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“No!” she barked. “Don’t bother.”
I blinked at her. She rarely took that tone with me. “Why the heck not?” I was trying to keep my cool.
She sighed. “Because Flynn left his phone here in town. Apparently, another Honeycutt boy—the quiet one, McLean—found it in their mother’s garden Sunday afternoon, flashing with new text messages. Flynn dropped it before he left town.”
“He’s been in Boston since Sunday? What’s he been doing for the past two days?” I sat up straighter. The man was stuck in Boston with no phone the day before he needed to be in Portland for Brew Fest? I couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling—or, actually, Icould. Out of control, worried, and therefore miserable… and alone, on top of it all. My heart ached for him. “You’d better tell me the story from the beginning.”
“I’ll tell you as much as I know, dear, though this is all secondhand, and you know I hate gossip.” She leaned forward. “Apparently, PJ hasn’t been responding to texts for some time—which, I do agree, is extremely worrisome behavior, and something you should keep in mind when you fail to respond to my—”
“Mother!”
She huffed but quickly went on. “Since PJ stopped answering, Flynn had to run down to Boston to check on him. He left Sunday, expecting it to be a short trip, but PJ wasn’t at his apartment and hadn’t been seen there for some time. Flynn was hoping to be back yesterday so he could finalize his preparations for some sort of quaint festival he’s participating in—”
“Brew Fest.”
“That’s the one. However, he’s not back yet, which has thrown a wrench into all of their plans. Castor was quite insistent that Aldenmustcome help at the Tavern today so they can transport things to Portland. Alden said he’d already helped yesterday and Sunday because Flynn asked him to, and he had clients all day today. Also, he’s supposed to be doing hair for a wedding at the country club tonight. Weeknight weddings,” she scoffed. “Young people today are so—”
“Focus, Mother.”
“Of course.Well, Castor was so upset Alden agreed to cancel his appointments this afternoon but said hecouldn’t miss the wedding tonight, which is quite fair, really. I don’t knowwhatMorrisey Huber would do since it’s her daughter’s wedding that Alden was supposed to—”
“Mother,” I barked again. “I don’t give a shit about Cate Huber’s wedding hair. Focus, okay? Where is Flynn now?”
“Still somewhere in Boston, one assumes, trying to track down his rogue family member, only able to communicate with his nearest and dearest through the most primitive means.” She lowered her voice and whispered softly. “Pay phones. Castor said this is Flynn’s worst nightmare come to life—having to choose between his family and his business. ButAldensaid, for Flynn, there’s no choice to be made. He’ll always put the people he cares about first.”
Yes he would. It was one of the things I loved about him.
“Which is why,” Mother went on, “we need as many townsfolk as we can assemble to get over to the Tavern to help Daniel, Castor, and Alden finalize their preparations and pack up. Then you, Reagan, and I will get all of the Honeybridge Mead to Portland.”
“We will?” I blinked. “Youwill? But—”
“It has to be us. Alden needs to stay in town for the wedding, and Daniel and Castor must run the Tavern.”
Since when did my mother want to help Flynn Honeycutt? When was she willing to domanual laborto helpanyone?
“Jonathan, we’ll never get things sorted if you continue to be so easily distracted.” She stood. “I’m going to make some phone calls.” She eyed me up and down, crinkling her face when she realized I was in running shorts and a Brown University tee. “I guess you might as well stay in those grubby clothes if you’re going to be lifting things, but please pack some decent clothes for the festival itself. I’ll not have you representing Honeybridge Mead while looking like a baseborn tourist. Our town has a reputation to uphold.”
“But—”
She huffed impatiently. “Jonathan. Are you or are you not madly in love with Flynn Honeycutt?”
“I…” I gaped at her in shock. I had never mentionedloveto her. I was sure of it.
“And have you, or have you not, been moping about this house for the past two days, trying to figure out a way to show the man your affection and get back into his good graces after thedebacleat the Tavern Saturday night?” She lifted a censorious eyebrow, and I winced. Honeybridge gossip was insidious… but in this case correct.
She nodded once, reading the answer to both of these questions from my face.
“Exactly as I thought. So, chop chop, darling.” She put an arm around Rosalia’s shoulder and ushered her from the room. “I’ll need help packing my things, Rosalia, dear. What slacks do I have that will coordinate with the gold Honeybridge Mead logo? Thank goodness I look amazing in gold. That’s our only saving grace.”
I stared after her for a moment, then slowly smiled.
Patricia Wellbridge was annoyingly image-obsessed. Often petty. Terrifyingly vindictive. But when she cared about something or someone, she was an absolute juggernaut.
And I was proud as fuck that she was my mother.
I had many, many questions for her, but apparently, they’d have to wait. For now, I had a bag to pack.
* * *
