"Stupid Garvey," I mutter as I fling myself onto my couch, my phone clamped to my ear. I've already changed into flannel pajama bottoms, fuzzy socks, and a cami. I'm in for the night, even though it's only late afternoon.
"Connacht Garvey is a lot of things, but he's not stupid," says the familiar voice of my bestie, Taylor.
I sit up straighter, surprised to get the real Taylor and not her voicemail. "Oh! You're there!"
"I'm always there for you, babe."
"Give or take a hundred and fifty miles."
"Don't be picky."
She's right. I'm thrilled Taylor is so busy—and happy—with her new broker's job in Provincetown, which she started a couple of months ago. It was a great opportunity, and there was no question she should take it, but it isn't the same around here without her, especially at the real estate office. It's tough to go from seeing her almost 24/7 to hoping to catch her by phone or text a couple of times a week.
"What did he do this time?" she demands, prepared for another round of my favorite pastime, complaining about Conn.
"Nothing," I answer with a sigh. I can't bad-mouth Conn—not this time, anyway. I was a jerk to that poor girl this afternoon. His witnessing it, however, made it so much worse. "He was just…there, doing his judgy thing. I hate it when I screw up in front of him and he looks at me with his disappointed-parent face."
"Tell him to stuff it. He's not your parent."
Not even close. Conn is only a little older than I am—five years and four months, to be precise—yet he's got that older-and-wiser thing down to a science. "Yeah, well, he acts old enough to be my grandfather."
"Your grandfather was never judgy. Neither is your dad, for that matter."
True. My father is much more forgiving…too much, sometimes. He probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash at my behavior today. He probably would have blamed Miss Beige for the whole thing.
He'd have been wrong.
I'm not proud of the way I acted. I've been brought up quite properly, and I have a reputation to uphold. My family, the Abbotts, own this town, and that's not just a figure of speech. It is called Abbott's Bay, after all, thanks to some Puritan ancestor whose first order of business in the New World was to stake claims all over a prime piece of the future Commonwealth of Massachusetts. We own far less of the town these days, but our chunk is still significant, and our history gives me a certain standing in the community.
"Conn is the antidote to my indulgent relatives. Always has been."
The Garveys have lived in Abbott's Bay for ages—not nearly as long as the Abbotts, but then again not many families have—and our lives have always been entwined. In other words, Connacht Garvey, all-around good guy and pride of Abbott's Bay, has plagued my existence for almost the entirety of my nearly thirty years.
The years Abbott's Bay was Connacht-free, first when he was at Harvard getting his BA and MBA then when he spent several years in Seattle, were the most peaceful of my life. Also the most boring, if I'm going to be honest, but if anyone asks, I'll deny it.
Taylor laughs. "Hey, he hasn't had to do any Melanie-shaming in quite a while. You're great."
I flinch. That's not entirely true—as illustrated by today's little adventure—but I don't want to discuss it. "Tell me about all the sales you're making on the Cape."
Taylor takes the bait. We spend the next several hours talking shop, and it's almost like she's back in Abbott's Bay.
* * *
Right. New day, better Melanie. I have resolved to get back in my groove and not let Conn get me down. In fact, I've decided to get some DBC coffee on the way to work. It's a beautiful day, the town is already bustling, and I've managed to get out the door early enough.
I've greeted half a dozen people on the street, including police officer Pauline who's already writing a ticket—what with all the tiny, twisting lanes of our historic district, parking violations are a goldmine—and gourmet grocery owner Henry, who's prettying up the fresh fruit displays on the sidewalk, when I spot Miss Beige headed straight for me. What a perfect opportunity to redeem myself.
She draws closer, and I try to smile in an encouraging, friendly way. I'm really an all-right person! Let me prove it to you! When she spots me, her eyes widen in alarm. She drops her gaze to the pavement, rocks back and forth a little as though she can't decide which way to turn, and spins around to go back the way she came. She's not getting away that easily though. I have amends to make, dammit, and I'm going to make them. I lunge forward and grab her elbow.
"Hey! Hi!" Whoa, way too high-pitched and perky. I dial it back. "Um, I guess you remember me. Deep Brew C yesterday afternoon?" Still saucer-eyed, she nods. I take a breath. "Look, I'm sorry about…you know. I was totally out of line, and I didn't mean to upset you. Forgive me?" I beg with my best smile.
I feel her arm relax in my grip—oh God, I'm still clutching her elbow. That won't help matters. When I let go of her, she finally smiles back.
"I'm not a loony tune. I promise. I mean, Conn can vouch for me." We're standing near the coffeehouse, and fortunately he opens the door at just this moment, broom in hand. He really does sweep the sidewalk each morning, like a character in a Disney movie. All he needs is the full-length white apron. "Right, Conn? I'm completely normal. Tell the girl."
"Good morning to you too." He leans on his broom, studying me as though he's never really thought about my state of mind before, then declares to the woman, quite definitively, "Melanie here is completely unhinged."
"Thanks a bunch."
He grins and starts sweeping. "I'm kidding. She's fine. A little high strung at times…"
"Could have stopped a few words back."
"Are you here for coffee or to jack up my stress level as early as possible?"
"I have to choose?"
He lets out the agonized sigh of a long-suffering martyr and jerks his chin at the interior as he goes back to sweeping. "Beebs can help you out."
The line is fairly long, but everyone in the restaurant at this time of day is on his or her way to somewhere else, getting their coffee and pastries to go, so by the time Conn's deputy barista hands over our orders, the place is mostly empty. I gesture to the wingback chairs.
Miss Beige seems hesitant to sit in the seat I scared her out of yesterday, but I pointedly take the other one, so she finally settles in. When Conn comes back inside, I tilt my head toward my coffee companion. See? Making friends! He rolls his eyes, and his casually dismissive wave labels me as irresistibly incorrigible. I can work with irresistibly incorrigible. I'd add adorable to it, but it's enough for now.
Amends made all the way around. Good.
I turn to the woman opposite me. First order of business: name. I can't keep thinking of her as Miss Beige.
"I'm Melanie Abbott, by the way."
"Hannah Clement."
"It's nice to meet you." I give her yet another encouraging smile, determined to put her at ease, but she's still fidgeting, breaking crumbly pieces off her vanilla almond scone. I try again. "You're not from around here, are you? I mean, Abbott's Bay isn't all that big. I can always spot a newcomer. Are you here for the summer?"
And all of a sudden Hannah's eyes are brimming with tears again. What the…?
I put my coffee cup on the small table between the chairs before I drop it. "Did I say something—?"
"No, no." She fumbles around in her bag for a tissue, finds one, and dabs under her eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just…I'm going through…something."
"I'd never have guessed."
She puffs out a wry laugh and wipes at her tears more vigorously. "I'm sorry," she says again.
"Honey? Stop apologizing." She looks up at me, startled. "If you're going through something, then own it. Let me guess: you…broke up with your boyfriend, and you're hiding from the world for the summer, licking your wounds, regrouping, reassessing."
My apparent accuracy startles her enough that she stops crying. "S-sort of," she stammers.
"Which part did I get wrong? Boyfriend? Hiding out for the summer? Reassessing?"
"Well…"
Her chirping cell phone interrupts, and she scrambles for it immediately. The ex? A broken engagement, even? Hannah looks like a textbook example of a woman who's had the rug pulled out from under her—she's even kind of dust bunny/lint-y, if you know what I mean, like everything in her life exploded around her and she's still walking around in a daze, trying to figure out what happened.
"Sorry, I—" She blushes a little at my silent reprimand delivered by raised eyebrow. "I need to take this."
Deciding to give her some space, I drain my cup and go back to the counter for a refill, where Conn's filling some large carafes with different blends to last the rest of the morning.
"How's it going over there?" he asks while he works. "Making a new friend?"
"Please."
"What's the problem?"
Leaning in, I whisper, "She's kind of weird."
Conn gives me a loaded look, communicating something to do with a pot and a kettle.
"I refuse to be judged by a guy in a leather vest."
"What's wrong with my vest?" He looks down, fingering the edging by the buttonholes lovingly.
"Are you kidding? You look like you skipped out on your shift at the Salem pirate museum."
"Talk about judgy."
"Hey, fashion says a lot. She's all beige, and I'm getting the distinct impression she's the same on the inside."
"You've talked to her for all of five minutes. Why don't you go back over there and find out more about her before you write her off?" At my skeptical look, he adds, "You were the one who said I need to make bartender-type conversation."
"I didn't mean psychoanalyze me. Just…coffee me. It's all you're allowed to do."
"Yeah, yeah…" he mutters, pulling my cup toward him.
I glance over my shoulder. Hannah is still on the phone, and she seems more agitated than ever. I drink my second cup at the bar and venture back over.
"Why can't you…I know, but…" I shouldn't be listening, I know, but I can't help it. She sounds so upset. "I need…I understand. I do. But isn't it your job to…?" Muffled talk drifts from her phone. "Okay. Okay, I get it."
When Hannah notices me picking up my things, I say softly, "I have to go."
"Thank you for the coffee," she whispers back, teary again.
"Are you okay? Is that the boyfriend?"
She shakes her head. "It's…" Then her attention is captured by the person on the phone. "I understand your point," she says. "I don't happen to like it."
I'm impressed with that little bit of fire there. Happy that she seems to be more contentious and less soppy, I leave the coffeehouse and walk to work, only a little bit late.