The Truest Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 4)

“I think that’s because she’s the opposite of dumb.” Jack turned heel and walked out before either of them could call him on his sly insult.

No one would say shit about Emery Saunders around him.

Ever.

4

Emery

Seven years ago

* * *

After weeks of Iris’s not-so-subtle hinting about Hartwell’s annual, midsummer music festival, I gave in and agreed to go.

I’d closed the store for the afternoon and walked along the boards toward Main Street. Passing Cooper’s Bar, the building next to mine, I saw it was open, which probably meant the bar staff were running it. According to Iris, Cooper wasn’t the type to miss out on town events.

Beside Cooper’s was the Old Boardwalk Hotel, the largest and tallest building on the boardwalk. Built at the turn of the century, it was a red-brick building with small, white-framed windows. Every time I passed it, I marveled at its history but also thought it was sad there was no vantage point from any of the rooms to enjoy the spectacular ocean view.

The owner didn’t live in Hartwell. He was a real estate mogul from Florida and relied on his staff to take care of the place. I’d been inside out of curiosity, and the slightly musty-smelling hotel needed a revamp.

Iris said Bailey’s place, Hart’s Inn, at the north end of the boards, was always fully booked because people would rather stay at her establishment before choosing the Old Boardwalk. I didn’t blame them. The inn was a stunning New England–style home with white shingles, a wrap-around porch, and a widow’s walk overlooking the water.

Next to the Old Boardwalk Hotel was George Beckwith’s gift shop where he sold tacky souvenirs the vacationers loved. Beside his store sat Antonio’s, which was open and would be managed by Ira today, since I was supposed to meet Iris on Main Street in ten minutes.

I passed the pizzeria, the surf shop, and Mr. Shickle’s Ice Cream Shack and approached the bandstand at the top of Main.

A band was setting up under the covered stage. The town had hired several musical groups for the day while businesses set up stalls to sell everything from music memorabilia to jewelry.

A plaque on the bandstand spoke of the legend of Hartwell and explained to tourists why locals called it Hart’s Boardwalk. Back in 1909, Bailey Hartwell’s great-grandmother’s sister Eliza was the darling of Hartwell. The founding family still had money and power, and Eliza, being the eldest, was expected to marry well. Instead, she crossed paths and fell in love with a steelworker from the Station Railroad Company based outside of town. Jonas Kellerman, Dana Kellerman Lawson’s ancestor, was considered beneath Eliza—and a noted con artist. They were forbidden to marry.

Instead, Eliza was betrothed to the son of a wealthy businessman. On the eve of her wedding, a devastated Eliza walked into the ocean. By chance, Jonas was up on the boardwalk with friends, saw Eliza, and went in after her. Legend said he reached her, but the waves took them under, and they were never seen again. Jonas’s sacrifice for his love was said to have created magic. For generations since the deaths of Eliza and Jonas, people born in Hartwell who met their husbands or wives on the boards stayed in love their whole lives. It told tourists that if they walked the boardwalk together and they were truly in love, it would last forever, no matter the odds.

As tragic as it was, I loved that the town was built on such a legend. It spoke to my romantic soul … and may have factored into my decision to stay in Hartwell.

Staring out at bustling Main Street, at the crowds gathered around stalls, mingling and talking, I again wondered about my decision. Two years I’d been in Hartwell, and I’d still not made any progress in forming relationships with anyone beyond Iris Green.

And even then, I gave her only what I was comfortable with. Which wasn’t a whole heck of a lot. Melanchol

y suffused me.

Time and perspective had taught me that my shyness no doubt originated from my parents’ behavior. As a child, when I spoke to them, they ignored me, were obviously bored by me, or sometimes even belittled me. It got to the point where I didn’t want to speak for fear of being mocked or considered insignificant. It was easier to be invisible than to have them make me feel invisible. I was shy with them because I cared what they thought of me.

At the opposite end of this behavior was the way I’d acted with the house staff, including my nanny. I was not shy with them. I was angry. In fact, sometimes I wasn’t an amiable child at all. That happened when you were given everything you could ever want—except your parents’ love and attention.

Neglected and ignored by the two people who were supposed to love me most, I took out my anger and frustration on the staff they’d surrounded me with.

I flinched.

They must have hated me.

Living with my grandmother changed all that. She wasn’t the warmest person in the world, and she believed in class, status, and staying within your own station. While she thought our family superior over others, she also believed in treating everyone, including her staff, with the utmost respect. The first time she heard me snap at her housekeeper, my grandmother not only made me apologize in front of the entire estate staff but she made me stay in a guest room devoid of all entertainment. When I came home from school, I was allowed to do my homework and eat, but then I was sent to that room to languish from boredom for two weeks.

Strangely, I appreciated that my grandmother cared enough to teach me some manners.

I never spoke to a member of our household like that again. I grew shy with them instead as I began to care what they thought of me. And I cared what my grandmother thought of me.

As much as I loved my grandmother, she had not been an easy woman to live with. Beneath her hard exterior was a broken heart, and she was terrified of losing the only family she had left. So, I was protected. I wasn’t permitted to do any extracurricular activities unless the lessons took place at the estate. No boyfriends, no school trips, no plans for college unless it was somewhere in New York State. She didn’t even allow me to attend my debutante ball, something I knew my father had attended as an escort for my mother on her debut into society.