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“Rory!” We both startle at the sharp bark of his name from my lips. My heart crashes against my rib cage as I carefully step over the plants to put myself between Rory and any more damage.
“My sister plays bridge with your mother every Thursday night. They belong to the same garden club, and my sister hosts the annual Memorial Day barbecue for the club. If I tell her I saw you here and describe how you were acting—” I click my tongue the way Tessa does when she’s disappointed. He takes a step back. I close the space again. He doesn’t get to slink away.
“My mother ... she’d ... she’d support me.”
“Would she?” I hold up my cell phone, useless with no service. “We can call and find out.”
“No,” he says and then yelps. He releases the plant. An angry red rash blooms across the pale skin, spreading to his wrist.
Rory’s friends gasp. Rory’s gaze darts to Maeve, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. Her mouth is a straight line—her expression neutral.
“You did this,” he accuses, cradling his injured palm.
His two friends shrink back as if Rory’s hand were contagious.
“I haven’t done a thing.” Maeve’s voice is light but not gentle. “That flower you crushed is belladonna. It’s harmless unless you have an open wound. Like from a rosebush thorn. Which you did to yourself.”
Rory cradles his hand and glares at Maeve. “This isn’t over.”
Maeve and I stay silent until the sounds of their feet crunching through the forest floor are long gone.
“Thank you for standing by my side.”
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s what friends do.” My gaze sweeps over the carnage of Rory’s attack. “Why aren’t you more furious?”
“Because he got his due punishment. And holding on to anger is as helpful as living with regret.” She laughs a bit as she scowls at her ruined flower beds. “At least he didn’t make it to the midnight blooms.”
“Will you be able to save them?”
She shrugs. “Most things that look irreversibly broken can often be repaired with a bit of effort. As I always say, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
She raises her eyebrows suggestively. “If you know what I mean.”
I roll my eyes. “I think even the birds know what you mean.”
26
WILL
If weddings are for former frat boys taking shots to relive college, then retirement parties are for executives drinking vodka martinis to chase away their regrets.
Pete, the man of the hour, orders three vodka martinis with a different kind of vodka in each glass. A taste test, he tells me, with a wink, as if trying to serve 150 guests while short-staffed were a time for taste tests.
I glance toward the door and try to decide if I’m punishing myself by even holding out any hope. She’s not coming to help tonight. Not after the way I messed everything up.
I make Pete’s drinks and start on a round of gin and tonics for a group of women who’ve ordered every drink with a frown. Annette’s influence, too, if I had to guess. At least she couldn’t work fast enough to encourage Pete’s company to cancel this party. The Inn needs the revenue more than ever.
The women take their drinks without a thank-you, and I start on the next order shouted at me.
It’s going to be a long night.
The email that arrived minutes before the party slams into my thoughts, a reminder thatlong nightis an understatement.
The private investigator had decided to look into Maeve—had called it professional curiosity. And charged me for it. What he found is ... worth knowing, especially considering all the issues with the Inn’s finances, but that doesn’t mean I have any idea what to do with it.
Shoplifting, disturbing the peace, destruction of personal property. A few unproven allegations of identity fraud.
An arm brushes against mine, and I whirl around, ready to reprimand Pete for climbing behind the bar again.
