Duet in September (The Calendar Girls)

by Gina Ardito

  “I’ll pay you double your normal fee,” Camille interjected. “Forget about the lamps. The wine stoppers are a really big deal. My wedding could put your little shop on the map. There’ll be reporters and photographers from New York in attendance.”

  I shifted and backed away from the counter. Why did every privileged snob think he or she could buy us poor schlubs? Regardless of the untold riches and publicity I might garner, I didn’t relish dealing with these two. “No, really. I can’t. The time involved to make that many pieces…” I shook my head. “It’s much too big a project for me.”

  Camille slapped a hand on my counter. “Do you have any idea who my fiancé is?”

  Ooh, the trump card. Frankly, I didn’t care if her fiancé was the U.S. President. I swerved my attention to Aidan, who dipped his head and covered his brow with a cupped hand. “Camille, don’t.”

  “Shut up, Aidan. You’ve done enough damage. I should have known better than to bring you here with me.”

  Okay, I’d had enough. Hands fisted, I strode around the two combatants and opened my front door. “Thanks for coming in.”

  As a wet breeze whistled inside, tinkling my glass wind chimes, Camille turned and slid her sunglasses into place. “You’ve made a very big mistake, Nia.”

  Maybe. But somehow, I’d find a way to live with the consequences. Besides, if these two went through with this marriage, they were making a much bigger mistake than I ever could. Still, their story was none of my business. Thank God.

  Flipping her hood over her expensive salon hair, Camille blew past me with more ferocity than the storm whipping outside. I watched her retreating back as she climbed into a cute red sports car at the curb and breathed a sigh of relief. The minute she disappeared down the road, the atmosphere inside my shop lightened considerably. Until I spotted the groom—Aidan—still standing near my counter, a bemused smile on his face.

  “Well done, Nia the glassblower,” he murmured. “Not many people come up against Camille and survive unscathed.”

  I was so done with this man’s games. To prove it, I opened the door a little wider. “I’d like you to leave as well, please.”

  “Ouch.” He winced and sucked in a breath. “Ordinarily, I’d bow out gracefully, but, you see, I still want those lights.”

  “They’re not for sale,” I said firmly. “I suggest you and your fiancée shop elsewhere for what you want.”

  “My…?” His eyes widened, and a second later, he burst out laughing.

  Every chuckle had me burning a little hotter.

  “You mean Camille?” When the laughter died, a smirk lingered on his face. “She’s not my fiancée. She’s marrying my father.”

  Oh, good golly, Miss Molly. I swallowed my stupidity with a very large gulp. “Your father?”

  His laughter ebbed away. “My father,” he repeated. “Ogden Coffield.”

  Ogden Coffield. My heart fell to my feet. Ogden Coffield, owner of one of the most popular wineries and half the real estate in the area. Now I understood Camille’s threat. Had I agreed to create her three hundred fifty wine stoppers, I might have been able to gain a place at Coffield’s Bluff Vineyards for all my glassware.

  I’d screwed up. Big time. I’d insulted the most powerful family in the county.

  “You’ve got guts,” he said. “And talent. Your ambition, however, just took a serious nosedive.”

  I resisted the urge to plant my palm on my forehead. “How about if I just throw myself on a red-hot pontil as penance?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds painful.”

  “It is,” I admitted, thinking about the glowing end of the wand used for melting and cooling glass.

  “So would you consider having dinner with me instead?”

  “Dinner?” Disbelief stole my sanity. I stared at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. “You want to take me out to dinner? Why?”

  “Yes, I want to take you out to dinner, preferably to a steakhouse. As to why, because I think you need the red meat after coming to blows with my soon-to-be stepmother. You’re lucky she didn’t drink your blood.” He leaned a hip against my counter, those elegant fingers once again caressing the grapes still perched there. “And because, I told you, I still want these lamps.”

  My world had tipped upside-down once too often today. I gripped the doorknob tight enough to crush the brass handle to dust. “And you always get what you want, don’t you?”

  “Always.” His grin was cocky, self-assured, and downright annoying.

  I swept my arms to the open door. “Not this time. Have a nice day, Mr. Coffield.”

  Chapter 3

  Paige

  By the time I got to the office of Wainwright Financial Services, I was soaked. My pretty pink umbrella had turned inside out on the first gust of wind. Ten bucks destroyed in sixty seconds. Cabs, not exactly plentiful in our town to begin with, tended to become rarer than money falling from the sky on rainy days. Today was no exception to that rule.

  Luckily, I kept a spare set of clothes at the office for emergencies. Yeah, I’m that girl. Miss Ready-for-Anything. I actually kept two sets of clothing at my office: one professional business outfit for days when I got caught in a sudden weather catastrophe. And another dressier ensemble in case Prince Charming showed up to have his taxes prepared and swept me off my feet on the spot. So far, His Royal Highness had yet to make an appearance. But a single gal doesn’t ever lose hope. Thus, the pretty blue dress that brought out the color of my eyes sat waiting. Just like me.

  At exactly 9:15, I was dry with makeup refreshed, my ruined hair now tied into a quick braid. Seated at my neat desk—no Post-It notes or folders out of place, I retrieved the office’s voicemails. No surprise that the only message on the machine came from Lou Rugerman, who had called to make sure his quarterly taxes would be paid on time. In the fifteen years he’d been a client of Wainwright Financial—originally as my dad’s responsibility—his finances had never been close to unstable. But the man still sweated over every penny and every detail.

  I’d need another caffeine jolt before I could deal with him. My office has a mini-kitchen and when I first came to work here, I’d splurged on one of those single-serve coffeemakers. Not only that, I’d added a shelf filled with flavored syrups, cinnamon, and chocolate shavings. When I’d told Dad about the new addition, he’d remarked that a new coffee bistro would snap up the lease just to get their hands on my machine.

  A heavy sigh escaped my lips. Six months after pancreatic cancer killed him, I still missed my father’s gentle humor and comforting presence. Especially when I was alone in his office. Sure, in reality, this was now my office with my name on the lease and all the bills. In my heart, though, Wainwright Financial, a small firm that handled local businesses and residents, would always be Daddy’s kingdom.

  These days, I employed a secretary, but she only worked part time: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from ten am to two pm. During the first quarter of every year—when everyone and his cousin scrambled through receipts stuffed in drawers and coat pockets to satisfy the IRS—I hired outside help from a temp agency. In that crucial four-month stretch, the office buzzed like a stirred-up beehive. But after April 15th, the crowds disappeared, and my business slowed to simple quarterly records and the occasional financial plan. All work I could handle on my own.

  I chose a chocolate raspberry flavored coffee and added a shot of raspberry syrup for extra fruity fortitude. Steaming cup in hand, I settled back in my leather chair for another slow, boring day of number-crunching. I was going to be so happy when my life turned around, thanks to this thirty day challenge.

  Dara’s guests hadn’t said how long all their newfound good fortune took to materialize, but I was pretty sure nothing happened on the first day. So I prepared myself to suffer through this morning’s ennui and focus on the big picture. Besides, maybe the Thirty Day Fairy was spreading her goodwill over Nia right now. Which would be worth my sacrifice.

&nb
sp; Imagine that: me, the Mother Teresa of Snug Harbor. The thought of my pending sainthood gave me the warm and fuzzies.

  As rejuvenated as possible thanks to my coffee infusion, I made the call to Captain Lou Rugerman, owner of two local fishing charter boats.

  True to form, he answered on the first ring. “Captain Lou. What are you fishing for?”

  “Lou, hi,” I said. “It’s Paige Wainwright.”

  “Paige, my little muffin crumb.” Lou’s usual Doberman growl softened to fluffy kitten mewl.

  The poor man still hoped that eventually I’d see reason and marry his son, Evan. Unfortunately, Evan already had a serious love interest: our local veterinarian, Dr. Dominic Bautista. Not that Lou was homophobic. Just optimistic. As the father of an only son, he hated the idea that the family name would end here.

  “How are you?” Lou asked. “More importantly, how’s my tax situation?”

  “You’re up to date.” I bit back the retort, as usual, which reminded me of Sam Dillon’s comment regarding my smart mouth.

  Seriously. Why did the man antagonize me every time we met? He should save that kind of animosity for criminals. Or a woman who’d done him wrong somehow. Because despite my checkered past with Mrs. J. and the M&Ms, I was a model citizen. Plus, Sam and I never swam in the same social circles, so I could hardly be seen as his femme fatale. Face it. The school math geek never broke the big bad quarterback’s heart. Except in the movies. But certainly not at Snug Harbor’s James Madison High School. Just talking to a nerd like I’d been would have killed his popular reputation faster than licking a petri dish full of Ebola.

  Once, in tenth grade, Nia had confided that she thought Sam was “kinda cool.” I’d replied that her description of cool must have been the equivalent of “stinks on ice.” Realizing my distaste for Sam Dillon ran deep, Nia had never brought up his name again.

  Oh, good God. My mind conjured up a perfectly horrible scenario, and I nearly dropped the phone.

  What if Nia really liked Sam? And what if Sam liked her, too? Nia, loyal Nia, would never go out with a man I despised so much. No matter what her heart wanted.

  The idea, once planted in my brain, grew like kudzu. My Mother Teresa image shattered. The warm and fuzzies sharpened to cactus needles. Was I preventing my sister from finding true love? Was that why Sam sniped at me every time we met?

  “Muffin crumb, are you listening to me?”

  I jolted back to the man on the other end of the phone. “Of course,” I lied.

  “So you think it’s a good idea, then?”

  Idea? What idea? Unwilling to let Lou know I’d spaced out on him, I hedged myself. “Umm…why don’t we table that discussion for now?”

  “Because he wants an answer by next week.”

  He who? Okay. Deep breath. Try again. “Do you have anything in writing you can fax to me? For review?”

  “What? Like a prospectus?”

  A prospectus? What on earth had I missed? Time to rouse my daydreaming brain cells and regain some of my warmth—if not my fuzzies. I took another sip of coffee. I was in too deep to admit defeat, so I continued to play the game. “You’re a savvy enough businessman to know better than to jump without a good safety net.”

  “Yeah, but he is my son-in-law.”

  Ah. Now I was getting somewhere. Lou had two sons-in-law. Brice Howell had married Lou’s older daughter, Courtney, and owned the local auto body shop. I couldn’t see him wanting to do business with Lou; the two had completely different careers.

  On the other hand, Tony Boggs, Kristen’s husband, was an arrogant, loud-mouthed jerk with more bile than brains. After Tony had lost his maintenance job at Snug Harbor’s posh spa/hotel due to an altercation with a customer over the air conditioning unit in her room, Lou hired Tony as a first mate aboard the Kristen Star. Within three weeks, Tony had mouthed off to so many customers, the ship’s captain threatened to make him walk the plank in the middle of the Atlantic. Lou reassigned Tony to a job on dry land. Five days as a booking agent resulted in four different fishing parties stranded at the pier. These days, Tony worked in the bait shop. While he cut and packaged squid, he griped to anyone who’d listen that his father-in-law kept him from a management position out of spite.

  Tony was proof positive that Lou needed to be very careful in his business dealings. “Especially because he’s your son-in-law,” I assured him.

  The old sea dog’s sigh barked through my phone’s receiver. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought. It just makes me feel better to say no if I’ve got someone else to confirm my gut reaction. Thanks, Paige. You’re a good girl.”

  He hung up before I could argue. Because the more I thought about Nia and Sam, the more I realized I was probably the most selfish woman on the planet. Well, no more.

  Somehow I was going to find a way to give Nia her heart’s desire. Even if her heart’s desire gave me a terminal case of heartburn.

  Sam Dillon.

  I slugged down the last of my coffee and grimaced. God, give me strength…

  ~~~~

  Nia

  Rainy days always brought crowds to the Main Street strip. If tourists couldn’t sun themselves on the beach, they shopped. Ordinarily, I’d be thrilled with the bevy of customers the nasty weather blew into my store. But today, after the hit and run, followed by a visit from Prince Charmless and his evil stepmother, I’d already lived through more drama than a soap opera actress in her tenth season. My nerves were definitely shattered.

  I managed to go through the motions all morning, showing off sea glass ornaments and ringing up pressed-flower greeting cards. But my head wasn’t in the game. In fact, I’d go so far as to say my brain was temporarily sidelined. The downhill slide began when I taped my fingers together while trying to gift wrap a hand blown bowl. I overwound a music box for a curious browser and snapped off the crank mechanism. At least a dozen times over the course of the morning, I walked into the storeroom for an item, then stood there, my mind a total blank, with no memory of what I’d gone in to find. When I accidentally gave a customer change for a fifty instead of a ten, I could no longer deny the obvious. I needed a break.

  I turned to Briana, one of the two teenagers who worked part time in the shop in the summer. “I’m done for the day. I’ve got a few things to take care of this afternoon.” Like rediscovering my mojo. I untied my apron and folded it on the counter near the cash register.

  Briana cocked her dark head. Her brown eyes, large in her teddy bear face, studied me, and a deep frown etched her Cupid’s bow lips. “Are you okay, Nia? You seem kinda…” She looked past me to Andrew, who stocked a shelf with candlestick holders, as if seeking his support. When the skinny, blond boy with his sea blue eyes nodded, she ended with, “…frazzled.”

  Great. I was being psychologically analyzed by a pair of adolescents. Wasn’t this the frilly toothpick in my crap sandwich? I offered a wan smile. “Bad day. Think you and Andrew can hold down the fort ‘til Iggy comes in at three?”

  Ignatz Zemski—Iggy—was my night manager, and a former classmate from James Madison High School. After graduation, he’d enlisted in the Marines. Ten years later, his kneecap shattered from a mortar shell, he’d returned to Snug Harbor to attend college at the nearby state university. His older sister, Ivanka, worked part-time as Paige’s receptionist while her kids were in school.

  “Snuggies,” the true locals in this town, the ones who hadn’t bought or inherited million dollar beachside properties, tended to band together almost incestuously. We hired each other, dated each other, married each other. Even those who escaped our little town, like Iggy and Paige, tended to return to Snug Harbor to settle down and raise their own families. Once a Snuggy, always a Snuggy. Outsiders—tourists and townies alike—need not apply.

  I glanced at the clock. A little after one. Maybe I should call Iggy and ask him to come in earlier. But I hated the idea of taking him away from homework or studying. Besides, what did I expect would happen during my absenc
e? Briana and Andrew had proven themselves to be good kids, responsible and honest. I knew their parents. Heck, I knew all their grandparents. I was leaving my shop in very capable—Snuggy—hands.

  “You need me for anything,” I said as I ducked beneath the counter to grab my purse, “call my cell. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Before I could second-guess my decision, I left the store through the rear door. The heavy rain and wind had disappeared as quickly as they’d come, but steely clouds hovered, lending a funereal pall to the air. Once again, I confronted the damage to my car. The dented bumper and misaligned trunk hit me with a new bolt of despair. My mood became as gray as the sky.

  I took a deep breath to cleanse my battered soul. Okay, no more self-pity. Time to regain control. First stop, the police precinct to get the accident report. Then to Snug Harbor Auto Body to see Brice Howell and start the ball rolling on repairs.

  A short time later, I walked up the cement steps and into Town Hall. Even in our quaint little village, visitors passed through a gamut of metal detectors and armed security guards before getting farther than the marble and glass showcase lobby. German shepherds, tethered to their handlers by strong leather leashes, patrolled the area with ferocious dignity. After passing the safety precautions, I headed for the village police headquarters.

  In the front reception area, a bulky uniformed police officer looked up from a waist-high counter littered with manila folders, a dirty coffee cup, the white paper wrap from a deli sandwich, and a ringing phone. The age-old odors of burnt coffee and stale grease seemed to come out of the air conditioning vent, permeating the room and its occupants.

  “Can I help you?” The officer’s lips dangled strips of red meat, dripping greasy yellow mustard onto the waxed paper below. Pastrami? Corned beef? Did it matter?

  I swallowed my distaste around the same time he slurped up the meaty pieces. “I need to see Sam Dillon please?”

  His dark brows knitted, hooding his eyes. “What about?”