Page 31 of Piece By Piece

“Number three, the new pharmacist. Now, I haven’t met him yet, but Patty over at the diner says that he’s a catch. And Patty has been married three times, so she definitely knows what she’s talking about.”

Liza leaned against the shelf and crossed her arms. “I cannot believe you made a list.”

“Yes, I made a list. I told you, I’m nothing if not thorough. And this is because you’re a beautiful, smart, young woman on an island full of eligible men who would be lucky to buy you dinner, and I just refuse to watch you sitting around on another Friday night rearranging the picture book selection. That’s how women become old maids.”

Liza laughed. She hadn’t heard the term old maid in a very long time.

She looked at Dixie.

Then she looked at the ceiling as if some kind of divine intervention might save her from this insane conversation.

“Fine,” she said. “You can introduce me to the firefighter, but that’s only because I need you to stop looking at me like that.”

Dixie folded the list, tucked it back into her apron with a smile.

“That’s all I ask, sugar. One dinner. And if he’s awful, I’ll buy you a bottle of wine, and we’ll never speak of this again.”

“Deal.”

As Liza walked back to the front of the store, she passed the shared wall of The Puzzle Post and paused.

She could hear Grant on the other side moving something across the floor.

That man was constantly moving things around. He was probably in there rearranging some display with his own form of military precision.

She thought about how he’d gone quiet when she talked about her father, the way his coffee cup had just frozen in the air, the way he’d said, Sounds like he was a good man in a voice that sounded like it came from somewhere deep.

She shook her head and kept walking.

Dixie was right about one thing.

She did need to stop spending her Friday nights sitting in a children’s book section.

But she wasn’t sure the firefighter was the answer.

Francine arrived at the Inn at Seagrove on a Tuesday morning. She carried a leather tote bag and wore linen pants and looked like someone who had never once in her life been flustered.

Julie watched her from the front desk with the careful assessment of a woman sizing up her own replacement, and her stomach knotted. Dawson had said at least four times that Francine wasn’t a replacement, that she was support for Julie, but Julie wasn’t sure she felt that way.

Francine looked to be somewhere in her early sixties with a silver hairstyle that was cut into a sharp bob, and she had the kind of posture that suggested she’d spent a lifetime in elegant situations.

She shook Julie’s hand with a firm, warm grip and said, “Thank you for having me. I know this wasn’t your idea.”

Julie stared at her. “Um, what makes you say that?”

“Well, because I’ve been doing hospitality for thirty-five years, and I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who runs her own inn and is excited about somebody else coming in and touching it.” She smiled. “It’s a compliment. It means you care.”

Julie didn’t know exactly how to respond, so she just showed Francine the check-in system, the guest binder, and the supply closet. She explained things in far more detail than was necessary.

Francine listened without interrupting and asked two questions, but took no notes.

“You know, it’s kind of odd that you’re not writing anything down,” Julie said.

“I have a good memory.”

Julie forced a smile. “Well, if you need anything, I’ll be over in the kitchen working on my manuscript.”

It was crazy that Julie still wrote her books sitting at the kitchen table, even though she had a nice office upstairs. It just felt more comfortable.