—I don’t owe her. Both my mom and Lucinda have been hammering the same point with me. There’s no reason to overturn all our plans just because I have a crush on the resort manager—It’s utter lunacy.
But at the same time, her expectation that I will let her down irritates me.
“Well, I disagree. And I owe you an apology. I should have told you from the beginning that I own your home . . . And I don’t even know what to say about Lucinda’s accusations. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” A warm smile lights her face, and I relax.
“No, it’s not. You are too forgiving.”
“I am when I’m bribed with nachos,” she laughs. “Oh! And I really love that portrait of Grandma Nora.
“You do?”
“Very much.”
“I’m glad. It took some convincing to get my mom to sell it.”
“How did you convince her?
“Pretty much the only way to convince her of anything. I gave her a good price for it.”
Elinor laughs a little uncomfortably, and I suddenly wonder if that sounded awful—like I’m casually throwing money around while accusing my mom of being mercenary. “To be clear, I would say that in front of my mom, and she’d consider it a compliment.”
“She sounds like a character.”
“She is. And then some. Both my grandpa and my mom exude so much main character energy. My only choice was to stay on the sidelines.”
“We have that in common.”
“You! No, I couldn’t disagree more. You totally have main character energy. You’re freaking Cinderella! You work night and day to support your family.”
“You’re exaggerating the situation. My mom’s definitely not an evil stepmother,” she smiles. “She works hard too—and so does Annie, in her way . . .”
“Stop— it. You don’t need to defend or protect your mom and sister. I already think they’re great. Just take the compliment. You do work really hard. It’s impressive.”
“Oh . . . well . . . okay—thank you. I’m not good at compliments either. They make me feel like I’m in the spotlight. I like to be the one working behind the scenes. When my school had a play, I always signed up for stage crew.”
“And let me guess—your sister was the star?”
“Of course; she was born for the spotlight”
“You’re not jealous of her, are you?”
“Not at all. I love seeing Annie shine.”
“I get that. I have no desire to be the center of attention. My problem with my mom and my grandpa is they never understood that I don’t want to be a star. Not to say I was a slacker or anything. I did all right in school.”
“And according to Brandon, you were a star athlete.”
I shrug. “That didn’t impress my mom much. But my dad loved it. He and my stepmom came to nearly every game.”
“They sound really nice.”
“They are. It’s funny—my mom and grandpa blame my dad for my lack of ambition.
But in my mind, he’s a huge success. He coaches high school football and teaches history for a living.
But if you were to hear my mom or grandpa talk about him, you’d think he was living in his parents’ basement, addicted to video games. ”
“A high school history teacher is an important job.”
“It is. And his students love him.”
“Do you see him often?”
“At least once a month. They live in Santa Rosa. I have a younger half brother, Robbie, and a half sister, Fran.”
“You should have them come to Norland Park—before you ruin it,” she adds with sass. And I love, love, love that she’s willing to tease me about this now. It definitely breaks the tension.
“Have you ever considered that our plans for the park might be an improvement?”
“I considered the remote possibility. And then I met your boss,” she deadpans. I can’t help but laugh. “I get not wanting to be a CEO,” she continues, “believe me, I do. But if I had a boss like Lucinda, I would want to strike out on my own.”
“She’s not that bad.”
Elinor gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. And I cave.
“Fine, she is that bad. But she can’t be that much worse to work with than my grandpa.”
“He was all bark and no bite. I kind of miss him.”
“You do?” I say with some surprise.
She nods. “It’s been weird without his weekly phone calls where he grumbles at me for how I’m ‘spending his hard-earned money.’”
“I had my own weekly phone calls with him.” My grandpa used to call me every week to ensure that I didn’t decline into squalid middle-class contentment.
Somehow, it was easier with him than with my mom to understand that what he was really trying to tell me—with all his unsolicited advice and criticism—was that he loved me.
“I miss those calls,” I say, staring at the remnants of the nachos.
She reaches across the table and pats my hand. At her touch, my eyes lock with hers, and I deliberately clasp her hand.