CHAPTER SEVEN
EVELYN
It’s so quiet on the other end of the phone, I check several times to see if Josie accidentally hung up on me. Silence is not what I expected when I delivered the news. In fact, I was bracing myself for the opposite. Extended, obnoxious laughter. A cackle or two. A screaming shriek.
“Josie?”
“You’re staying at his house?” Her voice is pitched low and for once, I can’t hear a single thing in the background. Josie is constant motion, often sounding like she’s at a train station instead of her house. Right now she sounds like she’s in a closet.
“Yeah, I’m staying at his house.” He left a key next to the coffee machine this morning. A note with surprisingly neat handwriting with the code to the garage door.
“Does he—” she breathes out a shaky exhale. “Does he only have one bed?”
“What?” I give the waitress at the cafe a small smile, nodding my thanks when she places my latte carefully on the table in front of me. She takes a step back, but keeps looking at me, an over-bright smile on her young face. I know this look. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. I give her a little wave and turn slightly in my seat, lowering my voice. “What are you talking about? No, he has at least two beds that I know of.”
Probably more. I wasn’t kidding when I said he could run a bed and breakfast on the side. The inside of his cabin is huge. Surprisingly comfortable. An entire collection of throw blankets and cozy looking pillows in his living room.
Josie continues to breathe heavily into the phone. “What does he wear to sleep in? Is it sweatpants? Are they gray?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Please just answer the question, Evie.”
“I have no idea what he wears to bed,” I answer as quietly as possible, conscious of the fact that I’m sitting smack dab in the middle of the cafe in a town that loves to gossip. I peek over my shoulder at the table behind me, two of Inglewild’s firefighters on what looks like their third plate of cinnamon rolls. “I didn’t kick in his door to look, Josie.”
“Maybe you should have,” she hisses. “Okay, but seriously though—“
I sigh in relief.
“—I need you to tell me in excruciating detail. What is Mr. Beckett looking like these days? You never did share a picture and you were annoyingly vague. Does he have scruff?”
“What has gotten into you?”
“This whole situation is bananas and I’m trying to capitalize on the benefits. Have you at least snooped through all of his belongings like a reasonable human being?”
“I have not, though I haven’t ruled it out for this evening.”
I did notice a couple things. What looked like a celestial map taped to the front of the fridge, a circle drawn in red over a cluster of little specks with a date and time scrawled above. The corner of the living room with three oversized, soft-looking cat beds, a tiny blanket on each. Five different types of ground coffee on the kitchen counter, all half-used and neatly rolled shut.
It wasn’t what I expected.
Though to be fair, I didn’t let myself expect anything out of Beckett. Besides my game of picturing him in random places, perplexed by mint green succulent vases and fruit arrangements, I hardly let myself consider him at all. Remembering is a slippery slope into wanting, and I’ve built too much for myself to get distracted by a gorgeous man with tattoos and very large hands.
I suppose that doesn’t matter much now, though. I’m one big ball of distraction.
“Have you checked your accounts yet?”
A spike of anxiety turns my palms hot. “No. How bad is it?”
I don’t think I’ve ever gone more than four hours without posting, a compulsion to always be one step ahead. Josie hums and I hear the click of a mouse as she does something on her computer. “Not bad. You are causing quite the stir though. I saw a couple blogs asking where you were. You have a whole Where in the World is Evelyn St. James thing going for you right now.”
“I’m sure Sway is pleased.”
“As much as they can be with their internet darling on lockdown.” She makes an interested sound under her breath, another couple of clicks. “I meant to tell you, I’m sorting through some of your inboxes while you’re out. It looks like Sway has been screening some messages. Do you plan on posting at all while you’re there, or is it a full blackout?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” This is supposed to be a step back from work. I’m not sure scrolling through my accounts and posting random content is going to help with the perspective I want to find. I don’t want to do anything until it feels good again.
But I have found myself itching to swipe open my camera. It’s a reflex, a habit formed over close to a decade of sharing my life with millions of strangers. I wanted to snap a picture when I opened the bedroom door this morning, all four cats sitting in a line, staring up at me with their tiny heads tilted in quiet consideration. When I stepped off the front porch, the sun a brilliant, beautiful orange in the sky, everything glowing at the edges. When I wandered down the narrow alley on my way here, floral vines criss-crossed back and forth between the buildings, a canopy of blossoming flowers and drifting petals. The scent of honeysuckle tickling my nose.
“You don’t have to do anything at all,” Josie tells me over the phone. “You’re on a break for a reason. I don’t even remember the last time you took a true vacation.”
“I know,” I smooth my thumb over the edge of the cup. “But maybe it would help if I tried just telling stories again. That’s how we started all of this, isn’t it?”
No pressure. No expectations. Just me, talking to people. Listening again.
“I don’t think it would hurt,” she offers. “But please give yourself a break. Drink a latte.” She pauses for a second. “Find out if the man owns gray sweatpants.”
A laugh bursts out of me and half of the people in the cafe turn to look. This feels normal, the attention from strangers. When I was younger, it was exciting. I remember the first time someone recognized me in public. I was at the grocery store examining oranges and a young woman with bright blue hair came up to me and asked if I was Evelyn St. James. She saw my video about the Bagby Hot Springs and took a trip with her friends. I remember being overwhelmed. Flattered. Exceedingly delighted.
Now though, the attention feels a bit like sun-warmed skin, just shy of a burn. A hot prickle of awareness and an itch that doesn’t feel right to scratch. My eyes snag on my waitress in the corner, huddled together with a table full of teenagers. Their gazes scatter as soon I make eye contact and I bite my bottom lip against a smile. I give them a little wave and they collapse into furious whispers. One brave girl with thick black glasses and her hair in braids waves back.
The bell above the door jingles and Jenny slips in, one of the flower petals from outside caught in her hair. I raise my hand to get her attention and start to shift my collection of plates around. I couldn’t decide what to order, so I got one of everything in the case. I might have to get up for another sausage and cream cheese biscuit.
I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear and move a bear claw to the corner of the table. I consider it briefly, and then take a bite. I’ve never met a pastry I didn’t love. “Gotta go, Jo.”
“I expect a picture in my inbox later.”
I snort a laugh. If I sent her a picture of Beckett, she’d be on the next flight to Maryland. “Sure, sure. Love you.”
“You too.”
Jenny raises both eyebrows as she slides into the seat across from me. I hand her a plate with a cranberry scone and she gives a happy little wiggle in her chair. “Boyfriend missing you?”
My lips twitch at the thinly-veiled fish for gossip. At least two heads tilt in our direction that I can see. I need to remember that there’s always someone listening in this town.
“Life partner,” I explain and Jenny eyeballs me as she breaks her scone in half. I don’t bother explaining. “Did you call around?”
She nods. “Haven’t been able to find anything, but it’s early. I’m sure something will turn up today.” She drags the tip of her finger along the edge of her plate, blonde hair half covering her face. She reminds me of my mom. Same lines by her eyes, same gentle smile.
Same inability to hide her duplicitous intentions.
“Did you happen to find a place to stay last night? I feel so terrible about what happened.”
I grin and tear off some cinnamon roll. The icing clings to my thumb. It tastes like sugar and small town gossip. “I’m sure you saw the whole thing from behind your desk, Jennifer Davis. Did you really call the phone tree this morning or are you scheming?”
She blinks twice, slow and steady. She then proceeds to stuff the rest of the scone into her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drop my chin in my hand. “Mmhmm.”
“I told you—”
“—the kite festival, yeah.” I haven’t seen a single person in this town with a kite.
“I’ll keep checking,” she mumbles around a mouthful of dense pastry and dried cranberry. I offer her the glass of water at my elbow, concerned about the compulsive way she keeps swallowing. She takes it with a shaky hand and downs the whole thing in two gulps. “You never know what might turn up.”
“Sure.”
“Betsey might have a lead on a studio apartment, but I think it’s above the mechanic station. Probably smells like oil.”
“Probably.”
“And I know the McGivens sometimes rent out their spare bedroom, but I think they’re hosting an … exchange student.”
“Makes sense.” It doesn’t make any sense.
“I’ll keep you updated though!” She slips from her seat and takes a step backwards, closer to the door. If I thought everyone was looking before, it’s nothing compared to the intense, avid attention we are attracting now. Two of the employees peer out from the back kitchen, watching the exchange. I think Gus, one of the firefighters, is recording the whole thing on his phone. Jenny laughs—a bright, unnatural thing. “Okay, bye!”
Her ponytail has hardly disappeared from view when a small but sturdy shadow appears over my shoulder.
“That woman is full of shit,” says Ms. Beatrice, her voice always softer and sweeter than I expect it to be. I heard rumors of her around town before I met her the first time. Things like:
Remember not to look her directly in the eye, and:
Do you think she’ll make anyone cry today?
So when I walked into the cafe and saw a small woman in a floral apron with her long hair pulled up in a loose gray bun, I was surprised.
Then I saw her throw an empty can of coffee at the Sheriff and things made a little more sense.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I think about Beckett standing in the door of his spare bedroom last night, his body all rigid lines with a frown twisted across his lips. He had looked about seven seconds away from climbing out the window. “I guess I’ll have to poke around myself. See if there is anywhere else to stay.”
The last thing I want to do is make Beckett uncomfortable in his own home.
“How long are you here for?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Ms. Beatrice hums, hands flexing on the back of the chair. She doesn’t wear any jewelry, but she does have a tiny tattoo of a songbird on the back of her hand, just above her wrist. I nod at it.
“That’s beautiful.” Delicate lines, a touch of red on outstretched wings. It looks like it’s about to fly up her arm and rest in the crook of her elbow.
She glances at it once, a smile flirting at her lips. “Nova did it.”
“Nova?”
“Beckett’s youngest sister.” I blink. I didn’t even know he had sisters. “I told her I wanted BOSS across both knuckles, but we settled on this instead.”
“Well,” I search for the right words. She would look pretty badass with knuckle tattoos, and the look on her face says she knows it. “Maybe you can convince her in the future.”
She nods, but doesn’t budge an inch. I raise an eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A slow smile creeps across her face.
“Since you’re asking …”
Ms. Beatrice wants an Instagram page.
She saw one of my posts featuring a coffee shop in North Carolina— rows and rows of coffee beans behind the counter and colorful ribbon hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that little shop had been like stepping inside a rainbow, Bob Marley on the speakers and sprinkles in my latte.
“That thing had over two-hundred thousand comments,” she says from the side of my table, shoving her phone in my face. “And the beans looked cheap.”
I don’t know what constitutes a cheap bean, but I indulge her. We snap a couple pictures of her behind the counter—a fierce look on her face in every single one—and set up her details. If the rainbow shop had an opposite, Ms. B’s would be it. But there’s a certain charm to it nonetheless. I apply a moody filter and smile at the result—a fierce woman holding a plate of scones, a steaming coffee pot at her elbow. She looks like something out of Goodfellas. Maybe she should get those knuckle tattoos after all.
“You know you can’t use this account to publicly shame people, right?”
A secret smile. “No promises.”
Gus and Monty corner me after that, asking if I can swing by the firehouse and help them with a video. Intrigued and amused, I can’t help but trail after them to the open bay doors, music spilling out from the back office. I proceed to watch them choreograph a surprisingly involved dance to Jennifer Lopez. Monty explains after with panting breaths that they’re trying to raise money for a new ambulance.
“And you’re doing that through … dance?” Kirstyn would be delighted.
Monty winks at me, forehead dewy with sweat. “Gotta give the people what they want.”
I spot Mabel at the door to the fire-station, arms crossed over her chest and a smile ticking up the corner of her mouth. She’s busy looking at Gus like he’s one of Ms. Beatrice’s lattes.
“Evelyn,” she calls. She drags her attention away from Gus wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt and blinks at me, a little bit dazed. “I need some help with my website. Do you mind stopping by the greenhouse for a sec?”
The day continues like that. As soon as I finish up with one person, another appears with a question or a task or—a banner for the farmer’s market that needs hanging across the fountain in the center of town. I don’t know if it’s small town life or just Inglewild’s own brand of welcome but I’m pulled wonderfully and perfectly out of my head for the entire day. No anxiety clawing at my throat, no pit in my belly. I don’t wonder once if this is where I’m supposed to be, if I could be doing something better or different.
I’m just here, leaning over a stone fountain with a bit of twine held between my teeth.
“How’s it look?” I ask Alex, who is apparently in charge of banner hanging in addition to owning the bookshop. He gives me a thumbs up from the edge of the fountain, glasses slipping down his nose.
I step off the ladder and tilt my head back to read the bold looping letters hand stenciled across the canvas.
WELCOME SPRING
Right below it, in a smaller font:
SEASONS CHANGE AND SO DO WE
I stretch my arms wide to the side and wiggle my fingers back and forth.
So do we.
I pull into Beckett’s driveway and sit in my car for a moment, staring at his house. It suits him, this big cabin at the edge of the field. Faded wood shingles warped by weather and time. An ancient looking tree to the left, its branches reaching out over the roof. A wide porch that wraps around, a couple of rocking chairs next to the front door. A single, wide window. A light on in the corner of the living room.
I laugh a little as I let myself through the front door, a bottle of wine wedged under my arm and a family of cats appearing at my feet. They weave through my legs as I drop my bag next to a worn wooden table flaked with red paint, an old baseball cap on top. I rub my thumb over the edge of the brim and let my eyes trail over the walls, taking in everything I didn’t see last night.
I study the collection of family photos, all different sizes in mismatched frames. My gaze snags on one in particular. Beckett with three stunning women who can only be his sisters, two sharing a laugh while Beckett and a woman with honey blonde hair give the camera a long-suffering look. I grin as I stare at it and imagine the sound he makes when he’s frustrated. The sigh caught in the back of his throat.
My eyes drift to the canvas painting hanging in the middle of all the pictures, the same colors and broad paint strokes as the one above the mantle. A big golden sun, hanging lazy and full in the sky.
The cats follow me to the spare room and make a nest out of my t-shirts as I change into an oversized sweater and worn leggings, thick socks that I pull up to just below my knees. If Beckett is home, he’s being quiet about it. I can’t hear anything besides the soft patter of tiny paws, the rustle of cotton and flannel.
One of the cats nudges her head against my thigh and I scratch under her chin.
“Where’s your dad, hm?”
His kitchen is as neat as the rest of his house. I resist the urge to go snooping, instead taking in everything I can see from the counter that stretches out into the center of the space. An open bill, a scattering of loose change right next to it. Books stacked on the shelf, pages dogeared. A couple of coasters out of place on the coffee table.
I collect a glass from one of the cabinets, an old jam jar with bits of the label still clinging to the edges in pieces. I rub my thumb over the faded grapes and shoulder open the back door, shuffling onto the back porch where there’s a couple wide, comfortable looking chairs.
The crickets begin their evening song as I shut the door quietly behind me, a call and response of chirps across the wide yard. I didn’t notice last night, but Beckett has a small greenhouse at the very edge, right before the trees begin to cluster into woodland. I can see the shape of leaves through the fogged windows, stacked boxes and a long bench down the center. A table in the back with terracotta balanced in stacks. I wonder what he grows in there, if he likes to spend his evenings with the flowers after spending all day with the trees.
The dwindling light moves across the porch and I pour myself a glass. I sip carefully and hold myself too still, waiting for the creak of the front door, boots against hardwood. But after an hour of watching the sun sink in the sky, it becomes apparent that Beckett isn’t coming home anytime soon. I fall back in the chair with a sigh, the thought oddly disappointing. Is he avoiding his house? Or is he somewhere else? With someone else?
I frown and curl my legs beneath me in the chair and watch the colors change across the sky. Cotton candy pink. Vibrant red. A deep, indulgent violet. I sit on the porch and I wait.
But as night begins to edge across the yard and a yawn works my jaw open wide, I decide to call it. I collect my jam jar and the bottle by my feet and retreat back inside, tidying up some of the things on the counter before shuffling down the hall to the spare room.
I close the door behind me. I’ll talk with Beckett tomorrow.