Twenty-Six

Barefoot and stealthy, sneakers dangling from her fingertips, Charley stepped around the creaky floorboard. But before she could stop her, Cocoa raced ahead, paws scrabbling over the living room floor. “Ssh,” she hissed.

Then again, the cottage was quiet. Maybe she’d escape without — She stopped short. Cocoa kept going, faster now.

A kitchen chair, positioned in the middle of the entrance, front and back legs rammed against both walls, blocked her way to the front door. Meghan sat there, sipping a Thermos of coffee. A second Thermos rested on the ground beside her. The tips of her red hair were still damp from the shower, at odds with the cool competence of her white shirt, and the navy blazer draped over the back of her chair.

Meghan lowered the newspaper and levelled her reporter’s gaze at her. “You snuck in last night.”

She walked right into that ambush. “I did not sneak.”

Her look said she didn’t buy that one bit. “I waited up for you. But you never came in.”

So much for the skills of the well-trained journalist. “Yes, I did.”

Meghan had her canvas flats on and a head start on the caffeine. Odds were slim to none she’d be able to get away unscathed, let alone dodge the questions. Best she could do was dance around them.

She watched Cocoa sidle over for an ear rub. Meghan patted her head, avoiding most of the sloppy canine kisses. “The car pulled up, a door slammed. Then you disappeared into thin air.”

“You probably dozed off.”

Meghan shot her a knowing glance. “Did the thistles get you?”

She’d stumbled right over them in the dark and the rain. Cocoa knew enough to go around, but Charley’s ankles still itched from the prickles. “You need to weed your garden.”

Meghan threw her head back and laughed. “I figured as much. How did you get into the house?”

“Magic.” It helped she’d found the key that unlocked the French doors in her room. One of the benefits of cleaning. “I didn’t want to wake you.” Or get the third degree.

“Thoughtful.” Meghan leaned back, like she had all the time in the world to chat. “How was your date?”

Her pulse gave a traitorous leap, she tried to ignore. “Aren’t you late for work?” Meghan was a firm believer in the early bird catches the worm.

“Talk fast.”

Cocoa left them to lap at her water bowl, tags jingling against metal.

“I have an angle for the article.” A safer topic for conversation that just might be interesting enough to distract.

Meghan sat up straight. “Scandal?”

“Environmental.”

“I’ll take it.” She sipped her coffee. “Did he kiss you?”

She’d only been awake half the night thinking about it. But Meghan didn’t need to know that. She looked at her watch. “You’re now fifteen minutes late.”

Meghan smiled slowly. “Was it good? And did you stay for” — she dropped her voice to a throaty purr that hinted at sin — “dessert?”

“Sixteen minutes,” she counted down.

One innocent kiss, that’s all it had been.

Oh, who was she kidding? There was nothing innocent about it.

Meghan held up the second Thermos, sitting on the ground at her feet. “This coffee here? It has your name on it. And the last of our cream in it. So, unless you want to drink your coffee black, you’d better spill the beans.”

“You’re holding the coffee hostage?”

She wriggled her eyebrows, Thermos in her hand. “Did your toes curl?”

Since Meghan’s coffee could be like gut rot, even laced with half-and-half, she admitted, “My knees went weak.” Like Jell-O. Or melted chocolate.

“Mm, the best kind.” Good on her word, Meghan handed over the Thermos. “What are you going to do now?”

She popped the lid, breathing in the full-bodied scent. Why did coffee always taste so much better here than it did in the city? “Go to the gallery.”

No matter how amazing that kiss had been, she couldn’t let it distract her.

Meghan rolled her eyes. “I meant, what are you going to do about Matt?”

“Right now, everything is about the gallery.” This summer was about her art. She’d made that promise to herself, and she wasn’t about to break it for some guy. No matter how cute or charming he might be. Even if the heat of the kiss still sizzled through her veins.

“All work and no play... But” — Meghan sighed — “I get it. I’m bringing the crackers and cheese and” — she glanced at her watch and jolted — “is that the time? Shit, I am late!”

“Yes, you are.” She made a point of taking a long, slow sip of coffee as Meghan leaped into action.

“If you’d dished the details last night, this wouldn’t have happened.” She dragged the chair back into the kitchen.

Cocoa padded over, a quizzical tilt to her head.

“You’re right. It’s my fault.” Amused, Charley watched Meghan grab her purse. Then held onto her Thermos as she hugged her, hard.

“Luck!” Meghan dashed out, slamming the screen door hard enough to bounce off the latch.

Charley exchanged a glance with Cocoa. “Not as bad of an interrogation as it could have been.” And now she had coffee. Not that she needed any caffeine. Her system was already on overdrive.

She heard Meghan’s tires spin on gravel, then rumble down the road at a pace that pushed the speed limit.

Soon as Charley stepped out the door, the humidity caught at her throat. Mosquitoes buzzed around her, out for blood. It would be another hot day. And hopefully lure the crowds onto the streets for the Food Truck Festival, and to the gallery.

She opened the back door of the Jeep on a creak of rusted hinges. Cocoa hopped onto the seat.

Did she have everything she needed? Outfit for the opening, check. Red lipstick, check. Hamadryads, in case she had time to kill. Only two chapters to go, and she might need the distraction.

Bottles of Merlot, sparkling water, and glasses were already at the gallery. Was she missing anything?

Nerves of steel.

Thanks to the mysterious postcard, it was a safe bet things wouldn’t go as planned. She had to be alert and ready for anything. And hopefully, by six o’clock, she’d also be cool, calm, and collected. Because this was it. Finally.

She met Cocoa’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Ready?”

Cocoa panted. Charley figured she’d take that as a yes.

She put the key in the ignition and turned it. Click. Her heart sank.

Not today. “Come on.” She turned the key again. Click. Nothing. Not so much as a tired whirr.

The engine was dead.

Charley got out of the car. “As if there wasn’t enough to deal with already.” Hands on her hips, she gave the Jeep a hard stare.

Then, with a sigh, she went around to the trunk to get the sturdy wooden stick she used to prop the hood open. If only she didn’t need it so often. But it was better than having the heavy aluminum come down on her head.

Jamming one end of the stick against the metal rim and the other under the angle of the hood, she looked at the engine. Crusty blue froth around the battery terminals — that couldn’t be good.

A jumpstart might do the trick, and she had booster cables, but both Meghan and Alex had already left.

If that didn’t work, she’d have to find a mechanic in Oakcrest. And sink more money into the Jeep. If only she could go one whole month without having to track down the nearest auto shop.

She slammed the hood down, made sure the latch locked. Not always a given.

They’d have to walk to the gallery. Unless — It was a long shot, but worth a try.

“Come on.” Charley tracked the path around the side of the house on the heels of a memory of barefoot races and whoops of laughter.

Cocoa coursed over the grass, hunting the ground for buttercups and bees.

Here in the shadows, orange slices dangled from the branches, strung on kitchen twine. Charley touched a finger to one of the rinds, still fresh with citrus oil, and sent it spinning. Meghan’s doing, no doubt, although the vibrant strip of orange ribbon tied to the oak’s trunk was so frayed, it might have been one of Grandma Reilly’s. She hoped it was.

Dwarfed by the trees, the plywood storage shed stood there still, looking smaller than she remembered and weather-beaten. Red paint flaked off doors that no longer lined up perfectly. The concrete stepping stones almost hidden by weeds and sunk in the dirt.

Brushing cobwebs from the rusted latch, she yanked the bolt back with a grating snap that startled an oriole from its orange slice feast. The bird’s rich, whistling song echoed over her head as it flew away, over the water.

With some effort, the sagging door scraped open.

A stagnant gust of old plastic, mouse droppings, and dried leaves hit her. Grey, indistinct shapes crouched in the gloom.

Before Cocoa could nudge past her leg, Charley said, “Sit.”

An exasperated canine gaze met hers.

“Stay.”

Cocoa’s body quivered with barely restrained enthusiasm, but she stayed where she was.

Charley stepped inside the shed. Her eyes adjusted to the light and those shapes took on form, so familiar she felt the past squeeze her heart. The blue metal tackle box, like a puzzle box full of fishing lures. The inner tube, still inflated but sunk on one side. A mildewed life jacket, child-sized, hanging from a low hook. Hers or Meghan’s? A foam pool noodle, gnawed and cracked. Dust and dead flies on everything.

Cocoa sneezed and shook her head, so hard her ears flapped.

Charley found the bicycle, half-buried behind a stack of empty flowerpots. Vintage and — as she wheeled it out, the morning sun hit the frame — more rust than anything else. The brake levers stiff from disuse. The thought tugged at the centre of her chest.

But Grandma Reilly would beam with delight — and shed tears of laughter — if she knew Charley was pedaling her bicycle to her first gallery opening.

The tires were a little flat, but not bad. The wicker basket just the right size for her tote bag. Cocoa would love the run.

And Charley was pretty sure her tetanus shot was up to date.