Sheryl weeded with a vengeance, determined to clear the overlooked bed that hadn’t been tended to in weeks. The inn’s three swimming pools sat down the sidewalk a ways, and this area of the grounds wasn’t used by guests. But it should still look pristine, and Sheryl wiped the sweat off her forehead and reached a gloved hand for another weed.
Javier hadn’t been to work in days as he dealt with becoming a new father. Sheryl had gone to visit him and Melinda and their new baby boy in the hospital, and she was going again that night.
She had to have something scheduled in the evenings so she wouldn’t go crazy. Or go find Gage and beg him to come back to her. Which was also crazy. She’d sat down with a pen and a paper—no computer. No phone—and she’d made a list of all the reasons they weren’t right for each other.
She read it every day when she got to work, just to remind herself that she could make it through the hours that came after two p.m. without him.
She’d done it for four days now, and each one had been excruciating. The time moved so slowly, and the activities around the island didn’t hold the same magic without him at her side. So she’d stayed home, but being caged by walls had been terrible.
After eating one dinner with her parents and grandmother, she’d decided she couldn’t stomach doing that more than once or twice a week. Three times, if she was desperate. She loved her parents, but her mother asked a lot of questions, and her father kept inviting her to go fishing. And without Gage occupying her time, Sheryl had actually considered going.
That was when she’d realized she’d hit rock bottom.
Last night, she’d invited Tyler and Abby over for dinner, and it had been the first time she didn’t feel like suffocating inside her own house.
So tonight, she’d take Melinda dinner and spend time with her friends. She wouldn’t be alone, and everything would be fine.
Except Sheryl knew it wouldn’t be. Somehow, in the short time she’d known Gage Sanders, he’d embedded himself in her heart. Sheryl had considerable access to the gossip circles around the island, and while she never wanted to be featured on them, she’d been able to find out about Lisa Talley and her ex-boyfriend with two texts and ten minutes of her time.
She hired someone to be her boyfriend, Victoria had texted. Between you and me, of course. It’s a secret, so Rob won’t know. Shh.
Sheryl wasn’t going to tell anyone. In fact, she hated herself a little bit for even texting the former homecoming queen that had never left the island and still acted like they were in high school. But Victoria Gibson knew all the gossip, and she’d given it to Sheryl easily.
How her relationship with Gage had stayed off Victoria’s radar, she wasn’t sure. Probably because Sheryl worked seven days a week, and Gage was an unknown on the island.
He’d always accused her of thinking him beneath her, and the moment she thought it, her blood turned hot. She didn’t care if they went to her beach cottage or his. She never had.
No, she hadn’t been to South Port, and the idea to spend one of her now-free afternoons down there entered her mind again. It wasn’t the first time the thought had come to her, and she was starting to think someone was prompting her.
She groaned as she stretched her back and looked up into the sky. “Is that what You want me to do?” she asked, as if she had a relationship with God and He’d tell her.
“Fine,” she said when she felt nothing, and no one answered. “I’ll go to South Port.”
A few more days passed before Sheryl actually went through with her promise to herself. But Sunday afternoon found her tipping the pedicab driver and turning toward the beach in South Port. Somewhere along the boardwalk, a band played, and she started walking toward the sound.
This area of the island did have a unique feel. It was older, and it used to be the vibrant, lively part of the island, before one of the major hurricanes had wiped it out. Main Street had been moved inland a bit, and father east, toward the inn.
Her family had benefitted from that move greatly, and she didn’t have to be ashamed of that. She wasn’t. But she could acknowledge it.
The boardwalk along the beach here led right down to the sand, where groups of people had gathered to enjoy the sun and the surf. One group listened to a teenage boy plucking on his guitar, and Sheryl found herself smiling in that direction. She would’ve loved to have come to South Port when she was a teen. Her father wouldn’t have approved, and as one of the younger sisters, such an act—even in the middle of a Sunday afternoon like today—would’ve gotten her some attention.
As it was, Sheryl had learned to follow and obey rules. She loved gardening, and it just worked out that the inn needed someone with her green thumbs to run the landscaping and grounds crew.
“One dollar sliders,” a man said, handing her a flyer. “Down the boardwalk at the food truck.”
Sheryl wondered if this was the same truck where Gage got his beloved hot dogs. Her stubborn streak reared its ugly head, and she squashed it down. She’d come to South Port to enjoy herself, not obsess about Gage.
But this place screamed his name, and she could imagine an evening here with him. It would be romantic and wonderful, and Sheryl’s chest pinched. She felt like she hadn’t drawn a full, proper breath since the farmer’s market just over a week ago, and the only person who could help her get the oxygen she needed was Gage.
She continued down the boardwalk toward the band and found half a dozen food trucks set up in a semi-circle. The beach spread before them, and easily twice as many people dotted this beach as the one she’d left behind.
The long storm wall filled with murals stretched down the other way, past the food trucks, and Sheryl determined she’d get something to eat and then admire the art on the beach. Food. Art. Beach. No wonder Gage loved this place.
She spotted the truck where she could get the footlong, and she joined the line there. She’d only eaten from food trucks
like this a couple of other times, and she hoped she wouldn’t embarrass herself too badly.
After managing to order and pay, she got her hot dog and walked down into the sand. It was hot and covered her sandaled feet. The wall ran before her on the left, and it was filled with vibrant colors and pieces of art that overlapped each other in various messages of hope and love.
She saw things like Soda Snake and Burgers and Birds, two places she’d loved as a little girl. She hadn’t thought about them in a long time, and a sense of nostalgia hit her when she hadn’t been expecting it.
All the benches were full, so she found a spot on the boardwalk and sat down to eat her footlong. She smiled as she squeezed ketchup and mustard out of little packets to go with the sautéed onions she’d requested.
“Here we go,” she said, wishing with everything in her that Gage was there with her. It felt like a moment that would bond them forever, and Sheryl paused.
“I’m in love with him,” she whispered, feeling it and knowing what she’d just admitted to herself was true.
Then she took a bite of her footlong, the heat of the dog almost burning her mouth. “Oh, my heck,” she said, her mouth still full. That was the most delicious thing she’d eaten in a long time. As she ate the twelve inches of meaty goodness, all she could think about was how she could get Gage back into her life.
She knew he liked to bake, and she wondered if she could show up at his beach house with a perfect apple tart, an apology, and a plea for him to forgive her. But her skills with pastry probably wouldn’t pass kindergarten, and she thought she should probably just take him a footlong and call it good.
The more that idea existed in her mind, the better it sounded. But she’d want the food to be hot and delicious, and she had no idea if Gage would even be home right now. A Sunday afternoon date was probably high on Lisa’s list of things to do to convince her ex she’d moved on. Sheryl didn’t want to be left sitting on Gage’s steps, waiting for him to come home from a date with another woman.
Even if it wasn’t a real date.
So she wadded up her tin foil wrapper, got up, and threw her trash away. After a quick stop at the grocery store, she rummaged through her cupboards until she found an apron. An Internet search brought up an apple tart recipe, and Sheryl washed her hands with a great deal of hope in her heart.
Two hours later, she admitted defeat when the second tart came out of the oven looking like charred soup. How such a thing was possible, she didn’t know. But flour dusted every surface in the kitchen, her sink held a ton of apple skins and cores, and she hadn’t been able to get the first tart out of the pan. So she’d thrown it away.
“That one was too dense,” she said, wiping her hair off her sweaty face. “This one is runny. I don’t get it.” She’d used the same recipe both times and gotten wildly different results.
So baking wasn’t going to cut it. She heaved a sigh and dumped the sloppy tart into the trashcan. At least her house smelled like pie crust and cinnamon, even if she didn’t have anything edible to show for it.
She wouldn’t be getting Gage back through her baking. What could she do instead?