Darylle was running out to embrace her niece and look at her ring. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s Jackie,” I muttered. “Apparently she’s engaged to Chase now. Nice of someone to tell me.”
We stood there for a few moments, watching the party begin outside. More guests were arriving and throwing their arms around Jackie. “I’m sorry,” Lettie whispered.
Sorry didn’t begin to excuse this sad state of affairs. So Chase had figured some things out after we’d kissed, and apparently he’d decided he was going to marry Jackie. Men had lost testicles for less. “Dammit.” The backs of my eyes stung.
Lettie’s fingers lighted on my forearm. “Mindy, I’m so sorry. Do you want me to take over?”
The question snapped me back to reality. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m fine.”
No way was I going to give Jackie that power over me—or Chase, for that matter. I forced myself to smile. “I think Jackie would look lovely in those pink paisley leggings, don’t you? I’m going to pick out something special. What a great day.”
And I knew, deep down, that the wizards at Lit Chick would say I was acting like a Virginia and valuing pragmatism over my emotions. Next thing you knew, I’d be trading white cashmere for camel-brown wool. But what were my options when I was playing hostess to Chase’s fiancée? I had to protect myself somehow, because according to Lit Chick I was an Elizabeth. I craved a happy ending.
• • •
IT’S PARTLY my fault that Chase and Jackie fell in love, or whatever this was. I was the one who’d introduced them. I met Jackie at a neighborhood bar and we got to talking, and then one night Chase was there and joined us. When they started dating, I gave the relationship four weeks, tops. My exact thought was that Jackie and Chase were about as compatible as a snake and a mongoose, with Jackie as the mongoose. Or the snake.
When Lettie and I administered the Lit Chick personality test to Darylle’s party guests, Jackie claimed to be an Emily. She was lying. Exhibit A: the moment she set her champagne flute down and announced, “I’ve gotta run to the bathroom. I’ve got a gopher peeking out.” Exhibit two: the time she tried on a burnt-orange lace Elizabeth push-up bra over her dress and said loudly, “Does this make my tits look too big?”
I’ve read my share of poetry, and Jackie was no Emily Dickinson.
The wedding would be sometime in the fall, because why wait? And they would honeymoon somewhere tropical. “I’m going to take a hyphen,” Jackie said when Darylle asked if she was going to change her last name. “I’ll be Jackie Farnook-Holloway.”
Darylle nodded and smiled at that, but I thought that Farnook-Holloway sounded like something one would treat with penicillin. I hadn’t had high hopes going into my champagne boutique, and I was immensely relieved when the whole awful thing was finished.
While we packed the car, Lettie chattered nervously. “You sold half your inventory! That’s huge. You realize that all their friends are going to want to book boutiques now, right? You’re going to be so busy this summer!”
She was trying, bless her heart. I closed the trunk. “I’m not selling this shit anymore. I’m finished.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, why? You’re good at it!”
But I didn’t owe her an explanation. Obviously I would forever associate Lit Chick with trauma, and I had to engage in self-protection. We sat in the car and I pulled out my phone to check Facebook. “Chase posted his status update this morning. I must have missed it.”
She winced. “What’s it say?”
I held the phone above the steering wheel and read aloud, “Candlelight dinner, a walk on the beach, and then she said yes! I can’t wait to marry the love of my life.”
Ouch. I pressed my lips together and sat back in my seat.
“Mindy, I’m so sorry about all of this.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
I shut off the phone and tossed it aside. We sat there for a few moments in Darylle’s driveway. Then I turned the key in the ignition and backed out onto the road. We didn’t talk on the ride home until Lettie suddenly said, “I’ll bet he’s bad at sex. Chase, I mean. ‘Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’ I’ll bet he keeps his socks on.”
I shot her a quick side glance. “What?”
“Because he’s attractive. Hot people don’t make the effort. It’s true. They think their partner’s gratitude should be enough. Did you see that celebrity sex tape—”
“Lettie.” I put on my patient-teacher voice. “What about your boyfriend? Eric’s hot, and you say he’s good at sex.”
“Yes.” She fiddled with the hem of her Desdemona tunic. “I’m trying.”
“I know. And that’s why I love you.”
When I dropped Lettie off, she gave me a hug and promised to call. I told her I was fine. “Nothing a nap and some chocolate won’t cure.”
But then I drove straight over to Chase’s apartment, parked in his driveway, and sat staring at the two-family house with the wide front porch. How many beers had we shared on that porch? How many bad days had we soothed away for each other while sitting in those blue plastic Adirondack chairs? It wasn’t supposed to be Jackie, dummy. It was supposed to be me.
I opened the car door and marched up the front steps to the porch, but Chase came around from the backyard, dragging a garden hose behind him. When he saw me, he blinked. “Hey, Min. Good to see you.”
He was shirtless, which gave him an unfair advantage. At least I wasn’t wearing dog-head leggings. “Chase.”
He tugged at the green hose, which whipped into place behind him. “You’re all dressed up. You had that party today, right?” He was focused on the hose, not looking at me.
I bunched my keys in my fist and stepped off the porch. I didn’t speak until I was standing right beside him and he couldn’t avoid my eyes any longer. “You’re engaged.”
It was a statement, and there were no congratulations attached. Chase’s blue eyes searched my face; then he brought one hand up to the back of his neck. “Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it?” He glanced away. “Look, I know I told you some things about Jackie—”
“You mean that she’s a high-maintenance princess who doesn’t get you the way I do?”
A painful laugh escaped his throat. “Yeah. Well, sometimes I say stuff without thinking. And me and Jackie—it’s complicated, you know? We’re trying to work things out.”
I folded my arms and bit the inside of my cheek. “You kissed me.” I could still taste him, could still feel his hands on the small of my back. “What was that about?”
Chase made a face like he was in physical pain. Good. He should be hurting, because God knew this was torture for me. “I’m sorry, Min. That was the wrong thing to do. Jackie and I got in a fight, and I didn’t know if we were broken up for good or—”
Now or never. I took a breath. “You can’t marry her.” The calmness of my voice surprised me. “Because I love you. Chase, I’m in love with you, and I think you’re in love with me, too.”
There was a flash of a second where I believed he would release his breath and smile with relief. Yes. You’re right. I love you, too. It was something in the way his pupils enlarged at the confession. But just as quickly, that moment passed, and he said, “Mindy, I love Jackie.” He took a sharp breath. “And she’s pregnant, okay? It’s the right thing to do.”
And I thought I’d never breathe again.
CHAPTER 2
BRETT
I’D BEEN WORKING since a little after dawn, which in late May was around five in the morning. I had some clients who were early-morning types, but I was okay with that. You had to be flexible in this business, in any business. In life, really. You’ve got to take it as it comes. But before you go thinking I’m all high and mighty about things, I only say this stuff about flexibility after being kicked in the ass by my need to control everything in the world. Trust me, I’ve learned the hard way. I’m darn lucky to be where I am and doing what I’m doing. My point is, you won’t hear complaints ab
out the long days from me.
That afternoon in May, I whistled as I approached the trail to Overlook Pass, kicking up dust with each footstep. The path snakes through a forest beside a cove and marshlands that eventually open to Long Island Sound. There’s an easy trail and a difficult one that climbs up a hill, but the views from the top are phenomenal. I shook out my legs when I arrived at the meeting spot and hoped my clients would be up for the challenging hike.
I glanced at my cell. Two twenty-eight. There were people milling around the boulders that separated the parking lot from the path, stretching and talking. A few blank-faced joggers passed by. A man with a face like a forgotten rag sat in a canvas chair at the edge of the grass, carving a fish out of a piece of wood. I stopped to admire the work he’d set out on the ground on top of an old fishing net: buoys, fish, seagulls, and a few lighthouses. They were thinly painted to appear weathered. “Twenty dollars each,” the man said without looking up.
“You take Visa?” When he gave me a wicked side eye, I chuckled. “I’m kidding, man. I’ve got cash.”
“Heh.”
Was it a laugh or a cough? Hard to tell. I glanced over the wares and settled on a blue fish with flecks of white paint. Its eyes were large and expressive. I’d give it a place of honor above the French doors in my kitchen—hang it as a warning to all other wooden fish. “I’ll take that one,” I said, and pulled a couple of bills out of my pocket. “Is it heavy?”
“Nah.” This time the man set his work aside and rose from his chair. “Few pounds maybe. Which one?”
“That one. The blue fish.” When the man lifted the carving, I handed him two twenties. “Keep the change. I like your work.”
The man nodded once, turning his milky-gray eyes to me quickly before averting them again.
“Thank you, sir.”
He was right—the fish was light. I could tuck it under my arm for the walk. Plus it would make a good conversation piece, and my clients often appreciated that. “I may be back. I just moved here, and I have a whole house to decorate.”
A huge, ridiculous house. Seven bedrooms and nine bathrooms—was that all? I had lost track. It didn’t matter, because the house was mostly empty and I was staying in the guesthouse. “That’s what people like you do,” my financial advisor had told me. “Live in one part of the house and hold on to the rest for investment.”
It seemed like an absurd waste of space. Conceptually, I understood the idea of parking my money in real estate, but what was the point? I’d thought about getting a dog. Or five. Or rescuing some llamas and letting them have free rein. Or just inviting some friends to live there, and not overthinking things. Llamas might be cleaner.
“You come back,” the man said, “and you have the pick of whatever you want. Or I can make something special for you.” He resumed carving the fish he was working on.
“I appreciate that. I may take you up on it.” I looked up and saw a young couple standing by a boulder, peering around. “Have a good day.”
My clients that afternoon were Josh and Jennifer from Delaware. They wanted a scenic walk by the sound, and I had suggested Overlook Pass. I approached the couple now and said, “Are you waiting for me?”
Jennifer had dark blond hair pulled back into a ponytail that twitched against her shoulders. She smiled broadly and clasped my hand. “You’re the people walker?” She laughed as she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. You must be Jennifer.”
“And I’m Josh.”
He stepped forward, his hand extended. He was about my height, but leaner. My frame had recently filled out with muscle. More free time meant more time at the gym.
“Nice to meet you both.” They were dressed in athletic gear and running shoes. “How many miles are we doing today?”
The couple exchanged a glance and shrugged. “We thought we’d hike for an hour or so. We have reservations for an early dinner.”
I clapped my hands together. “Great. Let’s get started. You’re going to earn your dinner.”
• • •
BEING A people walker had started as a joke between me and my brother when we were teenagers. David had needed a job, and I’d been giving him a hard time about turning down a dog-walking opportunity our neighbor had offered. “I have my standards,” David had said.
We were kicking a soccer ball around in the backyard. David was the athlete of the family, but I did okay, too. He was my little brother, and we were fourteen months apart in age—“Irish twins” was a term we’d learned early—and we were competitive in everything, just not against each other. But don’t think highly of us for that, because the credit belongs entirely to my mother. “Brett and David against the world,” Dad once muttered when we both came home from middle school with black eyes. Some kid had sucker-punched David over a girl and I had jumped in to defend him.
“We won,” I had replied to Dad. That was the only part of the story that mattered.
On the afternoon the people-walker discussion came up, David drove the soccer ball straight at me. I stopped it with my stomach and a gasp of pain before sending it sailing back. “You’re seriously not going to do it? Didn’t the Whites offer tons of money?”
“Would you want to pick up after a Saint Bernard?” David returned the ball with a smooth kick.
I considered for a moment. “No way.” I stepped on the ball before it slid past. “But that’s the difference between you and me.”
“What’s that?”
“You always get the shitty jobs.”
I may not have had David’s knack for sports, but I made up for it in academics. I was also good at computer programming, a skill I taught myself as a preteen. It guaranteed that I was never delivering pizzas for spare change. Instead, I was designing complex websites for local companies for thousands of dollars apiece. I couldn’t complain, even when the work ate up most of my spare time.
I drove the ball back at David, thinking there was no way my brother could stop it. Never bet against David. He hurled himself in front of the ball, halting it with his shoulder. I winced when I heard the smack of plastic connecting with flesh. “Damn, dude. You’re a beast. You keep that up and you’re looking at a scholarship.”
I don’t remember how David replied to the compliment. Knowing my brother, he’d deflected it somehow. With David, it was never about bragging rights. He just liked to play soccer.
“Maybe I’ll walk people,” David said later, when we were eating cookies straight from the bag while standing in the middle of the kitchen. Mom called us black holes. Affectionately, of course.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, instead of dogs. I’ll walk people.” He finished off a glass of milk and then poured himself another. “Then I won’t have to clean up poop.”
David hadn’t walked people. He’d gotten a job with the town running sports clinics in an after-school program. But for years afterward, David talked about taking walks with strangers. “I wish I’d done it,” he’d said.
And once, when I had rolled my eyes, David had explained. “It’s not about money. It’s about connections. Hurtling through space and time beside a stranger. Sharing a brief moment together.”
Between the two of us, David was the brother who got all of the warm and fuzzy feelings about humanity. In that moment, I had assumed that David was joking about his regrets, maybe inflating them for comedic effect. I learned much later that David wasn’t kidding, not at all.
Being a people walker isn’t as easy as it sounds. If I’m going to charge people for the pleasure of my company, then by God, they are going to get their money’s worth. I tell anecdotes and inject colorful local gossip into the walks—“So-and-so bought this land for a dollar a hundred years ago. He had a three-legged dog”—stuff like that. People eat it up. I point out the ghosts: the Civil War soldier that haunts the tavern or the phantom child that is said to hide among the stones in the cemetery. Now, as I walked Jennifer and Josh back to the parking lot, I gave th
em a list of the best places in the area to have dessert. “There’s a spot in the center that serves tapas for dessert. Little cakes and cannoli and pies. You order three or four and split them.”
Jennifer gasped. “Oh, we have to try it!” When Josh didn’t reply, she elbowed his side. “Right?”
“Ow. Yes, we’ll go there.”
They had taken turns during the walk carrying my wooden fish. This was Jennifer’s idea. She’d seemed bothered by the thought of me lugging it myself, and when I’d insisted I didn’t mind, she’d told me that she wanted to hold it for a while. Now Josh was saddled with the fish. He had it positioned on the top of his head as we walked, with his hands holding it in place. All three of us were still catching our breath from the steep hike to Overlook Pass.
“You’ve earned dessert after that walk,” I said.
Jennifer wiped sweat from her brow. “I’ll say. How much do we owe you?”
I slid a glance over to Josh, who was hugging the wooden carving against his chest. “Do you like that fish?”
Josh lifted one shoulder. “Sure.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Jennifer said.
I pointed to the man in the canvas chair. He was still carving. “Tell you what: if you buy something from him, I’ll waive your walking fee.”
“No, man,” Josh said. “We can do both.”
“Yeah, it was fun,” Jennifer added. “We want to pay you. Seriously.”
“Then pay me by buying something from him. A souvenir. What do you like? The fish? The lighthouse?”
Exchanged glances, then they chose a yellow fish with blue fins. The old man put it into a plastic shopping bag for them. “Thank you,” Jennifer said as she gave me a slightly sweaty hug. “We’ll tell everyone about you.”
“I appreciate it,” I said. “Enjoy the rest of your stay. And if you need another walk while you’re in town, just give me a call.”
And that was it—the last client of the day. See? Early starts, early ends. No complaints.
• • •
FROM OVERLOOK Point, there are three ways to get back to the center of West Portsmouth. I chose the route that passed the Bayberry Inn. I like that the sound always looks serene from that vantage point, even on days when the water is crashing against the boulders on the beach. It’s nature’s sleight of hand.
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