Page 18
“Gem, where’s Jamie?”
“Smoke break,” she gasped.
Of course. It was always something: a cigarette, an urgent text. Evie’s sixteen-year-old cousin spent more time outside Marwick’s than in, but on this occasion, his dubious work ethic may have spared him stitches or worse.
The rumble of emergency vehicles eased the tightness in her shoulders. Outside, puppet handlers, curious onlookers, Sunita—all stepped back to make space for the first responders while a batch of bent postcards, liberated during the Viking’s invasion, frolicked on the wind.
Two firefighters loaded with equipment sidestepped the decimated doorway and evaluated the hole where the windows once shone, ensuring the building was stable before entering. On their steel-toed heels came a pair of paramedics bookending a stretcher. Evie recognized them but didn’t dive into small talk.
“Hey, Evie” was all the first firefighter said on his way to inspect the café and kitchen in the back, which, from her vantage point, appeared unscathed. Thankfully.
As the medical team ran through a host of health checks with Gemma, Evie surveyed what fifteen minutes earlier had been a bustling shop. Scattered pieces of puppet—arms (twisted horrifically backward) and torso (half-stripped of his green robe)—rested precariously atop collapsed tables, smashed ceramics, and a rainbow of sweaters still brandishing their wooden hangers. The café and kitchen may have escaped damage, but much of the shop, along with the sales desk, were in ruins, not to mention all the destroyed merchandise. First the roof and now this? Her chest ached. How are we gonna pay for everything? Does insurance even cover puppet crashes?
The straps on the stretcher clicked and Evie circled back. “Will Gem be okay?”
The older of the two paramedics, an uncle of Sunita’s, adjusted the plastic prongs feeding oxygen to Gemma’s nose. “She’s got a badly broken arm, a possible concussion, and a bad attitude.”
Evie suppressed a giggle. Gemma’s take-no-prisoners brashness was legendary and obviously unaffected by the disaster.
“Tell them, Evie,” she urged, swatting him away. “They can’t keep me overnight. I’m needed here.”
Tomorrow! Shit! The accident had completely scrubbed the catering gig and everything else from Evie’s mind.
“Gem, I told ya once, I told ya a thousand times. The docs will make that call, so behave.” The younger paramedic hoisted his medical bag over his shoulder. “And looking at this place, I doubt Evie will be here tomorrow either.”
No kidding. Mouth going dry, her pulse raced again as Gemma and the first responders began their careful trek through the shop. ’Cause I’ll be burning soup in a catering truck while a starved TV crew bays for my blood.
Defeated, she closed her eyes and dropped to her knees, cursing rampaging puppets and her lack of prowess in the kitchen. She could blame Crohn’s disease and her limited diet all she wanted, but the facts spoke for themselves—her cooking know-how barely exceeded what she could stomach and as a result, her lifelong disinterest in learning beyond her safety net of eggs, white rice, and skinless potatoes was now biting her in the ass. Hard.
“Back off!” Sunita bossed. “You are NOT going in!”
Sun can’t stand guard all night. Slouching against the puppet’s decapitated head, Evie’s eyes wearily popped open. I’ll have to find plywood, board up the shop…
“I need to know how she is!”
Nick? Evie’s heart plunged to her stomach. “For god’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. “Read the room!”
“You’ve got some cheek!” Sunita snapped, her aggravation surging. “Asking now? Thirteen years later?!”
Then again, why NOT now? Evie threw her hands up. At this point, she had nothing left to lose.
Brushing dust and crushed ceiling tile from her cropped pants, she adopted a neutral countenance, rose to her feet, and swung around, facing the boy who had once meant everything.
“Eves,” Sunita cautioned, “I’m sorry, but he just barged past.”
“It’s fine.” Evie’s indifferent gaze collided with Nick’s worried gape, and thirteen years of bitter hurt surged forward, pushing play on her long-held vow to stay strong if they ever spoke again. Given his familial ties to the island, it was inevitable there would be close calls and near misses through the years, and yet, Evie was still waiting for the perfect moment to prove to him that the distraught teen he’d ghosted ages ago had moved on and was no longer buried under the devastation of his cruel breakup. However, standing ankle-deep in splintered wood and smashed merchandise wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined it. “I’m fine,” she huffed, tucking strands of drywall-speckled hair behind her ear. “Everything’s fine.”
Unfortunately, the butterflies quivering in her belly didn’t receive the memo.
Dammit.
Nick looked so good and even better close up. He was older, sure, but more striking like he’d grown into his sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders and finally gained the confidence and swagger physical attractiveness and excessive wealth often afford.
Evie lingered on his lips, the beautiful flirty mouth she’d loved to tease and kiss once upon a time…
For god’s sake! She dragged her attention away and pawed the back of her neck. Get a fucking grip!
“Thank Christ you’re all right.” Nick’s reply rode a relieved exhale. “When I saw the puppet tip, I—”
