And he seemed to be there with his wife and daughter. How pleasant for him.
“Oh. Max. Nice to see you,” Jennifer said dryly.
Max shifted. He placed his hands in his pockets and then removed them. He looked as though he wanted to say something, maybe something about Michelle. Jennifer wanted to beg him not to.
“Oh, um. Derek, this is Max. Max, this is Derek.” Jennifer wasn’t sure why she went to the trouble of introducing them. Maybe it took the pressure off of her. It certainly forced Max’s eyes away as he shook Derek’s hand.
“Good to meet you, man,” Max said.
“You as well.” Derek peered at Max curiously.
Finally, Max got the hint. He shrugged his left shoulder, turned his chin back toward his family’s table and said, “Well, happy holidays, Jen. Always good to see you around.”
Jennifer felt all the color drain from her cheeks. She gripped her glass of wine, tilted it back and guzzled all of it. She didn’t care at all how much it costs or what region of Italy it was from. She just needed to disappear and let the liquid relax her.
When her eyes found Derek’s again, she was surprised to find a look of understanding.
“That guy seems like a dick,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
Jennifer laughed with surprise. “I mean, you don’t even know him.”
Derek shrugged. “I can tell from your face. You hate him, so I hate him, too. Solidarity in hatred—isn’t that what this life is all about?”
Jennifer leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest as she sized up Derek. His eyes never faltered, not even once. She couldn’t help it: the grin across her face didn’t drop. “If we’re in solidarity in hatred, then I’m pretty sure you have to turn that hatred back toward yourself. I hate everything you stand for.”
“Perfect. Self-hatred is totally intact,” he replied as he lifted his wine to take a long sip.
Jennifer laughed despite it all. “You stride onto my island from god knows where. You make a mockery of all we’ve done and all we’ve worked for over decades. And you just want to rip out the bakery that has been in my family for three generations to turn a profit doing god knows what? I can’t stand for it. It’s pathetic. That bakery started with my great-grandmother's blood and sweat, then was passed to my grandmother's and then eventually my mother, and if you think for a second that I’m about to just let you walk away with it without even a fight, you are so wrong! Don’t you even care about history being passed down to your children and their children? Ever hear the expression, ‘Keep it in the family?’”
Derek suddenly looked deathly serious. He glanced down at the menu, from which they still hadn’t ordered. It was clear that they’d already pushed beyond some kind of boundary. Maybe they wouldn’t even make it to the first course.
It was all too much. Seeing Max at the restaurant, dealing with Derek, feeling the weight of it all — it built up in her stomach and made her want to vomit. Derek didn’t look entirely pleased, either. Probably, he had begun to regret this dinner.
“I don’t know why you asked me to come here tonight,” Jennifer blurted out. She’d never felt so obstinate before. She felt more like Michelle. “I don’t know what you expected me to say. Oh, yes, please, Mr. Developer Man, please tear down my family's bakery! Yes, please, do whatever you want with it! No. We’ve been through too much.” She stabbed her finger on the white tablecloth, and the legs of the table shook beneath them.
Still more color drained from his cheeks. He was the only one of the two of them who still had wine leftover in his glass. He lifted it, made heavy eye contact with her, and said, “You’ve already given me a lot to think about, Jennifer.”
Jennifer scoffed. “You can’t expect me to believe you’ll change your mind. I know what you guys are all about. I see men like you on the island all summer long. You look at our property and our beautiful island with damn dollar signs in your eyes and don’t even think about the people that have lived here for generations. You could own all of it with a snap of your finger and we know that. We all do. But why would you do that to us? Do you get some kind of unique pleasure out of destroying what we have built here? Do you really think it should belong to you? Well, guess what. You’re no islander. You don’t belong here. And you never will.”
Volatility rushed through her and she couldn’t contain herself any longer. The flood gates had burst. Jennifer had never heard herself speak like this. Suddenly, she shot up from the chair, adjusted her black dress, and said, “I can’t even look at you. I hope you enjoy your dinner. Goodnight.”
Jennifer grabbed her coat from the coat check and stormed into the snowy night. She felt an unlimited amount of power. Regardless of what happened next, she’d just belittled some handsome man from New York and it had felt good. She needed more of that in her life.
She couldn’t wait to tell the rest of the girls about it. They probably wouldn’t believe her.
As she trudged back toward her car through the snow, she spotted a familiar face. Emma, the young girl who had just gone through that horrible breakup, whisked down the sidewalk. Her dark blonde hair flowed through the slight breeze as beautiful snowflakes fluttered around her. Immediately, Emma’s smile burst forth when she spotted Jennifer.
“Emma!” Jennifer beamed. She couldn’t help it: she hugged the girl, as though they had known one another for years. “What are you doing out here? It’s cold.”
Emma shivered on cue and rubbed her palms together. “I know! I swear, my head is not on straight right now. I locked myself out of my dad’s place, and he’s, of course, not looking at his phone, yet again.”
Jennifer laughed appreciatively. “You really need to train him, I guess.”
“True. Very true. But he told me he’d be at dinner here,” Emma said, pointing to the Italian place. “Some business thing. I never know what he’s up to.”
Jennifer didn’t think twice about it. She turned on her heel and walked alongside Emma, all the way back to the foyer of the restaurant. Once there, they stumbled head-long into Derek Thatcher himself, who, it seemed, had decided he didn’t want to dine alone, after all.
“Dad!” Emma said. “I’m so sorry. I locked myself out. I’m an idiot.”
Immediately, Jennifer’s heart sank. She glanced from Emma to Derek and back again. Her love for this tender girl mixed with her hatred for this New York developer. She couldn’t merge the two worlds together.
“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” Derek said. His voice was light and bouncy as he teased his daughter.
Was it possible that Derek Thatcher was a good dad?
Jennifer didn’t want to believe it.
“Oh, Dad. This is that woman I told you about,” Emma said with a wide smile. “The one who gave me the pumpkin cheesecake on the house. I can’t believe it; I ran into her again!”
Derek arched his brow. “I figured this was who you met. We’ve been introduced. Haven’t we, Jennifer?”
Jennifer grimaced. “Briefly.”
“Wow. This island really is small, isn’t it?” Emma said. She glanced back behind her father as she said, “Who was it you met this evening, Dad? I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”
“They bailed on me, actually,” Derek said, stealing a quick glance at Jen. “But if you want to join me, I’d love to treat you. I know how much you love Eggplant Parmesan.”
“You know me too well,” Emma replied with a laugh. She turned back toward Jennifer and gripped her elbow. “Thanks for walking me in. It was so good to see you again. I don’t suppose — well — would you like to join us for dinner? Dad, would that be okay?”
Jennifer shook her head slowly. “I’m really on my way somewhere else,” she said, as her stomach roared with hunger. “Thank you so much, though. I’ll see you soon, Emma. Thanks again.”
“Sooner rather than later. Right, Jennifer?” Derek said.
Jennifer’s nostrils flared. She gaped at this impossible man
and his beautiful daughter. “Sure,” she said, flashing him a look. “Enjoy your night.”
With that, Jennifer retreated from the restaurant with her hands pushed deep in her coat pocket. She felt strange and sour and terribly cold. Something within her had felt so comfortable there beside Emma and her father. It went against everything she believed in.
After all, Derek Thatcher was the enemy. Wasn’t he?
Chapter Sixteen
Derek and Emma stood in Derek’s makeshift study later that evening. They were filled to the brim with bread and cheese, pasta and wine. Derek found that if he focused himself on the task-at-hand, which was Emma’s happiness that he could largely ignore the issue of Jennifer Conrad and her mother’s bakery. Emma was all that mattered. They had been through hell and back again, and there was no way he would allow some family bakery to get in the way of his plans.
“So this is it, huh?” Emma said as she peered at the finalized plans for the event space and hotel. When she focused on something, a little wrinkle appeared between her brows, just as it had on her mother’s face.
The sight of it made Derek’s heart lurch with sadness.
“It looks incredible, Dad,” Emma said. “I wish that I was getting married in it next summer, the way we planned.”
Derek’s heart dropped. Since he had learned of the canceled engagement, he hadn’t known what to tell his daughter. He had found himself stewing in platitudes, things that seemed to mean very little in the grand scheme of things. What was it he’d said over dinner? That idiot kid doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.
Of course, Emma hadn’t taken kindly to the idea of the “love of her life” being called “a damn fool and idiot,” and she’d gone silent for nearly thirty seconds before she had mustered the strength to speak to her father again. Lucky for Derek, Emma was the forgiving kind.
“You’ll get married someday,” Derek said then. “You’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you. And I’ll be here on the island, living out my dreams, always here when you need me.”
Emma pressed her lips together somberly. Her eyes continued to scan the plans before them. “I really do understand why you like this place. The people are so friendly. It’s so nice. I’m sure if you wanted to, you could start to make friends. People have been so welcoming to me so far...”
Suddenly, Emma’s eyes stopped short. She crossed and uncrossed her arms, then lifted a finger to the streets and scanned it up and over. “Isn’t this the road Jennifer’s bakery is on?”
Derek’s heart shifted. After a pause, he said, “I bought all that property over the summer. It was a difficult choice, but I needed this stretch of land by the water. This whole area with the restaurant and gazebo won’t work without it.”
Emma’s face looked shadowed. “Have you been to that bakery before?”
“Sure. Of course.”
“It’s just—I mean.” Emma’s eyes reflected the soft light of the study as she pondered what to say next. “I just don’t know how you can bulldoze over that bakery. It’s obvious it’s been around for a long time. And Jennifer — she’s already been so kind to me.”
Derek exhaled slowly. “I’ve already purchased the property, sweetie. It’s done.”
“But it’s not done,” Emma insisted. “The bakery is still standing. And Jennifer. Does she know about this? Back at the restaurant, she acted so strangely when she saw you...” She furrowed her brow again, in that same way her mother had when she hadn’t approved of something Derek had done. “Oh my gosh. She knows, doesn’t she? She must hate you.”
Derek shifted his weight. Slowly, he stepped back. He hadn’t anticipated this: his daughter’s rebuke of his plans. This had been the only goal he’d had for himself for the previous year. It had been the thing he’d grabbed onto in the wake of Angela’s death. Somehow, he had felt it was the only way forward.
Emma recognized her mistake almost instantly. “I’m sorry, Dad. I know this means a lot to you.”
“Yeah. It does,” Derek heard himself say. His voice seemed a million years away. “It really does.”
“I don’t mean to get in your way,” Emma said. “I’m sure everything will work out. I mean, obviously, they sold the property for a reason. Onward and upward, as they say. Right?”
“Right,” Derek said, unable to smile.
Derek and Emma returned to the family room. Emma wrapped herself up in countless blankets and turned on the television. In seconds, she’d found a Christmas special, one that her mother had loved in other years. As Derek padded over to the kitchen, he heard his daughter’s light weeping. He wanted to say something to calm her down; he wished he had the right words.
It was Angela who’d always known exactly what to say.
Derek made them both hot cocoa. It was all he could think to do. He placed the cocoa on the table beside his daughter and watched as another tear trickled down her cheek. Anger and sadness brewed up in his stomach. How he wished he could give Will a piece of his mind. How he wished he could explain to Jennifer and the rest of the Martha’s Vineyard clan, all he and Emma had been through the previous year.
They’d buried Angela only a year ago. They’d staggered through their existences since then, without rhyme or reason. It had hurt so badly, like his heart had been ripped out. Not a single second had felt outside the bounds of pain.
Sometime around ten-thirty, Emma’s lips formed a wide yawn. She stretched her arms and turned her eyes toward her father. She looked regretful about what she said; still, Derek suspected she still meant it.
“I guess I’ll turn in for the night,” she said. When she stood, her eyes didn’t find his immediately. She folded up the blanket and placed the cocoa mug in the sink. Her motions seemed aged and fatigued, as though she was a much older woman living a much sadder life.
It was all too much for Derek. Moments after her door clipped shut, he reached for his coat, pushed his hands into the pockets, and shot out the door. He stumbled through the snow, made deep footsteps with his massive boots, and ultimately wandered toward the far end of Main Street before he ducked down an alleyway to discover a little bar.
He’d never seen the bar before. He supposed he’d never had reason to go this direction, and beyond that, he’d never had such an itch for a drink, not since he’d arrived on the island. He spread his hand out across his black curls and shook it around. Did he have the strength to go into a bar like this, all by himself?
Still, he didn’t want to sit back in the living room alone, stewing with resentment toward all that had happened and all he couldn’t control.
The bar was the epitome of warmth. A fire crackled from the fireplace, the flames crawling over the thick logs, which had clearly been hand-cut by the guy behind the bar. His hands told a story of hard labor, of working for the beers that you drank later. The man’s hair was stark white, and he towered over the rest of the people at the bar.
“Good evening,” he said. “Can I grab you something to drink?”
Derek sat at the bar, like a traditional barfly. He noticed the beer taps and the wide selection of whiskeys. “I guess I’ll have a Four Roses,” he said. “Double.”
“Coming right up,” the man said.
Four Roses wasn’t the kind of thing Derek would have been caught dead drinking back in New York City. Back there, status was everything. But since Derek was a self-made man, Four Roses never tasted bad to him. It reminded him of the earlier days of his career when he and Angela hadn’t had more than a few pennies to rub together and they’d gone out on a limb a few times to “treat” themselves to the bourbon.
“Pretty cold out there tonight,” the owner’s wife said from the other side of the bar. She flashed a brilliant smile as she swept a towel over the counter. “You couldn’t pay me to be out in it.”
“You’ve got yourself a good set-up right here,” he said. “No reason to step out there.”
The woman laughed heartily. “Yep. And Bob has me all stocked up on
freshly-chopped wood. I think we’ll make it through the winter.”
Derek drank the whiskey slowly. He felt himself falling deeper into his sorrows as he stared into his glass. His eyes were half hooded.
“Evening, John.” Bob, the bartender, greeted an older gentleman as he entered the bar and dropped onto the stool a few seats away from Derek. “You want a beer?”
“Yep,” the man said. “You doing okay, Bobby?”
“Sure thing,” Bob said as the foam and beer drew out from the tap and into the man’s beer glass. “Got ourselves a slow night tonight. People want to stay in with their families. How’s it going on your end? Ariane? She healing up okay?”
John clucked his tongue. “You know Ariane. She’s way too stubborn to be sick like she is. She wants to get back out there. Blames me for everything, including the stroke.”
Bob laughed lightly. “That’s the thing about Ariane. She never wanted to slow down. I guess it’s good she’s been forced to, huh?”
“Maybe,” John said doubtfully.
Silence hung between the three men. Derek continued to stare into his whiskey. Finally, Bob, the bartender, rapped his knuckles on the counter and said, “Man, I have to say it. John here? He used to be the police captain around here in Edgartown.”
Derek knew that the words were meant for him, that the bartender wanted to brag about his friend to lift him up from whatever tragedy he was now living. He forced himself to smile. “Must have been quite a career. I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”
John nodded slowly. “I saw a lot of crazy things over the years.”
“It must get especially wild during the summer,” Derek said. Gosh, he was grateful to speak about something that wasn’t the inner chaos of his mind. “All those tourists. All those parties. All those celebrities.”
John’s lips curved into a smile. “You got that right.”
“He really does,” Bob said with a laugh. “I remember when you had to arrest that one actor. What was his name?”
“Edward Norton,” John said. “My daughters nearly lost their mind when I told them what happened. They were like—Dad! Don’t you know what you’ve done? As though I was supposed to just let him continue to drive under the influence.”
2142 Green Hollow RD (Sisters of Edgartown) Page 12