“And I, what?”
“You’re drinking more than normal lately. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go through so many bottles of Baileys or drink so much wine.”
She bristled at his words and knew from the wary look in his eyes that what he’d wanted to say was something much harsher.
“Are you saying you think I have a drinking problem?”
He shook his head, a little too slowly.
“Then what, exactly?” There was a little voice inside her head that told her challenging him wasn’t a wise move on her part. That if she let it go, then the issue would dissipate.
“We all handle grief differently,” he began.
“And you think I’m using alcohol to . . .”
“To numb yourself.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Listen, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything, okay? I blame myself. If I had been there for you . . . but I wasn’t. I’m going to change that. Starting now. You don’t have to be alone in this. You don’t have to numb yourself anymore.” His eyes reddened. “I’m here. I’m here now.”
The words of forgiveness that she knew he wanted—needed—to hear were on the cusp of her tongue, but she couldn’t say them. Saying it and meaning it were two different things. For the past month she’d been pressed to place her grief behind her and pretend that all was right in her life, in their town, and she couldn’t do it anymore. It was tearing her up inside to the point where she didn’t even recognize herself anymore.
“Do you even miss him?” she asked.
“Of course I do.” His voice broke. “How could you doubt that?”
“Because you don’t talk about him.” The anger that consumed her dissipated as tears gathered in her eyes. “When was the last time you visited his grave?” She could probably guess the answer to that.
He shook his head. “I’m not . . . I can’t . . . I’m not ready to say good-bye.” He wiped away a tear that slid down his cheek. “Not like that. Not yet.”
“So you accuse me of pretending that he’s not gone, and yet you do the same thing?”
Robert shrugged. “I’m not pretending. I’m just . . .” He took a deep breath. “I want to make sure everyone else is okay before I let myself grieve.”
“Why?” Didn’t he realize she needed him to grieve with her? She needed to know he understood.
Robert closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. “Because I’m afraid that once I start to grieve, I’d never stop. I’d lose myself, my way, and then I’d be letting you and Charity down. I’d be letting Bobby down.”
At his words, Jenn’s heart melted, and she reached her hand across and touched him.
“About last night . . .” She struggled for the words to use, to make him understand. “It was the look in your eyes when I first got home—”
“You needed me to understand and didn’t think I would. Right?” He entwined his fingers with hers, tentative at first, and then squeezed. “I wouldn’t have. Not then.”
So what changed? She must have said that out loud, because he nodded.
“Like I said, I did a lot of thinking. I realized I’m not the man you need right now, that I probably haven’t been for a while. I don’t blame you for running from me last night and ignoring me.”
The weight of his words, the way his gaze trailed from her to the water, made her pause. Something else was going on. The sudden change, in one night, all because she acted like a child, didn’t make sense.
“I might not agree with your decision to want to close the school, but the fact you didn’t think you could trust me with your thoughts, your feelings . . . that says a lot. Almost too much.”
He turned to look at her.
“I want you to always trust me. To know that I have your back. The way I handled your response to Samantha’s question Friday was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
Jenn didn’t know how to respond. Her husband apologizing wasn’t something she was used to.
“Robert, how I behaved yesterday was . . . childish. I knew that, but my pride got in the way.” She pulled her hand away from his. “But it doesn’t change how I feel. By keeping the school open, it’s like we’re denying the vile acts that happened there. The school should be closed. I know it’s not something that can happen in the short term, and I realize the complications of what it means, I do. The idea has been tossed around of expanding the school. Well, why don’t we just build a new one? I know the council already decided against this, but think about it. We can use the space the school is on now as a recreation area and build somewhere else. Start fresh. Show the children of our community that they are important to us.” Passion filled her as she spoke her ideas. It could work, she knew it. It was a viable solution, and if Robert agreed, then that’s all she needed.
But the doubt on his face, the uncertainty in his gaze, told her otherwise.
“Just think about it, okay?” She swung her legs out and stood. “I think I’m going to head to the cemetery.” She waited for him to offer to come, but he just sat there.
“Robert?”
He gave his head a small shake and stood with her. “Would you like some company?”
She searched his eyes. “Are you sure you want to come?”
“I think today, of all days, is the right time to go.” He picked up both their cups and held them in his hand. He stared into her cup a lot longer than necessary. “You’re right, I’ve been avoiding going there.”
Jenn didn’t understand what was going on with her husband, didn’t understand why this sudden change, especially after her behavior yesterday and early this morning, but she wasn’t going to argue. She wasn’t sure how long it would last or what the angle was, but she’d take it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHARLOTTE
On Monday morning Charlotte waited for word from Robert, making her delay heading into the office, but there was nothing other than a text he sent after nine saying he would talk with her Tuesday.
She’d had nightmares last night of their town losing hope, of families who moved away. In her dream she walked the length of Main Street and only a few die-hard shops were still open, but many others had brown wrapping paper covering their windows with “For Sale” signs taped to the windows.
She’d woken up and had to splash water on her face. She couldn’t understand how Jordan was so . . . blasé about this, nor could she believe how much it shook her.
She refused to be a failure, to fail this town, when they needed a strong leader.
“Charlotte?” Sheila nudged the office door open and carried in a tray of coffees from Gina’s. “Sam will be here shortly. She’s just outside on her phone.” Sheila set down the coffees on Charlotte’s desk and then picked up the stack of signed papers she’d placed in Charlotte’s box earlier.
Charlotte headed over to her large bay window and pulled the curtain aside. Samantha was below, by the water fountain, pacing back and forth, her free hand waving wildly in the air as she talked on her cell phone.
“It’s a pretty heated discussion.” Sheila stood beside her and looked out.
“Any ideas what she’s talking about?”
“You mean, did I eavesdrop?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Something about a new story line she wants to pursue. I take it she’s supposed to head back home, but she wants to stay longer.” Sheila shook her head. “Just what we need. I can’t wait until everyone will leave this town alone.”
Sheila’s outburst surprised Charlotte. “I thought you liked Samantha.”
“As a person, she’s fine.” Sheila’s lips pursed as she took another look out the window before she stepped away.
“But as a reporter?”
Sheila glanced back, her gaze frosty. “Not sure how much help all these reporters have been for our community. F
rankly, I’m surprised you let them all stay as long as they have.”
“And this is the first you’re saying something? Sheila, I’m surprised.” Charlotte frowned. “I’ve never known you to hold back before.”
“I’ve said it many times; you just never listened.” Sheila paused as she picked up her coffee. “What’s so different about Samantha?”
Charlotte let the drape she’d held drift back into place. “She seems to care about this town more than the others.”
Sheila nodded. “Which is why I like her as a person. Did you know she’s been heading over to the retirement home and helping some of the older folks write letters and such to their families?”
“Really?”
“She started off by asking for stories from when they were younger, stories of Stillwater in general, but then it progressed. I guess Dorothea mentioned that some of the residents needed help, and the next thing you know, Samantha comes in with stationery and envelopes and offers to write letters for people.” Sheila shrugged. “She’s got a good heart. I just wish she’d stop telling others about our lives.” Sheila opened the office door and was about to close it behind her when Charlotte stopped her.
“What if she started to share the right kind of stories, though? The ones that helped us, as a community?”
Sheila stepped back into the room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. “What kind of stories?”
All she’d told Sheila earlier was that Sam was coming for a meeting. She wasn’t sure if she should share the reason or wait and see if anything came of the discussion. She shouldn’t have doubted Sheila, though; she was always her strongest ally and conspirator.
“About Julia. She used the analogy that Julia is the black sheep in our family”—Charlotte made air quotes with her fingers—“and with everything that has been going on lately, it made me realize it was true.” She caught the look on Sheila’s face, how she was about to disagree, so she stopped her. “No, think about it. If the vandalism was happening to anyone else in town, there would have been an outrage. When someone is sick, we bring them food. When they get bad news, we surround them with love. If they lose a job, someone steps up and finds them another one. But we’ve basically ignored Julia.”
“Well, it’s about time,” Sheila said.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s not ignored. A few of us have tried to be there for Julia. I send over a crew to clean up the mess in her yard and repaint her house. Lacie brings her food. Others stop by on a daily basis and offer our help, even though she ignores us.”
Charlotte was left speechless. She had no idea that so many people had rallied behind Julia already. How could she have been left in the dark like this?
“You’ve been so focused on everyone else. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” It was as if Sheila knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“There must be more that we can do, though, right?” Suddenly, Charlotte felt like her idea paled in comparison to what Sheila and Lacie and others had already been doing.
“Of course there is.” Sheila opened the door slightly. “You think Sam can help?”
Charlotte nodded. “Why not? She can at least help to change the media portrayal of Julia, right?”
“Not everyone hates her, you know.” Sheila opened the door wider. Samantha was climbing up the stairs to her office.
“Enough do.” Charlotte remembered the hateful words spray-painted on the side of Julia’s home.
“Let me know how I can help.” Sheila held the door open for Samantha and then closed it behind her.
Samantha held up a bag and smiled, but Charlotte could tell it was forced.
“Are you sure you want to talk over coffee and pastry?” Charlotte checked her watch. “It’s almost lunchtime. We could go down to the pub if you’d like. You look like you could use something stronger than caffeine.”
Samantha dropped the bag from Sweet Bakes on her desk. “Fred’s?”
Charlotte nodded. Fred’s Tavern was the only pub in town, but it would serve their needs. A table in the corner offered privacy when required, and Charlotte had held many meetings there in the past.
Samantha headed back to the door. “Let’s go,” she said.
Charlotte picked up her purse and shook her head. Considering Sam’s enthusiasm to go to the pub, she could only assume the phone call she’d had outside hadn’t gone too well.
She knew Sheila thought the same thing when she told her their plans. Sheila reminded Charlotte of her two o’clock appointment with Arnold Lewery, and Charlotte promised to send a text if she were to run late. Arnold and the paper could wait, but she didn’t think Samantha could.
So far, nothing had gone according to schedule today.
The moment they stepped into Fred’s, Samantha’s tense body relaxed and Charlotte was amazed to see the transformation. It was as if the quiet bar soothed her soul.
Fred’s was a town icon. It had first opened in 1921, and while it had been updated throughout the years, it still looked similar to the earlier images that decorated its walls. The tables and bar were heritage in design, thick wood slabs made to withstand time, and although the chairs were updated every decade or so, they remained similar in design, black and padded. Fred was the fourth son to own the iconic pub, and everyone knew it would one day pass down to his own son, Fred Jr., who worked with him today at the bar.
“Mayor.” Senior raised a glass at Charlotte as they made their way to the back booth. Sam took the side that faced the front entrance and took her phone out of her jeans pocket and placed it in her purse.
“Sam, beer or wine?” Charlotte set her purse down beside her and folded her hands together.
“Whiskey chaser. Please.” The please was obviously an afterthought as Sam called out.
Charlotte’s brow rose. Well, then . . .
“I’ll have whatever’s on tap, Fred. Thanks.”
Charlotte grabbed a napkin and wiped down their table that was covered in peanut casings, while Sam reached for the wicker basket that was half filled with the nuts.
“Doesn’t that gross you out?” Charlotte asked.
Sam’s hand hovered over the basket. “What?”
“Reaching into a bowl of peanuts, a bowl that other people put their hands in before you? Hands that might not have been washed before eating said peanuts.” The idea gave her the wiggles. She’d once read an article about the level of bacteria in a pile of shelled peanuts and had never been tempted again.
“Seriously?” Sam grabbed a handful of shells and dropped them in front of her on the table. “Live a little, Mayor. There’s no fun in always being cautious.” She began the process of cracking open the nuts and popping them into her mouth, one at a time.
Charlotte altered her gaze so she didn’t have to watch and breathed in relief as Fred made his way toward them with their drinks on a tray along with a fresh basket of peanuts. Fred always brought her a new basket, with peanuts straight out of the bag, no bare hands involved. He switched out the basket left on their table with the new one and then handed them their drinks. Samantha didn’t even wait. She gulped her whiskey in one shot and then drank half the glass of beer before Charlotte had even taken a sip.
“Rough day?” Charlotte asked as Sam wiped her mouth and sat back.
“Just a little.”
“Want to talk about it?” Charlotte drank some more of her own beer.
“Is this our version of kiss and tell?” Samantha winked at her before she held her hand up and whistled to Fred for another drink. He nodded at her and mumbled beneath his breath, loud enough for them to hear, about those “dang city reporters” who needed to learn proper manners.
“Tell you what. I’ll go first.” Charlotte stared down at her hands for a moment before she stared Samantha in the eyes. “My best friend is trying to destroy this town, and m
y husband just laughs at my concerns.”
Sam opened her mouth and then closed it. She looked like she was weighing her words, deciding what to say and what to hold back.
“My boss threatened to fire me if I don’t drag my sorry behind back to work. I have one week to decide. Meanwhile I’m officially now on unpaid vacation.” She raised her glass up as if for a toast but then put it back down again.
“Why don’t you want to leave?”
“There are more stories to be told of Stillwater.” Sam stared out toward the front door. “Which brings us to the point of this meeting. Once we order.” She reached for the menus Fred had left and scanned the items.
Charlotte already knew what she was having.
Fred ambled over, picked up Sam’s empty glasses, and set down two new ones.
“The regular?” he said to Charlotte. She nodded.
“City girl? What’s your craving today?”
Sam scowled at Fred and then pointed to the fish and chips on the menu. “These are fresh, right? You catch them yourself? You don’t buy farmed and frozen, right?”
“What’s with the million questions when you come in? This is a pub. You drink and eat and maybe leave here with a smile on your face. You don’t ask me questions about the food when the answers are right in front of your eyes.” Fred frowned before he took off in a huff to the back door that led into the kitchen.
“What was that?” Charlotte asked.
Samantha smiled. “The first few times I came in I’d let him pick something for me to eat. He made a comment one time about the fact I’m a reporter who doesn’t care about the details or even know how to ask a few simple questions. So since then, I read the menu and ask him questions. He acts all annoyed, but deep down he’s not. Notice the sign out front when we came in?”
Charlotte shook her head, not sure where this was going.
“‘What’s your craving?’ I like to come in and tell him what I’m craving and challenge him to provide it.”
Charlotte laughed. She could only imagine the grumblings Fred did with Samantha around. It was good for him. “You’re baiting a bear, you know that, right?”
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