Chapter 8 Madelina
“It’s a real shame the wedding didn’t go ahead.”
Billie quietly serves a coffee beside me as I navigate a well-meaning but probing inquiry about Myles. It was only a matter of time before someone pried into the details, and honestly, I’m surprised I made it five whole days in Cinnamon Springs before the subject arose.
Standing before me is Iris Bertram, an influential matriarch in Cinnamon Springs. Her family owned farms in the area well before Cinnamon Springs was founded.
My father harbored a deep dislike for the Bertrams, feeling his own wealth paled in comparison to theirs.
Honestly, he is his own worst enemy, because the Bertrams are friendly folk who never once started trouble or rivalry of any sort.
My father can be the most self-centered man ever to walk this earth.
And I can say that, since he still hasn’t returned any of my calls.
Across the polished, sunlit marble counter, Iris gracefully sheds her immaculate white gloves. Her driver waits outside like a vigilant guardian beside her shimmering bronze Rolls-Royce.
Iris spends her time hosting lavish soirées and curating the town’s social calendar for women. I’ve learned to walk the tightrope of conversation with her. All I need to do is share enough to keep her engaged while withholding the personal details, which are frankly none of her business.
“It just didn’t work out,” I respond calmly, forcing a delicate sigh to punctuate my words. “But let’s not talk about that. You’re positively radiant, as always. It’s hard to believe you’re now a grandmother. Didn’t your daughter, Lucy, just welcome twins? Boys, if I’m not mistaken?”
A satisfied smile spreads across her lips, the compliment sitting nicely with her. It’s a well-known fact that flattery is Iris’s preferred language. Lucy, who once drew whispers and giggles as “Juicy Lucy” back in school, has become a polished socialite married to a wealthy stockbroker.
The quintessential trophy wife.
I was too naive to understand that nickname back then, but now, years later, it makes sense.
Lucy would attend all the parties, then disappear to the bedroom with some guy who would finger her.
I overheard Aston and his friends talking about it since they were juniors when Lucy was a senior.
It was her thing to keep her so-called virginity intact, hence the nickname.
“Madelina, you have a knack for making a lady feel truly special,” she exclaims, her voice a blend of warmth and pride.
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice as if sharing a secret. “With skin like yours, you could easily pass for Lucy’s older sister. Just don’t tell the other ladies in the bridge club I said that. Jealousy can easily get out of control.”
Billie hands Iris her drink—an espresso frappé. “Here you are, Mrs. Bertram. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Ladies, it’s always a pleasure,” she responds, her voice smooth as silk.
“Don’t be shy. We have splendid luncheons lined up.
Young ladies like yourselves bring such light, and it’s for a wonderful cause,” she adds, graciously tipping her head, before gliding out of the café, her drink perfectly balanced as she strolls to her waiting car.
As the Rolls-Royce drives off, both Billie and I exhale in unison. My shoulders sag in relief. It wasn’t half as humiliating as I had anticipated, and thankfully, Iris respected my request for discretion.
With her arms crossed and a thoughtful gaze fixed on the door, Billie comments, “Is it just me, or is this town obsessively social?”
“It’s definitely not just you,” I reply, rolling my eyes as I recall the numerous unwanted invitations I’ve received since I got back. “Fancy luncheons, high tea, bridge games, pickleball. There’s always something, and it never stops.”
“Pickleball might be fun, though?” Billie ventures tentatively.
I scrunch my lips in disdain. “Pass. Besides, my mobility is limited. I need to buy a car. The other day, I braved the bus, and I’m still trying to scrub off the lingering stench of body odor. Plus, it took me over an hour to get somewhere a car would have taken me in five minutes.”
Billie lets out a bright laugh. “It’s not that awful. So, what’s stopping you from getting a car?”
“The issue is Aston’s relentless schedule. He’s wrapped up in work, and I’m scared of buying a lemon. One that will inevitably break down in a desolate spot, forcing me to hitchhike my way to what I can only assume would be my early demise.”
Billie purses her lips. “Maybe it’s time to cut back on those true crime shows. This is the kind of thing that happens when you’re not getting laid.”
“You’re one to talk,” I retort playfully, but then a twinge of curiosity strikes me. “Wait, are you hiding something from me? Spill the beans! Who is he? Oh, or is it a she?”
Billie rolls her eyes at my eagerness. “We’ve already talked about this. I experimented in college, and it didn’t do anything for me. And no, I’m definitely not getting laid. Things have just hit a lull lately. The men in Cinnamon Springs are so meh.”
“Ugh, is there like a cosmic phenomenon causing everyone to encounter dry spells?” I grumble, my irritation bubbling to the surface. “Like mercury retrograde, but it makes people not have sex?”
“Back to the car dilemma, why not ask Elliot?” Billie suggests casually. “I mean, let’s be honest, he is the only not meh guy here. He’s kinda hot, and yes, I know he’s Eva’s brother, so saying that out loud means I already broke some code.”
Since that afternoon at the lake when Elliot so thoughtlessly pushed me into the water, he’s vanished like a damn ghost. The mention of his ex-girlfriend seemed to strike a deep chord, and to counter, he quizzed me on Myles.
When it comes to men and their emotions, they tend to dodge the topic like it’s a contagious disease. So I wasn’t particularly surprised when he evaporated into thin air. Eva mentioned he was in the city helping her, but I call bullshit.
I dismiss the situation with a shrug. “He’s obviously busy with whatever he’s doing. Too busy to be working in the store. I’ll probably head out to look for a car tomorrow morning since Chloe’s working. You don’t need me, right?”
Billie places her hands firmly on my shoulders, her brows knitted in concern. “Everything’s under control, trust me. You’ve got this, okay? Remember, you need to feel the connection. Would you really feel a connection with a lemon?”
“Knowing my luck, I probably would,” I snort.
With a deliberate drag of my finger across my bottom lip, I apply a cherry-flavored lip balm, carefully pouting to get an even coat.
I pick out my modest white dress shorts and pair them with a fitted striped navy blouse, specifically chosen to give off an air of sophistication that hopefully screams not an easy target to any sleazy car salesman I might encounter.
My hair is neatly tied into a bun, and I slip on a pair of white canvas shoes, noting the nautical vibe I’m suddenly sporting.
The outfit makes me look older, but who am I to complain when the aim is for them not to screw me over?
Grabbing my purse and phone, I swing open the door only to be jolted by the sight of Elliot standing right before me. His hair is its usual mess of curls, and his blue eyes stare at me intensely, sending a flutter of surprise through my chest.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, instinctively clutching my heart. “You scared the shit out of me!”
Elliot responds with a mischievous smile. “Aren’t you off car shopping today? Unless, perhaps, you’ve decided to take to the sea and become a sailor? I hear the coastguard is waiting for you.”
I cross my arms, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “This is my don’t sell me a lemon outfit. It’s classy, sophisticated, and somewhat educated in the realm of mechanics.”
“I see.” He nods, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “Sounds to me like you might just need a man’s assistance after all.”
“I don’t need you or any man for that matter,” I snap, though I inadvertently tilt my head, curiosity piqued. “Did Billie call you? What makes you assume I can’t buy a car on my own? She called you, I knew it!”
“Two words. Serial killer,” he drags out, only irritating me further.
I mentally curse Billie for spilling the beans about my fears. I had no idea she and Elliot were so close. Suddenly, I remember her saying he was hot, and something unsettling lingers within me.
“Fine, let’s just go,” I concede, pushing past my irritation.
Together, we make our way down to the foyer, where I can see my greatest fear parked right outside—a sleek, satin black motorcycle glistening in the sunlight. There are two helmets resting on the handlebars, and I stop dead in my tracks, recognizing exactly where this is headed.
“Um, absolutely not,” I tell him firmly.
“Why not live a little?” Elliot counters with enthusiasm. “It’s perfectly safe. I promise you won’t die.”
“Live a little?” I echo, shaking my head incredulously. “I live just fine, thank you, without hopping on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle.”
He lifts one of the helmets from the handlebars and begins fiddling with the buckle. “First, I’m not a stranger. I’m your best friend’s older brother. Second, the car yards are across town. It’ll take you over an hour to walk there, or even longer if you wait for a bus.”
Ugh. He has a point, and the thought of getting back on the bus makes me shudder. Aside from the awful smell, a man sat beside me and started talking to me about his birds. It was the longest hour of my life.
“Do you promise to go slow?” I relent, crossing my arms in front of me.
“Sure.” He smirks, those blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “We’ll go as slow as you want.”
I take the helmet from him, carefully letting down my bun to secure it properly. Once it’s on, he steps in closer to adjust the strap, and I unintentionally find myself captivated by the color of his eyes, losing track of everything around me until he murmurs, “You’re safe.”