Chapter 2

 

Over the course of the next half hour, as I made turkey meat loaf and Whitney sipped wine—Lacy had retreated to my bedroom, earbuds in place, so she could vocalize and warm up her voice—I learned why Whitney felt her husband was straying.

“He goes out almost every night and offers feeble explanations. An errand here. An errand there.”

“He’s a contractor. Maybe he has to pick up supplies.”

“Whenever he’s away, he doesn’t answer his cell phone.”

My mouth formed an O. I didn’t let the word escape my lips.

“Whenever I confront him—”

“You’ve confronted him?”

“Not directly. Sort of.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “He assures me he loves me and only me, but I don’t believe it. I think . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “I think he might be jealous of how my home business is thriving. I told you he’s been in and out of work. It’s not steady.”

“Is it possible he’s taking on other jobs to boost his income and is embarrassed to tell you?”

“Why would he be embarrassed?”

“Because he’s a man.”

“No, that’s not what’s going on.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Besides, he always comes home teeming with energy. Another job would sap him of get-up-and-go.”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps the job is creative.” Painting was an outlet for me that brought me emotional comfort and restored my energy.

“He’s not creative,” she murmured.

The timer on the stove chimed. We tabled the discussion.

Over dinner, I tried to get Lacy to talk. She didn’t.

Around ten, as they were waiting for an Uber driver to pick them up, Whitney pulled me aside again and asked me to take Lacy shopping for a dress tomorrow so she could have it out with Spencer.

“I have a shop to run,” was my response.

But my sister was relentless. She wore me down with her pretty pleases, and after she cajoled me into admitting that I’d completed the window display, shelved all the new books, and set out plenty of gift items—she was a shark when it came to grilling me—she said Bailey, Tina, and Aunt Vera could manage the shop for a few hours. At ten in the morning, I would pick up Lacy.

I agreed, but only if she consented to lead a wreath-making clinic on Thursday. Tit for tat, right?

 

• • •

 

At noon on Wednesday, I stood in the dressing room at the Gossip Parlor waiting for the typical teen rant from Lacy about being too fat or too tall as she adjusted the halter strap of the dark red dress that she was trying on, but it didn’t come.

For five long minutes, she assessed herself in the body-length oval mirror, turning this way and that. And then, to my surprise, she said, “Aunt Jenna, is it terrible to wish a truly evil person dead?”

I gulped. “Um, wishing and doing are two entirely different things.”

“How different?”

She shot me a wicked glance, and something flipped in the pit of my stomach. I remembered the day she was born. Whitney had expected a perfect child with perfect manners and perfect brains; what she had gotten was entirely different. By the age of five, Lacy had shown signs of being a handful. Time, my father had told Whitney, would soften the edges. Right about now, I wasn’t so sure.

I tugged the hem of my snow-white sweater over my hunter green corduroys and tried to lighten the mood with a fake conspiratorial smile. “Who’s your target? Veronica Devereaux?” Veronica was the hottest girl in Lacy’s school and a fellow singer. The one time I’d seen a photograph of Veronica, she was wearing an exercise outfit only a sausage could appreciate.

“Not her. My mom!”

I gulped again. Harder.

Crocodile tears pooled in the corners of Lacy’s Dutch blue eyes. Seconds later they spilled down her pale cheeks. “She’s so . . . mean! ‘Be home by ten. Call when you get there.’” Lacy pitched her voice to match my sister’s. Not a bad imitation. “‘Do your homework. Cover your tattoos.’”

Ah, yes, I mused. A mother’s work is never done.

“And now she’s making me get a dress? I might as well shrivel up and die. I can wear black jeans and sing, can’t I? The others in the group are wearing black. We want to look like a team.”

Oh my. I braced myself for an even longer-than-expected day. Whitney had said to find a dress that would make Lacy look feminine and well mannered, no small feat with her ragged hair—did she cut it herself?—and chewed-to-the-nub fingernails. “I’m sure your mom means well,” I said.

“No, she doesn’t. She never does.”

Up until now, Lacy and I had had a fairly good time, the teenaged version of a Las Vegas moment. What happens in Crystal Cove stays in Crystal Cove. Over the course of a few hours, she hadn’t had any meltdowns, and we’d shared a few secrets, like where she stashed her candy at home—she adored Milky Way bars—and which rock stars she liked. Her favorite was Dilettante, of course. At the first dress shop we’d visited, Lacy had insisted on trying on some dreadful dresses that included a slinky leopard-print sheath and a mini black velvet number that barely reached her you-know-what, all of which, to my horror, she had gushed over. Afterward, I’d steered her to our present location, a new boutique located in Artiste Arcade, the cluster of high-end shops across the street from Fisherman’s Village. The Gossip Parlor catered to the arty and youthful, but it didn’t have quite the edge of the first shop. Its primary-color décor reminded me of a Mondrian painting.

“Mom says if I wear a dress to this competition, everyone will think I’m normal.” Her voice rose in typical teenaged hysteria. “I don’t want to be normal!”

I leaped off the blue velvet dressing room bench and threw an arm around her. The gesture felt a little awkward. We hadn’t hugged since she was little.

She wriggled free and riveted me with her overly made-up eyes, now raccoon-like, thanks to the tears. “You’ve got to help me.”

All my senses went on alert as I flashed on her initial question. Did she wish her mother dead? What did she want me to do, knock off my sister? Definitely not included on today’s agenda.

I stayed cool and jutted a finger. “Hold on, young lady. I’m merely helping you shop for a dress, not abetting you in murder, got me?”

“As if.” Her mouth twisted up on one side, an indication that she had a personality worth salvaging, and I breathed easier.

“Back to the task at hand.” I clipped her chin with my knuckles. “This dress. What do you think? I like you in red.”

“It’s blood-red.”

“I stand corrected.”

She twirled in front of the mirror. The knee-length skirt fluted around her thighs. She gazed at her backside.

“You look beautiful.” I wasn’t lying. She had a cute little figure, and red—blood-red—suited her pale coloring. If only I could get her to rethink the fake nose ring.

“It’s okay.”

“Good enough for me.” I pulled my to-do list from my purse and crossed off the first item. One of the things I’d learned when I was at Taylor & Squibb was that I should never go anywhere without a pen, a pad, and a to-do list. Owning a special set of tools, like a gold pen and gilt-edged paper, made the list making that much easier.

“And the shoes?” I asked.

The saleslady had handed Lacy a pair of rhinestone-studded silver sandals.

“I can’t stomp in these.”

“Stomp?”

“We stomp in our routine. But I like these shoes.”

Lacy needed a pedicure, but I’d tackle that issue later. Maybe if the rest of the day went well, I’d offer her a shopping spree in San Francisco during the summer. I’d fly her up.

In addition to the sandals, we picked out a pair of sensible heels that she could stomp in. Afterward, I paid for our purchases and we walked back to the Nook Café for a snack.

I loved our intimate café with its white tablecloths and view of the ocean. And the food? Excellent, if I did say so myself.

As a waitress ushered us to a table by the window, Lacy said, “Hey, did I tell you about my boyfriend? He’s a musician.” She snickered, as if musician said it all.

I could only imagine. More tattoos than Lacy? Shaggier hair? Maybe he was a sensitive kid who lived beneath an equally dark cloud.

“Mom says—”

My cell phone chirped, and I scanned the caller ID. Speak of the devil.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Lacy started to gnaw on the cuticle around her thumb.

My heart wrenched at the sight. Most girls didn’t show such overt dread of their mother. Whitney and I needed to talk. How critical was she of her daughter? Would she listen to me since I’d never been a mother?

Later. I let the call roll into voice mail.

Before I sat, Lacy threw herself at me and squeezed hard. “Aunt Jenna, thank you. I know I’m a pain in the neck, but . . . well, I couldn’t have done this without you. Listen, if Mom goes ballistic about the tattoos on my shoulders showing—”

“She won’t. I promise.” I held her at arms’ length. “The dress we bought is exactly what your mother wants to see you in.” Seeing the black orchid tattoos were the least of her worries. “As for your boyfriend—”

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. Not technically.”

Not technically. I grinned. How many times had I said that when I was Lacy’s age? My father was an FBI man and technically mattered to him. No lying. No obfuscating the truth. I’d toed the line—barely.

I tweaked Lacy’s cheek. “Let’s forge a plan for how to get your not technically boyfriend approved by your mom. Now, how about some iced tea?”

We ordered two mint teas and a plate of peppermint cookies.

As we waited for our order to be served, Lacy peered out the window. “Ew, who’s that? And what’s he doing?” She was pointing toward the beach below.

“That’s Old Jake, a friend of your grandfather’s, and he’s cleaning the sand with his sandboni.”

“His what?”

“It’s like the machine they use to clean ice rinks—you know, a Zamboni—but this is for sand. That big fork thing at the back sifts through the sand and collects all the litter. He does it out of the goodness of his heart.”

“It’s not his job?”

“Nope. He doesn’t need to work. He’s a millionaire.”

Lacy’s eyes widened. “What did he do to make a million bucks?”

“He invested in the stock market.”

“If he’s that rich, why is he dressed in tattered clothes and that ratty old hat?”

“Because you don’t wear your Sunday finest when you’re dealing with trash and sand.” I laughed. “Sometime this week, I’ll take you to see the Christmas lights, and we’ll drive by Jake’s house. His are the most elaborate in town.”

A waitress returned with our cookies and a pair of crystal flutes filled to the rim with tea and fresh mint. She set the drinks on cocktail napkins and asked if we needed anything else. We didn’t.

Lacy dove into the cookies. I bit into one and hummed my appreciation. If only I could bake as well as our illustrious chef. I was getting pretty good at making candy—not the difficult kind that required using a candy thermometer, but I could throw together a pan of fudge that made Rhett swoon.

Between bites, Lacy told me everything about her not technically boyfriend. When she’d exhausted every synonym for fabulous, she sighed and said, “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

The weather did seem to be mirroring her good mood. The sky was an exquisite blue with orange sherbet–swirled clouds.

After wiping her mouth with a napkin, Lacy said, “How’s your life?” as if we were now best friends.

“Good, thanks for asking.”

She leaned forward on both elbows. “So why aren’t you married?”

I nearly spurted my tea.

“My mother says you and your boyfriend are perfect for each other.”

“She does?” I’d never said a word to my sister about Rhett. Maybe our father had talked to her. He adored Rhett. They fished together and swapped stories.

“Is it because Uncle David died?”

“No.” My heart wrenched as I remembered what my husband and I once had, but all the lies and sadness he’d caused had tainted the good memories.

“If you got married, I’m sure your boyfriend would let you work.”

“Let me?” I chortled. “In today’s day and age, men don’t have a say in what women do. At least, they shouldn’t. Women should do what they want.”

“If you say so.” Lacy tugged at her ragged hair.

I reached for her hand. “How about we swing by the hair salon and have my hairdresser tweak your hair?”

“Do I have a say?” she jibed.

I grinned. “Of course.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

The hour at the salon was well worth it. Lacy loved her new hairdo so much that she’d even allowed the makeup artist to apply fresh eye makeup. On the way back to the Cookbook Nook, she kept checking herself out in store windows. She seemed happy until we reached the edge of Fisherman’s Village parking lot.

She halted and glanced right and left before saying, “Mom and Dad aren’t happy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Mom cries a lot. Dad’s got a secret. I asked him to tell me what it is, but he said I didn’t need to worry my little head. Talk about dismissive.” She blew a raspberry. “I can handle whatever he has to say.”

“I’m sure you could, but parents rarely tell their kids what’s bothering them.” My mother hadn’t mentioned anything when she got sick, and we were all adults. I stroked Lacy’s shoulder. “Relax. I’m sure they’ll work out whatever it is.” She didn’t seem convinced. “Hey, want to do one errand with me? I want to buy a star for my display window.”

Crystal Cove was set on the coast of California, south of Santa Cruz and north of Monterey. To the west lay the ocean. To the east rose the Santa Cruz Mountains. The main street, Buena Vista Boulevard, boasted most of the shops and restaurants.

We strolled down the block and stepped inside Home Sweet Home, a delightful store filled with everything from scented candles to comforters to collectibles. Thanks to the town’s wreath theme, the shop was filled with them. Flora Fairchild, the owner, didn’t have to do much additional decorating during the holidays. Year round, the shop featured a Christmas tree filled with Crystal Cove–themed ornaments. Michael Bublé singing “White Christmas” played softly through speakers. The aroma of hot apple cider hung in the air.

The place was packed with people I didn’t recognize. The Christmas festival was attracting a ton of tourists.

Flora, who looked fetching in a green knit dress, was helping a dapper elderly gentleman select a doll from the holiday-clothed collection. Spotting a basket filled with sparkling stars just past them, I steered Lacy in that direction.

“Is there a smudge, Adam?” Flora asked worriedly.

Using his silk tie, the man buffed the chin of a curly-haired blonde doll in a red velvet coat trimmed with fur. “Not anymore.” He grinned.

Flora released the breath she’d been holding. She prided herself on making everything in the shop pristine.

I selected a glittery silver star and showed it to Lacy. She chose a gold-filigree one. We held them side by side, trying to decide.

“How old is your granddaughter, Adam?” Flora asked.

“Amy? She’s eight.”

“Amy. What a sweet name,” Flora said in a coquettish voice that surprised me. Her twin sister was a notorious flirt; Flora was more subdued. Not to mention, the man—Adam—was a good thirty years older than she was. “She’ll love this doll.”

“I’d like to buy all of them.”

Lacy elbowed me and mouthed: All?

Flora’s apple cheeks turned rosy with excitement. “Honestly?”

“Yes. She’s my only granddaughter. I like to spoil her rotten.”

Lacy mouthed: Rotten.

I knuckled her arm and bit back a laugh.

Adam said, “I’m buying a vacation home in town and want to decorate a room for her.”

“Ooh, I have all the items you’ll need. Bedding, lamps, wall hangings.” Flora toyed with the plait of hair she invariably wore in front of her shoulder. “Which house are you buying?”

Adam shook his head. “I’m keeping mum until the deal is done.”

“Who’s your realtor?”

“Zoey Zeller.”

“Zoey? Really?” Flora tapped my arm to get my attention. “Is it true, Jenna? Zoey’s a realtor now?”

“She is.” Zoey Zeller, or Z.Z. as most of us called her, was Crystal Cove’s mayor. “Her son decided to go back to college. She doesn’t want him to have to take out loans, so she’s trying to drum up extra income.”

“Doesn’t she—” Flora placed a hand on her chest. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Adam, this is Jenna Hart. Jenna, meet Adam Kittridge.”

We both nodded a greeting.

“As for Zoey, I had no idea.” Flora liked to be current on all the gossip. “Doesn’t she know it’s not good to make life too easy for children?” She wasn’t speaking from experience. She had no children; she’d never been married. “Children need to carve out their own paths. If a parent isn’t careful—”

“Watch out!” a woman yelled.

Too late. A basket of fragile ornaments crashed to the floor. A mother restrained her freckle-faced child by the arm and admonished him.

“Oh, my, oh, my.” Flora darted to fix things.

Under her breath, Lacy said, “At least I’m not the only bad seed in town.”

“Stop.” I bit back a smile. “Let’s go.”

Quickly, I returned the star I’d been comparing to its basket, brushed the glitter off my hands, took hold of Lacy’s star, and headed to the checkout register. She trailed me, doing her best to stifle a case of the giggles. The sound was music to my ears.

Sadly, when we returned to Fisherman’s Village, my niece’s lightheartedness disappeared. Was she worried her mother would criticize her new hairdo?

As we neared the front door of the Cookbook Nook, I wrapped an arm around her and said, “C’mon, young lady. Stand tall. Big smile. You look gorgeous.”

Before we crossed the threshold, she pulled me back. “Can I stay with you tonight, Aunt Jenna?”

“Don’t you have a rehearsal on the event stage?”

“Afterward. Please? Mom and Dad can work things out if I’m not around.” Her eyes pooled with tears. Her lower lip quivered. “Pretty please?”

I cocked my head and gave her a wry look. How could I refuse? She had learned how to beg from the best.