His reply came faster than my breath would calm.
Rhett: Give me time.
I set the phone down, face burning, and buried myself deeper under the blanket. The storm outside roared and rattled the shutters even though I’d taken the time to lock them closed. Music on the television swelled as Sandra Bullock and Bill Pullman finally kissed, and I groaned loudly and launched myself into the mountain of pillows beside me.
One thought needled the back of my mind: Rhett was just my friend. That’s all he could ever be.
Chapter Twelve
By morning, the storm had passed. Birds sang outside my window, sunlight pouring in like yesterday never happened. I wandered downstairs, a sleep-addled smile on my face, Easton blissfully unaware as he nudged my knees on the way down.
Then I spotted the empty pie dish on the counter, and it all came rushing back.
Janice, the carnival company, and the impending storm that I had absolutely no control over — it rushed to my mind with cruel alacrity. My already-empty stomach twisted a little further.
Easton shoved his slobbery ball against my leg, my constant source of distraction whenever I needed it. He wasn’t happy about the speed with which I got dressed for his walk. By the time I ventured back downstairs, dressed in shorts and a linen shirt for the inevitably humid day, he was nearly jumping out of his skin.
I pulled on a loose cardigan by the door, heart jumping into my throat as my eyes fell on the napkins in my rain jacket’s pocket. Another reminder of the unfixable problem. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shake the growing dread pressing onto my shoulders.
Bluebell Cove hummed back to life overnight.
My neighbors puttered outside their homes, watering their plants, trimming their grass, and walking their dogs. A gentle breeze swayed through the trees overhead, shifting the warm light on my skin every so often. I returned waves with a practiced smile and hurried Easton along.
As we reached the end of Maple Street and turned back, I spotted a familiar mop of wild blonde curls coming toward us.
“Hi, Emma,” I said, watching her tiny face brighten as she looked up. “What are you up to?”
“I’m taking Shelby for a walk,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But she’s going tooslow.” Easton whined and pushed her hand with his snout, earning him a giggle and a round of head pats.
My eyes fell on Shelby, waddling in the grass, a string looped around her shell like a misplaced kite or an extremely misunderstood balloon. I raised an eyebrow. “Shelby… your turtle?”
“Tortoise,” Emma corrected with a raised finger. “I wanted a pet to walk, like Easton.”
“Well, yes, but…” I pressed my lips together as she scratched his ear and frowned at Shelby. “Never mind,” I finished miserably.
Seemingly giving up for now, Emma scooped her tortoise from the ground, cradling Shelby in her arms. “Hey, Georgie?” she mumbled, face fixed on her scaly friend.
I told Easton to sit and sucked in a long breath. “Yes?”
What were the chances that I’d regret this?
Emma’s eyes sparkled. “My mom said you’re in charge of the carnival this year.” She paused, rocking on her heels and gently petting her tortoise’s shell. “Well… do you think I could help with the Ferris wheel? I think I’m old enough this year.” A pink tinge spread across her face.
I swallowed thickly and wracked my brain for a response. Without the carnival company, the best we would have was the market booths — and, depending on the storm, maybe not even any food trucks. This wasn’t fair to anyone. Not the businesses that relied on it, or the kids like Emma who counted down the days every year.
“Y’know, Emma—” I exhaled, mind made up. “I’m going to reserve a really special job just for you, okay?”
A wide, toothy grin spread across her mouth. “Thanks, Georgie!” She patted Shelby on her head. “I’m gonna go tell my mom, okay?” Emma didn’t wait for my reply, bursting through the gate beside us and jumping up the porch steps.
I rubbed my hands over my face and returned home.
No pressure, Georgie.
???
The ladies of the Button Jar called an emergency business owners meeting at Captain’s that afternoon. I sat at the bar, notebook in hand—I refused to forget again—and listened in latent horror as the situation slowly devolved.
Lorenzo—introverted or not—commanded the room’s attention like a general, his Spanish flair undiminished. The vintage brass monocle he wore with pride dangled from the lapel of his houndstooth blazer, black, slicked back hair unmoving while he gesticulated from his booth.
