He paused, flexing his hands like he wanted to catch the words before they fell out. “But that’s not true anymore,” he said hoarsely. “Not just him.”
Something in my chest gave way. “Then why not say that? Out loud? Why let me keep believing—”
“Because I froze.” His voice cracked. “Claire’s a force of nature, and I… I defaulted to what I was taught: stay polite, make it easy, don’t make a scene. I didn’t know how to stop her without disappointing everyone.”
I rubbed my eyes, whatever fight I had left slipping away somewhere between cookie two and five. “Rhett, this festival… it’s not just an event. It’s supposed to mean something. And agaladoesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.” He took a step toward me, then stopped, as if realizing how close he’d gotten. “I’m sorry. I never wanted tomake things harder. I just—” His voice softened. “I just wanted to help you, Georgie. Even if I didn’t always know how.”
Our eyes met, and for a split second, I saw something there—something that felt dangerously close to a confession. But that’s all it was:almost.
“I should go,” Rhett murmured, when it was clear I had nothing left to say.
I nodded, but he was already halfway to the door.
Chapter Seventeen
Iwoke up to the sound of gulls squabbling over a meal they’d no doubt found in someone’s trash. Their screeches filtered through my cracked bedroom window, sharp enough to startle me awake even after I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning.
Easton was sprawled diagonally across the bed, legs twitching as he growled at an imaginary sand crab. My pillow lodged itself halfway down the floor, my quilt wrapped around my ankles, and my neck was cricked from a few hours of sleep bent at weird angles.
I dragged myself upright and blinked into the gray morning light. It smelled faintly of brine and damp earth, that post-rain aroma that clung to the air. Somewhere down the lane, a wind chime clinked lazily, far too cheerful for my present mood.
Coffee. Coffee would fix atleasthalf my problems.
Too bad I had no coffee.
I shuffled to the kitchen, ripped a hot chocolate packet into a mug, and waited for my pot of water to heat up. By the timeI carried my comfort drink to the living room, my shoulders sagged further and further to the floor.
I curled up in the corner of the couch, mug cupped tight between my palms. It was chocolatey and faintly dusty, but even that couldn’t distract from the replay in my head: Claire, standing at the podium in Town Hall, manicured slides behind her, velvet ropes and ticket prices and profit margins spilling from her perfect lipsticked mouth.
People clapped. They nodded and evencheered.
No one stood up to say, “This isn’t what Bluebell Cove is about.”
Except me—briefly. And then I folded like she had offered me a box of cookies.
What had Claire said?Dire circumstances call for uncomfortable choices.
I pressed my warmed palm to my forehead. She might’ve been right. Maybe the Summer’s End Festival as we knew it really was finished. Maybe all those memories—the carnival rides and pie contests and sparklers lighting up Main Street—were just that. Echoes of the past that no longer had a place in reality.
Apparently Margot, Wes, Serena and Teddy were ahead of the curve when they left.
Easton clambered onto the couch beside me, his head flopping into my lap with a heavy sigh. No matter how many times I bathed him, he always seemed to smell faintly of seaweed—but I scratched behind his ears anyway. At least one of us could relax.
I set my mug down on the end table and traded it for my pottery sketchbook. Time to try and follow his lead.
The knock at the door startled me so badly I nearly dropped the pad on Easton’s head. He thumped his tail without openinghis eyes, excited for a visitor but not quite sure if he would commit by moving from his spot on my lap.
“Georgie!” Margot’s voice rang through the door. “Open up before I kick it down.”
I groaned and shuffled to the door, Easton immediately awake and weaving through my legs. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” I asked as soon as I cracked it open.
She stood there in loose slacks and a cardigan—probably the most casual I’d seen her since the pink fuzzy pants fiasco—hair twisted into a low bun, clutching a paper bag that smelled unmistakably like blueberry muffins. “Well, let me see: it’s raining—again—and Ruth’s on a we-need-to-spend-more-time-together kick. So… no?”
I stepped aside, too sleep deprived to argue. Easton perked up instantly at the smell, circling her legs with his snout stuck in the air as he sniffed.
Margot dropped the bag on the coffee table, surveyed me, and whistled low. “Yikes. You’re beginning to look like the bride of Frankenstein.”
