Lily sat, spreading her napkin in her lap with more care than was necessary. “No, thanks. Just sugar.”
Dean dropped down across from her, studying her closely as she spooned sugar into her mug and stirred. “So,” he said, lifting his own, “let’s just get it out of the way so we can both relax. Last night was amazing.”
Color flooded Lily’s cheeks as she picked up her fork, but the truth was, other than a brief moment of disorientation, she had awakened feeling as languid as a cat, well stretched, and just a bit dreamy.
“Yes, it was . . . amazing.”
He waited until she’d taken her first bite before crumpling a strip of bacon into his mouth. “Unfortunately, at the risk of sounding like a heel, I have to run out on you this morning. I know. I know. Really bad form. But I didn’t know we were going to . . . well, you know. I’ve got a meeting with clients who are in for the weekend from Chicago—the Newmans. It’s probably going to take several hours. It’s their first beach house and they have no idea what they want.”
Lily waved off the apology, ignoring the faint nigglings of disappointment. “Seriously, no worries. My day’s full, too. I was hoping to get started on the back bedroom, and then I’ve got a bunch of calls to make, a little long-distance legwork to help Sheila with the new line. She’ll be glad to hear I’m staying through the summer.”
Dean reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “I’m glad, too, for what it’s worth. The rest of it can wait. The cottage isn’t going anywhere, and now we have the summer.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what could wait, but then he spoke again. “Maybe we can do something later, grab some dinner, then see what’s playing at Screen on the Green—if you’re free, that is. Or we can just play it by ear. Whatever’s good for you.”
Lily suppressed a smile. He was trying to sound casual and unassuming. It was the dance of new lovers, deliciously awkward, terrifyingly unsure. “Dinner sounds great, and I’m not sure what Screen on the Green is, but I like the sound of it.”
“Good, then it’s a date.”
Breakfast was delicious, savored along with easy conversation and the warmth of the morning sun. When their plates were empty Lily stood and began clearing, carrying their dishes inside to the sink. Dean followed her to the kitchen, stepping in to turn off the tap before the sink could fill.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll get it later.”
“I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do after you made me breakfast.”
“Well . . . I kind of need to hop in the shower.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Oh, right . . . so I should take off. Let me just change, and I’ll get out of your way.”
Dean grabbed her arm before she could slip past, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Boy, did you ever read that one wrong. I wasn’t hinting around for you to scram, silly. I was hinting around for you to join me.” He leaned in then, touching his lips to hers. “Last one to the shower’s a rotten egg.”
Hours later, Lily was still trying to quash images of the shower that had nearly made Dean late for his meeting with the Newmans. Getting there on time might well have cost him a speeding ticket, but at least he’d be smiling when he arrived.
She’d been doing a bit of smiling herself, too. Giddy to the point of distraction, she had quickly abandoned her plans to work in the back bedroom, opting instead to concentrate on Sheila’s new project. As Dean had pointed out at breakfast, the cottage wasn’t going anywhere. Why not spend at least one day doing something she enjoyed?
Planner in one hand, coffee mug in the other, she stationed herself at Lily-Mae’s black enameled desk, ready to tackle her first order of business. Flipping to her address book, she began scribbling a list of industry contacts who might be able to provide Sheila with knowledge or resources, then carefully starred the names of those who owed her favors. She wasn’t above cashing in a few IOUs to help a friend. It was Saturday, so she wasn’t likely to catch many people in the office, but she did have a couple of home numbers, and she could leave messages with the rest to help get the ball rolling.
Six phone calls, and a page and a half of notes later, Lily was feeling quite pleased with herself, and eager to share what she had learned. Sheila glanced up from the counter when she walked into the shop, looking vaguely distracted.
“I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I came by to talk about the line, if you have time. I made a few calls this morning and put together some information.”
Sheila blinked at her, clearly trying to wrap her head around what she’d just heard. “Already?”
“We can do it another time if now isn’t good.”
“No. Now is perfect. It’s been slow all day, and the girls are here. I just didn’t expect you to work so fast.”
Lily grinned, affecting an exaggerated curtsy. “What can I say? You’re a wiz on a Bernina. I’m a wiz on the phone. Seriously, though, have you got time? I was so excited I didn’t think. Maybe we should schedule some time away from the shop.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve got nothing but time. Everyone in town’s down on Beach Street, shucking oysters and meeting Miss Hideaway Key. Come on back. I could use a little distraction right about now. Penny knows where to find me if she needs me.”
In the stockroom, they picked their way past clothes racks, display props, and mannequins in various stages of undress, finally arriving at a card table littered with salt and ketchup packets.
Sheila grinned sheepishly as she swept the pile of condiments into a nearby trash can. “Step into my office.”
Lily dropped into one of two folding metal chairs, pulled her notepad from her purse, and primly clasped her hands before her. “I have news.”
Sheila eyed her warily. “Good news or bad news?”
“I’m not leaving for Milan at the end of the month.”
Sheila’s face went blank for a moment. “You’re not . . . What happened?”
“I called and told them I needed more time.”
“And they were okay with that?”
“They were. Which means I have all summer to help with the new line—unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Changed my mind? Are you crazy? This is great news. Not as great as you not going at all, but I’ll take it.”
Lily decided to leave the part out where she had actually intended to scrap Milan altogether. It had been a silly idea anyway. The summer was all she needed to wrap things up and get Sheila headed in the right direction. When it was over she’d let Dean have the cottage, and board a plane for Milan, off to chase her North Star—again.
“I thought we’d start by running through the process from start to finish, the steps you’ll need to take and in what order. I also put together a list of contacts you’ll need, people who can help you get things done. You might want to take notes. It’s a lot of detail.”
Sheila rose just long enough to scare up a pen and legal pad, then dropped back into her chair. “Okay, fire away.”
They spent the next two hours brainstorming, covering everything from trademark registration to branding schemes, logo design to prototypes and manufacturing. Sheila scribbled frantically, undaunted as she moved to a second page of notes, and then a third.
“What about the clothes?” Sheila asked finally, rubbing a thumb over the crease between her brows. “When do we get to talk about the clothes?”
“Ah yes, the clothes.” Lily smiled patiently. Sheila looked tired, and a little overwhelmed. “Finally, we come to the fun part. The first thing you’ll need to decide is what you want the line to say, how you want it to feel. Elegant? Casual? Trendy? Where you want to set your price points, and how narrow or broad you want your appeal to be. In other words, who do you see wearing it, and where? As soon as we nail that part down I can get started on the sketches.”
Lily turned to a fresh page on her legal pad, ready to begin jotting down Sheila’s thoughts. But Sheila was no longer paying attention, her eyes fastened vacantly on a cat calendar thumbtacked to the wall.
“Sheila?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“We were talking about your ideas for the line, about the actual clothes.”
The crease had reappeared between Sheila’s brows. She rubbed it away. “I’m sorry. I was somewhere else for a minute. The clothes. Right. I’ve been thinking about that, and as much as I loved the blue dress—I mean, really loved it—I don’t think it’s where we should start. I was thinking we should keep it more casual, at least in the beginning. You don’t mind, do you?”
“It’s your line, Sheila. I don’t get a vote. But if I did, I’d say stick with an island feel—not Hawaiian print, but comfortable, breezy. Lots of color, in light fabrics that move well and won’t wilt in the heat. I’ve already got some ideas.”
“Oh, good. Besides, that dress would never look as good on anyone else. It was made for you. Dean certainly seemed to like it. By the way, you skipped right over last night. So . . . how was it?”
Lily turned her attention back to her notes, placing check marks beside several items for no reason at all. “It was good. Nice.”
Sheila peered at her closely. “Just nice?”
“The food was great. The artisans were amazing. The fireworks were out of this world. There.”
“You sound like a Chamber of Commerce ad. What about Dean?”
“He thought the food was great, too,” Lily shot back without batting an eye. “Now can we please get back to business?”
Sheila’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s with you? You’re all squirmy, and you keep looking at your watch like you’ve got a date, or . . .” She stopped abruptly, blinking twice before her face lit with understanding. “Something happened last night.”
“Oh, Sheila—”
“Knock it off, sugar. You’re not fooling me. Spill it.”
Lily sighed as she laid down her pen and pushed the pad away. “I spent the night at his place.”
“Oh my God, I knew it! I knew something was different about you today. You’re all lit up. So . . . tell!”
Lily groaned. If she didn’t set the record straight—and fast—Sheila would be making rice bags before the night was out. “Okay, before you get all excited, this isn’t the movies, and no one is riding off into the sunset with anyone. It’s an attraction, a flirtation—not some grand passion. We laid down some ground rules. No strings. No complications.”
Sheila snorted. “Have you notarized the contract yet? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not binding until it’s notarized.”
“Oh, ha-ha. A few days ago you were pushing the idea of a summer romance pretty hard. Now I’m doing it wrong?”
“As a matter of fact, you are. The whole point of a summer romance is that delicious sense of not knowing, that silly soaring feeling you walk around with all day because you have no idea what’s going to happen next, and you don’t care.”
“Like you and Salty?”
Sheila’s eyes widened unconvincingly. “What do you mean?”
“You like him.”
“Everyone likes Salty.”
“I have eyes, Sheila. I see how you look at him. So why aren’t you practicing what you preach? Why is a summer romance a good thing for me, but not for you?”
“Well, for starters, sugar, you’ve got two things going for you that I don’t.” Lily was about to protest when Sheila pointed to her breasts. “And even if I was interested—which I’m definitely not—Salty’s a great guy, with plenty to offer. He doesn’t need to settle for . . . well, for someone like me.”
Lily could have kicked herself. Sheila was so beautiful, so strong and so vibrant, that she sometimes forgot about the surgery, and the trials she had passed through on her way to becoming who she was now.
“God, Sheila, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have—”
Sheila shrugged, giving Lily’s hand a pat. “Forget it, honey. Life goes on. Maybe not all of it, but most of it. I love my life, my business, my friends. I don’t need to find the one to be happy. But you’re not me. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to go out to find yours—whoever he is.”
Lily shook her head, sighing. “I know you mean well, Sheila. I also know you believe in soul mates and fairy tales, but I don’t. Maybe because no one I know has ever come close to finding what you’re talking about. God knows my parents never did. So how are you supposed to know—I mean, really know—when you’ve found it?”
“You just do, honey,” Sheila said quietly, her eyes suddenly shiny. “You know when you realize that you’re absolutely terrified. When you’re convinced you’re going to smash yourself to pieces, and you’re still willing to leap—because the thought of plunging off a cliff and breaking yourself wide open is still better than playing it safe alone.”
Lily let the words settle in her chest, trying to imagine what it would be like to feel that way, reckless, defenseless—exposed. Just the thought of it made her shudder.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Sounds way too scary for me.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Sheila stood abruptly, her face suddenly close to crumpling. “I guess I’m an expert on scary these days.”
Lily studied her face, seeing what she hadn’t before. “Something’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing. Just being silly, is all.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Sheila hesitated a moment, then eased back into her chair. “My annual is coming up in a few weeks, that’s all, and it always freaks me out. I start running all these scenarios in my mind. What if they find something this time? What if I have to go through all that again? Or worse, what if I don’t come through it? It’s part of the deal. You try to pretend it’s not there, but it is—the feeling that there’s this time bomb ticking in your chest, waiting to go off just when you’ve put your life back together.”
Lily’s heart ached for her. She couldn’t imagine living with something like that always hanging over her head. “Have you ever had a recurrence?”
“No. I’ve been lucky. The chances are much lower after a bilateral, but I can’t help it. The thought of being some statistical anomaly scares the hell out of me. I think the drive is actually the worst part. My oncologist is in Tampa, which may not seem far, but I can tell you it’s a mighty long drive when you’re by yourself and scared to death.”
Lily laid a hand on Sheila’s arm, waiting until their gazes met. “What if you weren’t by yourself this time?”
“I wasn’t angling for company, honey. I go through this every year. I’ll be fine.”
“When’s the appointment?”
“Three weeks from Tuesday, but seriously, I can’t let you waste a whole day like that just to drive me to the doctor. I’d feel like a big old baby.”
“Just think of us as Thelma and Louise.”
Sheila managed a shaky smile. “I’ll be Susan Sarandon.”
“Which makes me Geena Davis. I can live with that. In the meantime, I want you to go through that list I just gave you, and write down any questions you have. I’ve got to run. I’ve got a date.”
The old twinkle returned to Sheila’s brown eyes. “Well, that’s progress, I guess.”
Lily was disappointed to find Dean’s truck still gone. His meeting must be running long. Still, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a little quiet time to process the last forty-eight hours. A lot had happened in a dizzyingly short period of time: her job plans had changed substantially, she had just agreed to become the de facto consultant for a fledgling design label, scheduled a road trip to Tampa, and plunged headlong into a relationship with a man she’d known less than a month.
Restless, she wandered through the cottage, wonderi
ng how her life had taken so many sharp turns. Until a few months ago she’d been living in Paris, sleeping with a man named Luc, and working for Sergé Leroux. Now none of those things were true—and she didn’t miss any of it. How was that even possible? Wasn’t it natural to feel something when you left whole parts of your life behind? Regret? Nostalgia? Something?
Lily-Mae had obviously felt them. Why else would she have held on to so much of her past? Wandering though her aunt’s room now, she again found herself fascinated by the sheer number of keepsakes, small personal items kept carefully close—books and tiny trinkets, the jar of shells on the bureau. And there were the journals, of course, a kind of living memory. She had planned to take a break from reading them, to channel her energies into clearing out the clutter and helping Sheila with her new venture, but suddenly she felt the pull of those pages keenly.
TWENTY-EIGHT
July 5, 1957
Palm Beach, Florida
I no longer know what to wish for. A week in this place—with these people—has drained me, and a few days ago I was close to begging Jasper to take me back to New York. But there’s Roland now, whom I never ever counted on, and whom I scarcely know what to make of. Since the night he rescued me from Celia Gardiner’s bridge table we have become almost inseparable, slipping out onto the beach in the afternoons, wandering the gardens at dusk.
Jasper is sullen these days, making small but pointed remarks about how often Roland and I seem to drift away from the others. He’s worried—or so he claims—that our host and hostess will think me ungrateful for their invitation, and that the other guests will question my manners. He doesn’t seem to understand how little I have in common with any of them, or that the quiet moments I spend with Roland are the only pleasure I’ve found since arriving.
I’m afraid things came to a rather unpleasant head last night. I had just excused myself from yet another hand of cards when Jasper followed me out onto the patio. He seemed surprised to find me alone. The truth is, I was waiting for Roland, hoping he had seen me slip away and would follow me out.
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