Chapter 9 Madelina
Beatrice is every bit as amazing as I imagined she would be.
With her sleek, sporty lines and glossy green finish, she glides effortlessly along the road, making my time with her even more enjoyable.
Instead of turning up the air-conditioning, I keep all the windows down, and the wind whips through my hair, the summer breeze warm against my skin, while I crank up some Lana Del Rey in the background.
I woke up this morning and decided to tackle the mountain of errands on my ever-growing to-do list, beginning with a forty-mile trek to a supply store to gather cleaning products for the café.
Billie provided me with the list, and though shopping for cleaning supplies is hardly any fun, being with Beatrice is a highlight of this mundane trip.
Upon my return to town, I swing by the bank to sort out my change of address, then find myself drawn to The Book Basket, the local bookstore, hoping to find some new titles.
“Hi Mrs. Winthrop,” I call out as I step inside, greeted by the comforting scent of aged paper and polished wood. “Any new romance titles in stock?”
The Book Basket is one of the two main literary havens in town.
It boasts a charming selection, though Mrs. Winthrop’s inventory generally lacks the romance genre I crave.
Considering she has six children, she’s no stranger to sex.
Betty’s Bookshelf sells used books and they mainly stock nonfiction.
“Madelina Beaumont, what a pleasure to see you,” she greets me, adjusting her red-framed reading glasses that perch precariously on her nose. “I wasn’t sure if you’d return to town, but Iris mentioned your arrival.”
Iris, of course, couldn’t resist spreading that news. Luckily for me, I didn’t give her the whole rundown of my pathetic life.
“Yes, I’m back to help Eva at the café,” I respond with a smile, making a conscious effort to avoid any details surrounding the infamous wedding. “Eva is opening another store in Manhattan, so she’s been spending a lot of time there.”
“I’ve heard whispers,” Mrs. Winthrop says, her tone shifting. “And I’ve also heard she’s living with your brother. Unmarried.”
I purse my lips, unsure how to respond. “Yes, but in this economy, it’s all about making great financial decisions. I mean, who can afford a place on their own? It’s crazy out there.”
“I see.” Mrs. Winthrop raises an eyebrow, her judgment evident. “I doubt finances are a concern for your brother.”
It’s a challenge to maintain my composure with such narrow-mindedness.
Perhaps I should have opted for online shopping to avoid this conversation altogether.
But no, I’m a sucker for feeling a physical book in my hands, and for the scent that lingers in a bookstore.
It’s something about the paper, I’m sure of it.
“I think I’ll browse the back section for a bit,” I announce, making my exit from the uncomfortable interaction.
The romance shelf is modestly sized, and I notice that I’ve already devoured half of it.
I considered myself a binge reader, with my Goodreads reading goal set at one hundred books this year.
Since we’re halfway through the year, my total of sixty-seven so far is quite impressive, if I do say so myself.
As I scan the titles, one cover catches my eye—a story about a single dad searching for a nanny who, intriguingly, happens to be his student. My curiosity is piqued as I stumble on the page where he says, “Get on your knees, you’re in detention.”
I press my thighs together, then grab the book along with two others from a series I’ve been eager to continue. I return to the counter to finalize my purchase.
Mrs. Winthrop rings up my order in strained silence. Her behavior is grating, and I can’t help but imagine a bookstore that embraces all forms of romance—a sanctuary free from judgment. This disapproving behavior is growing old, as is Mrs. Winthrop. Surely, she’s due to retire soon.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” she says, her expression cold.
I plaster on a fake smile to hide my annoyance. “You too.”
As I exit the store, I mutter incoherently to release my pent-up frustration.
One day, a rival bookstore will open in Cinnamon Springs.
When that day arrives, I’ll be the first in line, ready to prove that Mrs. Winthrop does not dictate the literary taste of the town’s readers.
I’m pretty sure the only reason she has a romance section is because of her older daughter, Edith, who is all about women’s rights.
I’m also pretty sure Edith likes women, and Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop are living in denial.
As the clock edges toward five, I realize I have little time to return home, change, and get to Elliot’s for dinner. Then it dawns on me—we never set a specific time.
I whip out my phone, fingers flying over the keypad to pull up the number Eva shared with me just before my return to town. I type his name, save his number, and hit send on a text.
Me
What time is our non-date?
I embark on the five-minute journey back to the apartment.
By the time I pull into the parking spot, I have even less time to get ready.
I can’t remember when I washed my hair, and that will set me back another thirty minutes since I have to blow-dry it afterward.
I gather my things with hurried movements, securing my still-filled water bottle under my arm and a muffin I had impulsively bought earlier.
Elliot
7 and don’t be late. You eat snails, right?
Laughter barrels out of me until I notice the red bar at the top of my screen. Shit! There’s only 2 percent battery left, so I rush to plug in my charger and decide to respond later.
With the water running inside the shower, I quickly choose an outfit. I want to look good, but not take me to bed good.
Not that I’m thinking about sleeping with Elliot.
Though he is hot.
Okay, you’re spiraling.
I consider my nautical outfit again, but then settle on a blue floral mini dress with short puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.
After a quick shower, I dry my hair and then start curling it, only to change my mind because curls will be too much. I tie it up into a sleek ponytail, then apply a small amount of blush and lipstick, so I’m not late.
As I reach the door, I rummage through my bag for my phone, only for the door to swing open unexpectedly.
“Oh my God! You scared the hell out of me,” I gasp at Eva, clutching my chest, only to drop my purse onto the ground.
I crouch down to collect the scattered items from my purse, which include my tampons, only to realize Eva is still standing there like a shadow.
Her usually well-kept brown hair is thrown messily into a bun, no traces of makeup on her face, and her eyes look puffy, as if she’s been crying.
She’s in a pair of burgundy tights and a black oversized tee, plus she has Crocs on her feet.
Dear God, the Crocs must mean a crisis is upon us.
“Is everything okay?” I notice my brother, Aston, is absent. The two have been annoyingly inseparable of late, so her solitary presence raises alarm bells in my mind. “No Aston?”
“Just me,” she murmurs, turning away from me and retreating further into the comforting embrace of her apartment.
Leaving my belongings on the counter and plugging in my phone, I follow, then sit beside her on the worn sofa that has been a refuge for me many times before.
Her cozy apartment has always felt like home, yet now a thick tension hangs in the air, unspoken and heavy.
I wait, knowing that at any moment, she has to say something.
“I’m pregnant,” Eva blurts out, the word landing with the weight of a meteorite.
My eyes widen in shock as an exhilarated gasp escapes my lips. Unable to contain my joy, a wide grin spreads across my face. “What? How? Nope, don’t answer that. I know how babies are made. This is incredible! I’m going to be an aunt.”
Deep down, I always felt this moment would come.
My brother is absolutely head over heels in love with her.
I mean, so much so that he proposed marriage in Paris without a second thought.
If he could have married her on the spot, I’m sure he would have.
And as I process her news with this overwhelming excitement bursting through me, Eva blinks her eyes infrequently, her face still blank.
“You don’t think this is amazing?” I ask, uncertainty lacing my voice as I search her eyes for a flicker of happiness.
Eva’s gaze drops, fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on her tights as her shoulders sag. “It’s just… too soon.”
“Is it, though? You love my goofy brother, plus you’re about to get married. It’s not like you’re teenagers trying to graduate from high school,” I reply, trying to coax a smile from her.
Her lips part as if to argue, but instead, they close firmly. Riddled with doubt, her eyes drift toward the window, and she finally murmurs, “You’re right.”
I release a heavy sigh, recognizing the trouble beneath her surface. “I’m not trying to be right. I can see you’re struggling. As your best friend, I’m here for you. No judgment, just a safe space. How far along are you?”
Eva shrugs. “About eight weeks.”
“Eight weeks!” I exclaim, only for Eva to narrow her eyes. “Okay, but eight weeks? How did you not know until now? I mean, you would have missed your periods. Unless it’s a phantom pregnancy, but doesn’t that mean you don’t know you’re pregnant until the baby is literally coming out of your vag?”
“Madelina Eleanor! It doesn’t matter. I’m pregnant, okay?”
We sit in silence, the weight of her outburst lingering between us.
I’m trying to be patient, granting Eva the time to find her voice amid the chaos, but I find myself staring at her stomach, trying to look for anything different.
Honestly, aside from her tired face, her body hasn’t changed one bit.
Finally, she confesses again, “It’s too soon.”
“Too soon,” I echo, attempting to piece together the puzzle of her turmoil.