The bell rings, and none other than Betty Pepper walks through the door. Her jaw immediately drops, and I notice she clutches her purse. “As I live and breathe. Jack Lockwood?”
“Hi, Mrs. Pepper.”
She doesn’t move from the doorway. “When did you get back in town? Are you staying in the cottage? Does your father know you’re here? Does Marjorie?”
She speaks so fast, I’m surprised she doesn’t hyperventilate.
“I think that’s a…” Looking at the ceiling, I run through her list of questions. “Yes to all. You’ve got fifteen more to go.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Fifteen?”
“Questions.”
A short laugh turns into a throat clearing behind the counter. Betty scowls, and André leans back against the wall, arms crossed.
“Good morning, André,” she says, giving him a nod. “Is Thelma coming in today?”
“Yes, ma’am, she’ll be in after lunch. Any minute now, I guess.”
The old lady turns to me again, her eyes quickly scanning my clothes, my paint-stained hands. “Are you the man Wyatt hired to paint the buildings?” Her voice is pure astonishment. “Why aren’t you off somewhere being a lawyer?”
“I missed home,” I say, walking toward her to the door. She jumps out of my way quickly. “I saw the flier up at the gas station and asked Wyatt for the job. Since I was on the paint crew in high school, he knew I could do it.”
“When is the last time you painted anything?”
“Ten minutes ago.” My hand is on the doorknob, and I’m ready to end the inquisition. Twelve left.
Her eyes narrow. “I meant before today.”
Movement outside catches my eye. I look in time to see Ember placing her daughter in the back seat of a bike and fastening her belt. A large box is in the front basket.
“Is she married?” The question is out before I can stop it.
“Who?” Betty steps forward and peers out the window. “Emberly? Why, no. She never married.”
My lips tighten, and something shifts in my chest. I watch her climb on the bike, her toned legs flexing as she pedals. My throat catches, and I want to stop her.
She’s still dressed in denim cutoffs, but her white tee is gone. She’s wearing a maroon tank top with a short-sleeved cardigan over it. Just as I step out onto the long porch, she dashes past, standing in the pedals and disappearing quickly up the street in the direction of Oceanside Beach.
I watch as she disappears, not looking back. I’m left standing in front of the store, staring at the dirt rising from her tires.
Eight
Ember
Staying down is not what I do. I only sit on the floor bracing against the pain radiating from my still-shattered heart one minute before I’m pushing up, angrily wiping the tears away, and getting back to b
usiness.
“Look, Mommy!” Coco holds up a flower made of scraps of Play-dough. “Roses!”
“It’s beautiful.” I swallow the torrent of emotions in my chest. “You just gave mommy an idea.”
Taking small strips of wax paper, I put them on my lazy Susan and proceed to make a lavender rose using my regular piping tip and short strips of icing, round and round.
“That’s really smart,” Tabby says, watching as she takes the round sponge cakes from the cooling rack. “We’ll have to rename the place Ember and Co.”
“Coco!” My daughter cries, smashing her rose into a pancake with her palm. “Ember and Coco.”