by Grace Palmer
“We don’t have time for this endless pity party.”
Jill slammed the door shut behind her and marched into the room, making it clear she had no intention of walking away from this fight. "When on earth have I thrown myself a pity party?"
"Since the first moment you got here," Michelle barked. "We lost our dad, so if anyone deserved a pity party it was—"
"I didn't even know I had a dad until after he was dead, so excuse me for not taking it all in stride!" Jill shouted. "But I also seem to remember it was my idea to renovate the inn in the first place. Without me, the two of you wouldn't even be talking. And you'd both be homeless!"
"We would have figured out something," Leslie said.
Jill nodded. "Yeah, maybe you would have."
Michelle’s eyes narrowed to slits. "What is that supposed to mean?"
“It means you were supposed to paint trim today and, instead, you took a three-hour nap,” Leslie huffed. “I mean, honestly! We aren’t asking that much of you.”
This was all getting out of hand. Leslie knew that. But she also didn’t know how to rein it back in. Truthfully, she didn’t know if she wanted to.
Her dad had put the three of them—the four of them, including Grayson, though he seemed to have no interest in participating—in charge of the Wayfarer Inn because they were his children. Not because they would work well together. In fact, there was ample proof they didn’t work well together at all.
Maybe it was for the best that all of their true feelings came out before the inn opened. If the Wayfarer was going to go down, Leslie would rather it happen as soon as possible. Before she got too attached to the idea of it blossoming anew.
Michelle leaned forward like she wanted to grab the front of Leslie’s shirt, but instead, she kicked over the paint supplies, sending a sealed paint can rolling slowly across the floor.
“I know the two of you don’t think much of me,” she said, her voice eerily quiet. “You think I’m nothing more than a useless, pampered housewife. Well, have you ever considered that maybe that is the exact reason I’m afraid to help out around here?”
“We asked you to paint trim. We clearly don’t think you’re useless.”
“You don’t have to say it for me to know you’re thinking it,” Michelle said.
Leslie rolled her eyes. “That is your problem, Michelle. You assume you know everything. I’ve never said you were useless, but you assume that’s what I think. But then when I look you right in your eyes and tell you the truth, you think I’m lying. You’re impossible!”
“This isn’t about Tony,” Michelle hissed.
“Everything is about Tony! Our entire relationship has been about Tony for the last five years.”
Jill cleared her throat. “I think maybe we’re getting off topic here, and we should—”
Michelle wheeled around, her face red, and yelled, “Shut up already!”
That was it. Out of everything that had been said, that was the final straw.
Jill’s lips tightened like she was fighting with herself about whether she should respond or not. In the end, she just turned and marched out of the room.
Alone again, Leslie and Michelle looked at each for a second. Then Michelle left, too. She snatched up her purse on the way out.
Leslie wanted to storm out, but where would she go? The Wayfarer Inn was her job and her house and her sanctuary. She didn’t have any place to run to.
So instead, she dropped down onto the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, unpainted trim and all.
19
Michelle
Afternoon At A Coffee Shop
After a nasty fight like she’d just had with her sisters, Michelle knew caffeine would only set her more on edge, but she needed to get out of the house. To go somewhere. And despite the accidental three-hour nap she’d just taken, she was still tired. Too tired to wander around downtown and too broke to go shopping.
So Michelle drove towards Circuit Avenue, but just one block shy of it, she took a right. She wasn't in the mood for crowds or hot spots. She wanted to be alone.
The one-way road was wide, but empty. The brick sidewalks were deserted as she passed a pool hall, a bike repair place, and a deserted souvenir shop with the word “GIFTS” spray-painted across the aging roof shingles.
It wasn’t the most aesthetic street on the island, but Michelle could see what she was looking for on the corner ahead: Mud Bucket Coffee and Bakery.
So many of the nearby shops were squeezed into old, narrow buildings with barely any room inside. But the Mud Bucket had torn down the wall between two shop fronts to create a, bright, airy space for people to lounge and sip their drinks. They’d also removed a wall to expose the kitchen, so the sounds of coffee grinding and pans clanking in the kitchen filled the coffee shop with lovely white noise. Best of all, because the Mud Bucket was off the beaten path, there was almost always a table by the windows open.
Michelle pushed through the front door and made a beeline for the table at the front corner nearest the windows. She dropped her purse in the chair and went to the counter.
“Can I help you?” the twenty-something guy behind the counter asked. He had a thin mustache and an oversized denim jacket on.
“Just a drip coffee. Medium roast.”
He pulled a white mug from the top of a tall stack and slid it across the counter to her, pointing towards the wall to her left. “Take your pick. It comes with one free refill.”
There were three different varieties already brewed and keeping hot in carafes at a narrow coffee bar. Michelle served herself and then carried her ceramic mug carefully back to her table.
The coffee was strong. She’d probably prefer it with a touch of cream, but the acidic jolt could also do her good. The adrenaline from the fight was fading, and Michelle hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
Whenever she closed her eyes, her brain kicked into overdrive. She’d cycle through every memory she could think of, trying to see if she missed any obvious signs along the way.
At first, Michelle liked not hearing from Tony. When he didn't call, she didn't have to think about the reality of their situation. She could pretend she was on vacation visiting family. A temporary stay on Martha's Vineyard.
But as the days dragged on, he still didn't call. Things were changing, no two ways about it. And Michelle didn’t know if they would ever go back to the way they'd once been.
For more than eighteen years, she’d been Mrs. Tony Evans. Mother to Kat and Beth. Chauffeur, chef, and housemaid. If nearly all that was gone… what did that make her?
Sighing, Michelle reached into her purse and pulled out a pad of paper and pen she’d snagged from her dad’s office a few days earlier. Originally, she’d grabbed it to write down a list of supplies to grab from the hardware store. But now…
If Michelle could be anyone she wanted to be—at least until her coffee was gone—she wanted to be a screenwriter.
Before meeting Tony, before growing up and having kids who depended on her to take care of them and be there, Michelle had wanted to be a screenwriter. She’d wanted to write epic, sweeping movies about love and loss and tragedy and faith.
Now that she was looking at starting over, maybe now was the time to try again.
After all… what did she have to lose?
Michelle didn’t know what was in the coffee at The Mud Bucket, but she’d filled half a dozen pages, front and back, and her hand could hardly keep up with her brain.
The same movie idea had been sitting in the back of Michelle’s head for almost two decades. Occasionally, when she was washing dishes or driving the girls to school, Michelle would pull the idea out, dust it off, and start to tease it out. But she never wrote anything down.
That would have made the idea seem too real. And it would have felt silly. What kind of business did a rich, suburban, stay-at-home mom have writing a screenplay?
Now that Michelle was looking down at pages of notes and character names and
setting descriptions, she didn’t feel like she was playing pretend. For the first time in her life, she felt like a writer.
The bright afternoon sky had been giving way to evening for the last hour. And fight or not, tomorrow was the grand reopening of the Wayfarer Inn. Michelle needed to get back home.
“Fellow businesswoman?”
A female voice burst her bubble. Michelle looked up to find the owner of The Big Rock Bar standing just a few feet away, smiling at her. “Fiona! Hi.”
Michelle tried her best to match Fiona’s smile, but her mind was momentarily stuck between fiction and reality.
“Michelle, right?” Fiona asked. She was in a loose sweater dress with a turtleneck collar. Underneath, she wore thick gray tights underneath with ankle-high booties embroidered with flowers. Michelle felt drab still in her painting clothes.
“That’s me.”
“Without your sisters this time?”
Michelle nodded. “I’m taking a break from work today. Our grand reopening is tomorrow and things were a little… tense around the house.”
Fiona frowned in sympathy. “Working with family can be harsh. My only experience is a lemonade stand I ran with my brother one summer, but still. The scars remain.”
Michelle laughed. “Yeah, I needed to get away. Clear my head. Drink some coffee.”
“It doesn’t look like you’re taking much of a break, though,” Fiona said, pointing at the pages filled with scribbled notes and half-drawings and arrows connecting one random idea to another. “Looks like work to me.”
“Oh, no.” Michelle folded her arms over the pages. “It’s not work. It’s just… something for me. Not work.”
“You writing the next great American novel?”
“No—hardly,” Michelle sputtered. “It’s… it’s a movie idea I have. Had. I had it a long time ago, and I just started writing it down and…”
“Oh, wow. How cool!” Fiona took a step back from the table, hands up. “I think I’ve committed some cardinal sin in interrupting a writer at work. I should leave you to it.”
Michelle gathered her papers into a hasty pile and shoved them in her purse. “No, I’m glad you interrupted. I need to be getting back, actually. Lots to do.”
“Roger that. By the way, I was serious about giving you that business card. If you need any help from me—or someone to grab a coffee with—give me a call!”
With that, Fiona moved to the counter to order, and Michelle slung her purse over her shoulder.
The moment she stood up, the thought of going back to The Wayfarer, of facing her sisters after all the harsh words that had been exchanged, made her want to flop back down in her seat. So, Michelle marched back over to the coffee carafes, grabbed a paper travel cup, and filled it to the brim. Maybe the magic the coffee had worked for her writing productivity could translate to the inn, as well.
On her way out the door, pushing it open with her back, Michelle smiled and nodded at Fiona once more, and then turned onto the sidewalk.
Immediately, she smashed into someone.
Her purse slipped off her shoulder to the crook of her elbow and hot coffee sloshed over the side of her cup to spray out in a surprisingly wide radius. Michelle yelped in pain from the hot liquid and jerked her arm, which sent another arc of scorching coffee flying.
For a second, her main concern was her own hand. Then she remembered she was standing nearly chest-to-chest with a stranger...
Who was also covered in her coffee.
“Oh, no,” Michelle gasped. She found herself simultaneously backing away and reaching out to wipe coffee off the man’s sweater. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this happened.”
“That’s okay,” a deep voice said, a hint of amusement in his words. “Happens all the time.”
Michelle finally looked up at his face and froze, momentarily stunned by how good-looking he was.
The man could be in movies. With his square jaw, full lips, and endearingly crooked nose, he was exactly what Michelle had been picturing for the hero in her own movie. Or, the idea she had for a movie, anyway. Not that it would ever become an actual movie.
In short, he was handsome. And Michelle had dumped coffee all over him.
“People dump coffee on you all the time?” she asked.
He thought about it for a moment and then chuckled. “Well, no. Almost never, actually.” Pulling out a book he had tucked under his arm, he gave it a shake. A thin dribble of coffee ran down the spine and onto the pavement.
A blush warmed Michelle’s cheeks. “And I ruined your book. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s just one book. There are millions of others.” He smiled. “You could make it up to me by letting me buy you a new cup of coffee.”
“You buy me?” Michelle shook her head and started digging in her purse. “No, I should buy yours. Or pay for dry cleaning. Or get you a new book. What is the title? I’ll replace it.”
He placed a hand on Michelle’s shoulder, and she stilled instantly. She was married. To Tony. Who was in jail. But still. No man should be laying his hand on her shoulder.
“I was just trying to be smooth and ask you out, but I’m clearly out of practice,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything, this sweater is not nice enough to need dry cleaning, and like I said, there are plenty of other books. I’m not worried.”
“It worked,” she said. “Or rather, I knew what you meant. But I can’t. Because I’m leaving.”
“Hence our run-in at the door,” he said.
Michelle nodded. “Yes. I’m leaving because…my husband is in jail, but he…is, uh…”
Whatever magical word flow Michelle had found inside with her writing clearly did not transfer to speaking. She had never stumbled over herself so badly in all her life, and all she wanted to do was run away.
She could hear Leslie’s voice in her head, reminding her that running away was her favorite trick. But Michelle didn’t care.
“Sorry again and goodbye!” she called over her shoulder.
Then, without once looking back towards the coffee shop, she hustled to her car, climbed inside, and drove away.
20
Jill
Afternoon On The Beach
“It’s so nice to get out of the house,” Amelia Ruthers said, smiling as the chilly ocean breeze whipped across her skin. “I’ve been cooped up all day.”
Jill winced. In reality, this was their third walk since nine A.M.
They’d been walking every day after breakfast since arriving back on Martha’s Vineyard. Something about being close to the water had awakened a zest in her mom. Unfortunately, Jill’s own zest was noticeably lacking after her fight with Michelle and Leslie.
Over the course of the renovation, arguments had cropped up here and there, but it was never anything serious. Typically, just a disagreement about what color to paint an end table or whether to call a plumber to fix the leak in Room Ten.
Jill often stepped in and tried to moderate, because it was obvious Michelle and Leslie couldn’t be trusted to moderate themselves. You don’t stop talking to your sister for five years because you know how to handle things like adults. If the inn had any hope of opening and staying open longer than a week, Jill needed to keep the peace.
But apparently, she’d overstepped. Or Michelle and Leslie had overreacted. Or all of the above.
“What’s got you so glum?” her mom asked.
“I got in a fight with Michelle and Leslie.”
“Who?”
Jill sighed. “The women who own the inn we’re staying at.”
Amelia frowned. Jill couldn’t tell if she was remembering or not. It didn’t matter. She’d forget all of this before they made it back to the inn anyway.
“It was a bad fight,” she continued. “Mean. Is that what it’s like fighting with sisters? Because if so, I’m not sure I want sisters. That was… horrible.” Jill shook her head. “Fighting with Grayson was never like that. He’d just throw a blanket over my head and
sit on me when he got mad.”
“Oh, you two and your bickering,” her mom chuckled. “I thought I was going to have to paint a line down the center of the house to keep you apart.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
Her mom barked out a laugh. “Remember the time you two fought over the last frozen waffle and knocked down an entire shelf of my Precious Moments figurines?”
Jill winced again, but couldn’t quite hide her smile. She’d hated those creepy little figurines. At the same time, it was nice to do something as breezy and calming as reminiscing with her mother. For that brief moment, things could feel normal.
“I’d rather get in an actual brawl than shout mean things at each other.” Jill wrapped her arms more tightly around her middle as the wind picked up.
“That’s just girls,” her mom said with a dismissive wave. “Boys are physical fighters, but girls fight with words.”
Jill wasn’t so sure her mother was right. This fight felt like the end of… well, of something. The end of whatever they all had going.
They’d all said horrible things. Things they didn’t even necessarily believe. Just like toddlers lashing out for attention.
“Maybe we’re regressing,” Jill theorized. “Since we didn’t spend our childhoods together, we’re acting like children now. Would that make sense?”
Her mom nodded and hummed, a sure sign she wasn't really listening. Sometimes, it was hard for her to focus on a conversation and follow the thread of it. Still, her disease had stolen a lot from her, but not her manners. She pretended to listen and that was enough for Jill right now. She just needed to vent.
"Most of what we said back there wasn’t even true. I mean, I have not been throwing a pity party.”
Not about her role in the family, at least. But Michelle and Leslie would have been throwing themselves pity parties, too—if they’d been fired from their jobs like Jill just had.