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The first three were barely out of high school; they managed a Wendy’s and a few stores at the mall. The Inn—my family’s inn—is a thousand times more complicated to run.
She unlocks her phone and begins typing. “By your own admission, you’re not qualified either.”
“Exactly.” I throw my hands up, and a few heads swivel in my direction. I lower my voice. “That’s why I called you, Delilah. My mom has to come back. She can’t just run away from her life and her responsibilities.”
Under Delilah’s withering gaze, I’m suddenly ten years old again, in trouble for freeing the rabbits from Ms.Lemmings’s pet shop. “Oh, she can’t? But you can.”
“That was different. My welcome had been rescinded.” My op-ed in the local paper accusing the town’s revered basketball team of grade fixing did not go over well. League officials took it seriously, and Kingsette was disqualified from the championship game. A few kids lost scholarships because of me. Folks were so mad they would cross the street when they saw me coming. It was a lesson—if I wanted to write the truth, I had to embed it in fiction. LA seemed the best place to do that.
Delilah winces. “I know. I’m sorry. You were only eighteen. It’s not fair to put that on you, but Will, you need to understand that lately, well ... I’m not sure Helen felt especially welcome in the weeks before she left.”
Her admission makes the rapid-fire speed of my thoughts come to a screeching halt. “Wait, what? What happened?”
“Once Maeve got into your mother’s ear ... it was like I didn’t recognize her anymore.”
The door opens, and two men and three women walk into the coffee shop carrying copies of the new Danielle Steel novel. Delilah brightens and waves at them. “Sorry, Will. I saved these seats for book club.”
“Wait ... just ... who’s Maeve?”
Delilah heaves a long-suffering sigh. “You haven’t heard about Maeve yet?”
I’ve been in town for a week. I’ve hardly had a chance to pay the electric bill, let alone get acquainted with town gossip.
“Maeve is—” She presses her lips together and glances over her shoulder at the members of her book club who are making their way toward us. “Why don’t you ask Annette? She’ll be able to tell you more than me, anyway.”
As if on cue, Annette Martina emerges from the back office. She slices a glare in my direction, and the scowl that pulls down her pink-painted lips makes my flight reflex kick into high gear.
I’m twenty-eight. I’ve lived in Los Angeles, written for a sitcom with famous actors, and hobnobbed with producers who set the tone of the entertainment landscape, and still, no one has intimidated me more than Annette Martina.
Even before I started dating her daughter in high school, I’d try to stay out of her way. She had strong opinions that she believed were facts. Too many nights I heard her expounding on those opinions until my mother would agree with whatever she’d said just to get some peace.
After her daughter and I had started dating, I had a bull’s-eye on my forehead. She’d known all along that I would break her daughter’s heart. She told both of us as much when our friendship turned romantic.
I never meant to hurt Natalie. Or anyone.
Delilah studies my face and lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “Come on, I’ll walk you over.”
“You don’t have to ...” The rest of my halfhearted protest fades as she turns on her heel and heads toward Annette.
Annette watches our approach. She’s two inches shorter than me, but still manages to glare down her nose at me. She sets her phone downon top of a stack of flyers. “Delilah, it’s so nice to see you. We missed you at Garden Club yesterday. One more absence and we might have to revoke your membership.” Annette’s tone is light, but the edge in it triggers a long untouched nerve at the base of my spine.
Delilah laughs off the veiled threat, the way my mother used to. “Once my dad’s new nursing aide is settled at my house, I’ll be the first one there. You know that.” She glances toward me. “More importantly, look who’s finally come back home.”
“Hi, Annette,” I say. She places her hands on her hips, widens her stance, and keeps her gaze firmly fixed on Delilah. “I mean Ms.Martina. It’s been a long time.”
“Oh yes, I noticed Will was back when he avoided me at the Gold wedding. I thought he forgot all about me now that he was Mr.West Coast,” she says, her voice flat. A message alert pings on her phone. A succession of others follows.
“No, I was ... I’m the temporary manager at the Inn while my mom is away. It was hectic.”
Annette lifts her phone and begins typing.
“Annette, Will needs to talk to you about a few things.”
“Mm-hmm.” It seems impossible for one word to house that much scorn and skepticism.
Delilah nudges me to take over, then slips away while Annette’s focus is preoccupied. If I were less selfish, I’d be happy for her easy escape.
“I wanted to ask ...,” I say and clear my throat. Annette puts her phone down and looks up. The razor-sharp tip of her attention is especially cutting after the blunt edge of her disregard. “Delilah said you might know how to get in touch with my mom.”
