No Forever Like Nantucket (A Sweet Island Inn Book 6)

by Grace Palmer

  But she didn’t want to, or she couldn’t, or both. Not yet.

  So she let it ring and ring. When her phone finally stopped vibrating, she walked down the aisle to the opposite end of the store where a classic soda fountain shop operated from a built-out bar. Red vinyl barstools sat invitingly along the length and the hand-chalked menu board on the wall offered cold sandwiches, ice cream, and real sugar sodas.

  The shop-within-a-shop didn’t open for another hour, so there was no option to sit and enjoy a root beer float. It had been years since she’d had one of those. Still, Eliza scanned the menu aimlessly, deliriously, until her eyes drifted towards the white laminate countertop on the back wall. The word “PHARMACY” was emblazoned above a walk-up window in gold-painted letters.

  This whole errand was a little silly, really. Her prescription had probably expired. To claim it, she’d likely have to call Dr. Geiger and have him resubmit. It would be a whole process. Tedious for everyone involved.

  But Dr. Silver had called it “homework.” And even though she didn’t know it, that was the killer word.

  Eliza Benson hadn’t missed an item of homework in her entire life. The mere thought of it made her wake up in cold sweats some nights, dreaming of teachers she hadn’t seen in decades. If Dr. Silver had referred to it as anything else, maybe Eliza could have ignored challenge draw. But calling it “homework”? The doctor was playing dirty.

  “Picking up a prescription, dear?”

  Approaching the pharmacy counter had been a subconscious decision. Like sleepwalking. Eliza just blinked and suddenly there she was at the counter, and an elderly woman was looking at her, wispy white hair pulled back in a clip, eyes wrinkled into a friendly customer service smile.

  “Oh, well—I’m not sure.” Had one person ever had so many incoherent interactions in one day? Eliza didn’t think so. This had to be some kind of record. “What I mean is, I don’t think there’s anything to pick up. I just—”

  “Give me your name, sweetie.” The woman turned to her computer, hands poised over the keyboard. “I’ll tell you if you have anything here.”

  Her name. Even Eliza could do that. “Eliza Patterson.”

  The woman typed slowly, pecking away at the keyboard with her pointer fingers. “It looks like you have a prescription for Fluoxetine. Would you like to fill that, hon?”

  The medication sounded like something from one of Oliver’s sci-fi movies. Was it really safe to be putting in her body? It didn’t matter. Eliza wasn’t going to use it, anyway. The homework had been to fill the prescription. Not to take it. Dr. Silver should learn to choose her words more carefully.

  “Oh, um…” Eliza hesitated. “It’s an old prescription. I doubt I even need it. But sure. Why not?”

  The woman raised a thinning brow, tapped a few more keys on the keyboard, then disappeared into the back. A minute later, she handed Eliza a white paper bag.

  “Have a good day, dear,” the woman said. Then she looked past Eliza. “Picking up?”

  Eliza turned to find a woman her age standing behind her. She was tall and willowy, dressed in a bright floral dress and sandals. Her hair was red and pulled back into a high, tidy bun on top of her head. Something about her sparkled. She was a walking sunbeam, warm and bright and radiant.

  The woman smiled as Eliza maneuvered around her through the small store. Eliza didn’t return it. She was just trying to find the fastest path to the exit. The white paper bag crinkled in her hands. She tucked it close to her side, trying to hide it beneath her arm. It felt illicit.

  Before she even made it to the door, Eliza gave up and tore into the white bag. She plucked out the small pill bottle, crumpled the trash, and tossed it into the wastebin as she passed.

  Outside, the morning was giving way to afternoon. Eliza had to shield her eyes against the glare of sunlight off of a passing car. There was a heaviness in the air, though, and a faint scent of rain. Lauren’s mom had been right—a storm was coming.

  Almost like a tumbleweed in a Western, a receipt blew across the sidewalk, the piece of paper caught helplessly in the wind. Someone must have dropped it.

  Eliza watched the piece of paper scuttle along the sidewalk before whipping up in an air current to swipe across a pane glass window. A matter of seconds later, it dove off the sidewalk towards the gutter and was gone.

  Slowly, Eliza moved towards her car, the pill bottle nestled against her palm. She stopped halfway. Raised her hand, looked at it.

  Fluoxetine. It really was an ugly word.

  She let her hand fall by her side again. And then, slow and unrehearsed, she let her fingers loosen. The bottle slipped. Slipped. Slipped.

  And then it fell from between her fingers. Eliza looked ahead the whole time, never once down, as the bottle clattered onto the pavement.

  She started to walk away from it. Guilt clamped down on her stomach but she ignored it and took one step, then another and another, until she was at her car and unlocking it. She didn’t dare look back.

  With every step, Eliza felt lighter. She didn’t need Dr. Silver and she certainly didn’t need Fluoxetine. She’d done her homework and now she could go back to her normal life. She was fine.

  “Oh, ma’am?” a voice called out behind her. “Ma’am?”

  Eliza started to shut the car door.

  “Ma’am!” The voice was louder. As were the approaching footsteps.

  Eliza froze. When she turned, she felt her chest clench. Her heart thumped awkwardly, beating to a nervous rhythm she didn’t recognize.

  The radiant woman from the pharmacy was jogging towards her. In one hand, she held her own white paper pharmacy bag on display for all to see, like she hadn’t even a lick of shame. In the other, a simple white bottle.

  Eliza’s simple white bottle.

  The woman lifted the hand with the bottle in it. “I think you dropped this?”

  She could lie. That wouldn’t really be so hard. Oh, I don’t think so. That’s not mine. Never seen it before. What would I need with a bottle of pills, anyway? I’m fine!

  But the radiant woman was looking at her with a certain kind of something in her eyes and Eliza suddenly felt that if she lied to this woman, it would be the last mistake she’d ever make.

  So she fumbled around. She picked her keys up in her lap and put them down, she riffled through her purse, she checked the floorboards at her feet. Only when she’d made a big show of searching for the pills did she look up and meet the woman’s gaze.

  “Oh, I did! I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

  The woman smiled warmly, tipping her head slightly to one side. She handed the bottle over and Eliza took it with her fingers still slack and loose.

  “Thanks.” Eliza dropped the bottle into her purse.

  “Of course.”

  Eliza turned to go, but the woman cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said, “but I was actually on Fluoxetine for a while.”

  Staring blankly wasn’t the polite way to respond to a conversation, but it seemed it was all Eliza was capable of. She stared, blinked, waited.

  “It doesn’t have as many side effects as some of the other stuff I’ve tried, which was nice,” the woman continued. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work for me. But I hope it helps you.”

  Help? Eliza didn’t need help. She didn’t need anything from anyone.

  “Oh, I’m not taking the pills. It’s a funny story, really. My therapist said—”

  Bad start. That didn’t help her case. Very few funny stories began with the mention of a therapist. And since when had Dr. Silver become her therapist?

  “It’s a very long story, actually,” Eliza said, waving her hand in the air as if she could erase her words. “Anyway, I’m not—these aren’t for me. But thanks.”

  “Oh, sure. Okay.” The woman’s smile never faltered. The wind stirred a strand of red hair around her face and she tucked it behind her ear. “Well, whoever they are for, I hope the pills help. And if the
y don’t, let the person know they aren’t alone. I’m on my fourth medication and only now starting to see some real benefits. Finally feels like some clouds are parting.”

  Eliza couldn’t imagine this woman being depressed. She was a day at the beach personified. Effortlessly breezy and warm.

  “Anyway,” the woman shrugged, “didn’t mean to pry. Have a nice day.”

  Eliza waved and smiled, but it was a fake, tight-lipped smile and it disappeared as soon as the woman was gone.

  By the time she shut the door and got her bearings, Eliza barely even noticed her phone vibrating yet again in her pocket. Barely felt the muggy heat that had built up inside the vehicle. She didn’t even hear the radio DJ yammering on about the incoming storm.

  All of her attention was on the purse sitting in the passenger seat next to her. On the shame bubbling low in her stomach.

  And on a little white bottle of pills she could swear she didn’t need.

  11

  Holly

  Evening—Holly’s House

  After a long day of drinking and snacking on fruit and chips, Lindsay declared the women needed carbs to absorb some of the alcohol in their stomachs.

  “No carbs—coffee,” Diana protested, fumbling around Holly’s kitchen in search of her coffee grounds.

  “Sleep,” Holly countered, resting her cheek against her granite countertop. She didn’t want to consume anything else. As far as she was concerned, putting food in her mouth was the last thing she needed. She felt nauseous.

  Then Lindsay found the camembert cheese in the back of her fridge and the French bread loaf on the counter, and suddenly, Holly was ravenous. She ate three-quarters of the loaf by herself. Diana didn’t have any, choosing instead to drink two cups of coffee, burning her tongue in the process.

  “Okay,” Lindsay said, licking her cheese-covered finger. “Now we sleep. Where to?”

  Holly jumped up from the barstool, wobbling for a second before she rediscovered her balance. “Follow me, ladies.”

  The three women trekked up the stairs, clutching at the railing and giggling like teenagers. When they reached the landing, Holly threw open the door to the guest room. “We have the Presidential Suite for whoever would like it. Amenities include the old plaid comforter from Pete and I’s bed, which you will kick off in the night because the air vent is stuck and the room is always stuffy.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Lindsay said, kicking her rolling suitcase through the door. “Goodnight.”

  When the door slammed shut, Diana followed Holly to the next door, Alice’s room. Holly threw it open with a similar flourish. “And the Royal Bed Chambers, decorated by my nine-year-old. The bed is twin-sized and the butterflies on the wall might stare at you while you sleep. I’m not confident all of them are dead.”

  Diana walked into the room and grimaced, poking at the wing of a Cabbage White butterfly. “Are you sure there isn’t another room available?”

  “Your options are in here with the butterflies or in my son’s room with his bloody monster figurines and smelly socks. Take your pick.”

  “Butterflies,” Diana said instantly. “Definitely butterflies.”

  Holly nodded and mumbled a goodnight over her shoulder as she slumped down the hallway to her bedroom.

  Had she ever been this drunk? It seemed like the answer was no. No, she had not. Even Georgia Tomlin’s bachelorette party had nothing on this.

  Holly and Pete had been married for a few years when Georgia got engaged. Grady was at home, just a baby, and Holly drove across the island to The Rust Bucket. Clearly, Georgia had only invited Holly because Lindsay or Diana told her she should, but Holly didn’t care if she was a pity invite. She didn’t care that she and Georgia had never been that great of friends. Holly hadn’t been out with the girls in ages, and she needed the break.

  And boy, did she get it.

  Pete had to call her a cab when the bar closed, and she spent the rest of that morning with her head between her knees on the bathroom floor. Just as Scott Weaver convinced Lindsay to swear off all men, that night and the ensuing twenty-four hours had convinced Holly to swear off binge drinking.

  Until tonight, apparently.

  Because Holly was most definitely drunk. The only difference was that Pete wasn’t there to rub her back and force ginger ale into her.

  She wished he was. She missed him. Her life didn’t feel so pathetic when he was standing in front of her.

  When Holly was busy freezing butterflies to death for Alice and baking handmade clay monsters in the oven for Grady, she felt like she had purpose. Right now, Holly felt like she had nothing. Except a deep urge to expel the contents of her stomach.

  But she couldn’t even accomplish that. Before she knew what was happening, Holly was laying like a starfish across their bed, her phone tucked into the crook between her ear and her shoulder.

  The line rang and rang until Pete’s voicemail picked up. “You’ve reached the voicemail of Pete Goodwin of Goodwin and—”

  Holly hung up and called again.

  Just when she thought Pete wouldn’t answer, the ringing stopped and there was a muffled rustling on the other end of the phone.

  “Hello?” she asked. Who knew one small word could sound so slurred? “Pete?”

  Finally, Pete answered, though his voice was low. “Holly? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Pete snorted. “Because it’s two in the morning. I was asleep.”

  “Oh, Petey. I’m sorry,” Holly slapped a hand on her forehead. Except she missed and hit her nose instead. She winced and rubbed at the bridge with clumsy fingers. “I didn’t even look at the clock.”

  “Is that because you didn’t think to check or because your vision is too blurry to tell time?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you, my dearest Hollyday, are drunk,” Pete said, amusement clear in his voice. “It seems you had fun with your friends?”

  Fun. Had fun been had? Had Holly had fun?

  She couldn’t really remember. The only thing Holly remembered clearly was that she’d desperately needed a drink. Which made her think maybe she hadn’t been having all that much fun.

  “Do you remember when we met?” Holly asked.

  “Do I remember when you and I met?” Pete chuckled. “Yes, I do. But do we need to reminisce about it at two in the morning?”

  “You had on a pair of soccer shorts, even though you didn’t play soccer. It really fooled me.”

  “You thought you were hitting on an athlete?”

  “I did,” Holly admitted. “But you ended up being so much better than an athlete. You were smart and sweet and caring. And hot.”

  Pete cackled. “You are so drunk, Hollyday. You aren’t going to remember this in the morning.”

  Maybe he was right. But Holly didn’t care. She liked talking to Pete. More than she liked talking to anyone else. And she liked when he used her nickname. It made her feel like a different person. Someone else. Someone better.

  “You were hot,” she repeated. “Was I?”

  “Were you what?”

  Holly groaned. “Hot, Pete. Was I hot, too?”

  “Oh, yeah. Obviously. Plus, you were so smart. I was always attracted to the smart girls.”

  Holly sighed. “You probably thought I’d be a scientist or… Einstein or something, didn’t you? I thought you were an athlete, and you thought I was a brain. Looks like we both had each other fooled.”

  “What does that mean? You are smart, Holly. Basically the smartest person I know.”

  “Oh, sure,” Holly rolled her eyes. “The smartest person you know cleans your house for a living.”

  “Whoa, whoa.” There was a long pause. “What’s going on here? Where is this coming from?”

  Holly could hear the concern in his voice. She hated that she put it there. Just like she’d hated the pitying looks her friends had given her. She didn’t remember much about the day, b
ut she remembered that. No matter what they said, they all knew Holly was the weakest link. Every train needed a caboose, and choo choo, Holly was clearly bringing up the rear.

  But there was no need for her to bring Pete down with her.

  “Remember that trip we took to Chicago right after we got engaged?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

  Pete waited a second before responding. Finally, he spoke. “Yeah. You wrote our names on the wall of that pizza shop because you thought it was the one in the guidebook. The one where everyone signed their names in permanent marker.”

  “But it turned out to be the wrong pizza shop, and they kicked us out.” Holly laughed. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t notice the completely blank walls.”

  “I did!” Holly argued. “But I thought maybe they’d recently repainted. I thought they were starting with a blank slate.”

  They both devolved into laughter at the memory and Holly’s mistake. When they stopped, Holly’s stomach hurt. But in a good way this time. Not because of embarrassment or alcohol. Because of Pete.

  She clutched her sore abs and sighed happily. “I was a bit more reckless back then.”

  “You were bold,” Pete countered. “It was one of the things I loved about you. You brought me out of my shell.”

  Holly frowned. “Really?”

  “Really what?”

  Classic Pete. The man couldn’t hold onto the thread of a conversation for more than a few back and forths before he needed Holly to guide him back to the point. She’d been doing it for years.

  “You thought I brought you out of your shell?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yeah. You were so confident. I’d always been a little more timid, but you knew what you wanted. You went after it. It was inspiring.”

  Holly frowned. Was Pete talking about her or some other girl he’d dated? Because Holly didn’t recognize the description of herself. “Like what?”