by Jenny Hale
“He wants more kids—a lot more. And I want to go back to work.”
“Why do you want to go back to work so badly?”
“I don’t know if Jeff understands this but I feel like I’ve lost myself a little. I love being Clara’s mom, but I want to explore the other sides of me as well, and he’s making me feel guilty about that.”
“Couldn’t you work and have more kids?”
“I’m not against having more children—I’d actually like to have more than one—but at this point in my life, I want to focus on Clara and going back to work. He’d have more children right now if I’d let him.”
“Have you tried to explain your feelings to him?”
“Many times. He tells me that there are so many working mothers who would want nothing more than I have, but they aren’t me.”
“I know.” Emily understood completely. While Emily played with dolls, Rachel set up lemonade stands, counting the money and deciding how much she would save and how much she would spend. She was always the one they knew would do something fantastic—she was creative, driven, and smart. “I’m sorry.” She dug her toes beneath the warm sand until she reached the cooler sand below.
Rachel smiled, but Emily could tell she wasn’t happy. They stayed on the swings for a while. They’d done that a lot as kids—sat together in silence as if just their proximity were enough. She missed that.
“Gram’s giving Clara cookies before dinner,” Emily said with a smirk.
Rachel shook her head. “What are great-grandmothers for, right?”
“Remember when she used to give us dinner backwards and we’d eat dessert first?”
“Yes,” Rachel said, chuckling.
The thought of it made Emily laugh, and it felt good to laugh. She kept thinking how great it was to be home.
Three
“What is that?” Emily asked Libby as she picked up the wooden plaque with a painted blue fish attached to it. She turned it over in her hand.
Libby shot a quick glance over to it. “Mr. Peterson offered it to me as a thank-you for working through the changeover in ownership. He said that he thought my home may have a nautical theme since I live near the water.” She leaned in closer, tipping her head to look down the corridor, and whispered, “I feel terrible, but it doesn’t match anything in my house. I even tried to consider it for Ava’s room, but hers is purple and it just wouldn’t go in there. I wonder if I could put it up in Pete’s shed? Would that be awful?”
“I actually like it,” Emily said. Was that what Charlie had been trying to find in Francine’s shop? And to think that he could’ve gotten hand-painted margarita glasses… Those would’ve been right up Libby’s alley.
“I’ll tell you what,” Libby whispered. “You can have it. It would make me feel better than hanging it in my husband’s shed. It looks expensive. The last thing I need is Mr. Peterson seeing Pete on the water somewhere using it as a bottle opener or something.” She made a playfully worried face at her friend.
Libby’s awkwardness over the situation gave Emily a little punch of amusement until she looked up and found herself eye to eye with Mr. Peterson. She sobered immediately, swallowing her laughter, realizing Libby had done the same.
“Good morning,” he said, glancing down at the fish before his eyes settled back on her. He was wearing a light, summer gray suit and blue tie, his hair as expertly combed as it had been yesterday, a tiny bit of style in the front.
Emily cleared her throat. “Good morning,” she returned. “How did you find everything in your room?”
“It was fine, thank you. I have a few meetings this morning and then I’d like to work out. While I’m in the gym, please send staff to my suite to set up a few tables.” He slid a handwritten list of food across the counter, and Emily noticed how neat his handwriting was. “I’m going to show off the place, and I’d like these hors d’oeuvres prepared, along with the drink selections by one forty-five on the dot. I’ll be bringing them back at two o’clock. Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir,” she said. “I’ll begin organizing it immediately.”
His lips were set in a straight line, and she couldn’t figure out what he was thinking, but she could take a guess: He was probably hoping that she didn’t screw anything up like she had yesterday.
“I promise it’ll be perfect,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. The intensity of his expression made her heart patter with nerves, but she noticed his expression soften just slightly.
“Perfect is good,” he said and then he left, with a quick wave as he headed out the door. Emily could feel her shoulders drop the minute he was gone.
“How’s Rachel? I miss her,” Libby said as she took a sip of her afternoon coffee.
They hadn’t seen Charles Peterson for ages and they’d hit a slow patch, so Emily felt comfortable chatting to Libby. “She’s doing well…” She didn’t want to spill Rachel’s secrets, but Libby had known them since they were girls and they’d been very close their whole lives. “What’s it like having to go to work and getting two children where they need to go?” she asked. Libby had two kids: Ava, who was seven and a two-year-old named Timothy.
“It’s busy, like anything else with two kids, but it’s good. Why?”
“Rachel’s considering going back to work.”
“Oh? That’s wonderful.”
A patron came in then and requested his room key, which was fine with Emily because she really didn’t want to go into too much about her sister. She just wanted to try to understand why Jeff was so insistent that Rachel not work. People did it all the time. But she also knew Jeff very well, and he wasn’t an irrational person; he probably just saw his life turning out differently. She hoped he’d come around.
Libby looked at her watch. “Is everything ready to be set up for Mr. Peterson?”
Emily stood up. “Yes. The chef said to me privately, though, that he wasn’t thrilled with Mr. Peterson’s suggestions for hors d’oeuvres today.” She pulled the key to the Concord Suite from the lock box. “He said they didn’t represent the local culture at all. I told him it was probably best not to ask questions, although I agreed.”
“Good move.” Libby got up and handed Emily the armful of white linen tablecloths that they’d stacked on the edge of the desk. “He’s intimidating, isn’t he? It makes me crazy having him here, and I don’t even usually get nervous around people. In fact I never do.”
“Yes, he’s intimidating,” she said to be agreeable. He was, but she was thinking about how he hadn’t been terribly hard on her about the credit card. He could’ve been really upset, but he wasn’t. “When you get nervous, just think about Pete opening his beer with that fish. It’ll make you laugh.” She took the fish from under the counter and slid it down into her bag. “I’ll take it home.”
“Are you all right to set up on your own?”
“Yep.” Emily took the linens, said goodbye to Libby, and walked the long hallway to the steps leading to the second floor. The staircase was grand and arching, with a carpeted runner leading the way. She passed the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the bay and marveled for a moment at how beautiful the day was. Growing up, she’d been so close to it that she’d barely noticed, but having been away, the bay seemed like an old friend, walking beside her, holding her up so she didn’t fall. She reached the door to the Concord Suite. A stack of tables had been left by the staff against the wall outside. She turned the lock.
“Hello?” she called, peeking inside. “I’m setting up for the party this afternoon. Anyone here?” she double-checked quite loudly as the space was large and her voice needed to travel. There was only silence, so she opened the door wider and walked in.
The living area was luxurious, with pacific blue wingback chairs positioned at an angle across from an oversized white down-filled sofa with blue throw pillows adorned with embroidered sailboats. The furniture was positioned around a mahogany table that had a blue and white floral vase
exploding in yellow blooms of forsythia branches. Emily leaned around them to view a white sailboat as it disappeared behind the rows of perfectly straight, hunter-green umbrellas that dotted the decks outside. She set the linens down and went out to get the tables.
One by one, she brought them in, leaning them carefully against the wall just inside the door. Then she set about moving the furniture. She dragged the two chairs to either side of the windows, allowing for an unobstructed view but getting them out of the center of the room. As she reached for the table, she swore she heard the click of a doorknob and she stopped in her tracks.
“Anyone here?” she called out.
“Argh!” she heard from the hallway beside her and whipped around to find a toweled and shocked Charles Peterson standing in the bedroom doorway before darting behind a door. It shut and there was silence again.
It took her a minute to register what she’d just seen. His hair was wet, the dark strands glistening in the sunlight. There were beads of water on his bare chest and down the arm that had led to the fist that was holding his towel around his waist. She swallowed, trying to clear the image.
When she’d gotten herself together, she walked over to the closed door. “I did call out when I came in,” she said, finding the courage to speak. “Twice.”
“How was I supposed to hear you with the water running?”
She heard the bang of a drawer. “You said you’d be at the gym. I was following your instructions.”
“The meetings ended earlier than I expected so I went to the gym sooner.”
Was she supposed to have read his mind? “How was I to know?”
The door opened and Charles walked out wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that showed off his biceps. She focused on his face.
“I should’ve told you. I was aware that you would be organizing things, but I didn’t know you’d actually be setting them up in the room as well.”
“Well, I promised you perfection. I wasn’t going to rely on anyone else to do it.” As she looked at him, his hair still wet, wearing more casual clothes, bare feet—all of a sudden she realized he didn’t look all that dissimilar to the people she hung out with. It made his whole face look different to her now.
She shook the thought from her mind. “I should set the tables up.”
He headed back into the bedroom. “What do you think of my hors d’oeuvres selection?” he asked from the other room.
Emily pulled the table legs out until they snapped into position and set the first table upright as she tried to think of a way to spin the fact that she wasn’t entirely taken with his choices. While skewered beef sirloin with rosemary, and portabella mushroom bites were lovely appetizers, they didn’t reflect the small town, coastal feel of the area at all.
He returned, this time having put on his watch and shoes, and waited expectantly for an answer. Emily fluffed out the tablecloth and draped it over the table.
“You don’t agree with what I’ve chosen?” he said as if he’d read her mind.
“You aren’t trying to please me,” she said, awkwardly scooting one side of the sofa back against the wall.
Noticing her slight struggle with the sofa, Charles walked over and easily picked up the other side, moving it into place. “What would you have chosen?”
She set up another table without answering. He was putting her on the spot. She should’ve just said his choices were fine—that was what any good employee would’ve done, but there was something about his expression that was different from how it had been when he looked at her before. His look wasn’t quite as direct; it was more interested.
“You really want my opinion?”
He locked eyes with her, and she couldn’t deny how attractive he was. “If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have asked,” he said, his tone gentle and unworried.
Reluctantly, she offered her favorites: “How about mini crab cakes with tomato chutney? Or shrimp skewers? For vegetarians… Maybe a white bean soup with coconut milk or something? Look at where you are,” she said, peering out at the view. “You want food that will make people feel this.” She pointed to the glistening bay outside. “You want crab that was caught this morning, shrimp right out of the sea… There’s a certain culture down here, and I’d say appealing to that would be your best bet.” He was staring at her, taking her in. “But that’s just my opinion.”
He looked thoughtful and there was a moment of silence that lasted longer than she felt was comfortable. Finally, he said, “You might be right.”
I might?
“See if you have enough time to change what I’ve ordered. Check with the chef. Then I want you to come see me today at four o’clock.” His face was unreadable, expressionless, as he sank further into thought, and she couldn’t tell what was on his mind. Then, his phone rang and he turned away from her to answer it. Emily finished setting everything up and left before he’d gotten off his call. As she left, she wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds.
Libby’s expression had made Emily worry when she’d told her about what had happened in Charles’s suite. She’d spent all day thinking about it—while organizing a new on-site yoga class, reserving space and accommodations for a birthday party, setting up the banquet rooms for business meetings—the whole time, it hadn’t escaped her mind. As she sat under one of the umbrellas outside, Emily tried to get her thoughts in order. She’d lost the corporate credit card, she’d walked in on Mr. Peterson half naked, and she’d told him his food choices weren’t right. She was going to get fired—that was why Libby had looked at her like that, she was sure.
Emily couldn’t lose this job. Mr. Peterson didn’t know about the three years she’d spent as an events coordinator at the pub in Richmond, how she’d raised the company’s special events food and beverage revenue by forty-three percent, how she’d practically built a management team that ran so well she didn’t even worry leaving them. Libby knew it. That was why she’d hired her. But Libby couldn’t bail Emily out this time.
It was nearly four o’clock. Feeling low, she stood up, glad the flush on her face was disguised by the warmth from the sun, and walked into the icy cold of inside, heading for the Concord Suite. The hallways that had seemed cheerful and bright now felt as though they were clouded by her worry as she approached. She knocked.
Charles opened the door and allowed her to enter. Emily’s mind was swimming. She wanted to explain things, to tell him how trustworthy she was, and how, right now, she wasn’t herself. But she stayed quiet.
“Good day?” he asked.
I’m probably about to get sacked, so no. “Yes,” she lied.
“Good. Have a seat.”
The chairs were still by the windows where she’d put them, so she walked over to the sofa and sat down. She kept taking in deep breaths, trying not to get herself worked up. This wasn’t like her, but she had so much going on in her mind that she didn’t feel as confident as she normally did. Nervously, she fixed her eyes on the tables she’d set up in the room. The hors d’oeuvres were long gone and she panicked for just a moment, wondering if she’d forgotten to come back and remove the tables, but as she racked her brain, for the missed directive, she realized that he was watching her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, sitting down at the other end of the sofa.
Emily mentally pulled herself together and looked at him. Why was she falling apart now? She was usually so strong—no one ever knew her emotions except her. She’d always been great at her job, poised. Had she hit a breaking point? “Why did you want to see me?” she asked. It was only after he answered that question that she would be able to answer his.
His eyebrows furrowed in thought.
Here it comes, she told herself.
“You are from this area, correct?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I guessed by the way you spoke with the woman in the shop the other day and your knowledge of local cuisine.” He allowed a small smile. When she didn’t respond—not i
ntentionally, more so because she was still trying to ascertain what he wanted—he continued. “I’m planning to make some improvements to Water’s Edge.”
He cleared his throat. “By improving the inn, offering even more for the visitors, we could publicize nationally, show off its potential… We could build this up to something quite grand.”
“So… Forgive me, but why did you want to tell me this?”
“I’m struggling to get the planning commission on board. I’d like you to help me.”
“What?”
“I’m hoping you’ll be able to advise me on how to best reach the people here. They’re pushing back, and I have a gut feeling about you…” This time, he really smiled at her, and she noticed how his whole face changed.
She wondered why the locals were pushing back. What was he planning? His smile seemed so genuine, but was he just trying to convince her to help him?
“I’m meeting with a few people around town soon. It might pull you away from work a few days. I’ll talk to Libby. If she needs any help with events, I’ll expand her budget to hire someone else for the interim.” He stood up and Emily followed his lead. “So, would you be interested in helping me?”
“Of course, Mr. Peterson,” she said out of sheer interest. She wanted to know, firsthand, what he had in mind for the inn.
“Thank you. And please, call me Charlie.”
“Okay, Charlie,” she said, the name feeling overly personal on her lips.
He walked her to the door. “Eight a.m. tomorrow?” he asked.
“Okay. See you then.”
Four
“I’m worried about Gram,” Emily said to Rachel while they took an early evening walk. The trees were blocking the last bit of sun as it slipped out of view. “Not that I want her depressed or anything, but she seems almost overly chipper since Papa died. I’m worried she’s suppressing her feelings. Has she grieved at all?”
“Well hello, pot! Meet kettle,” Rachel teased.