Those Cassabaw Days

by Cindy Miles

  They worked in silence for a while, continuing farther down Emily’s dock. The sun, directly above them now, beat down hard against the bare skin on his back.

  He’d thought about his decision all night. All morning. He’d thought about Emily, with her hair all messy and lopsided, piled high on her head. Wearing that ridiculous T-shirt, and those big, hazel eyes questioning as he flat out told her they could never happen. That he didn’t want it. Wanted to keep it as friends.

  I don’t understand. You asked me to be your girl...

  And because she was Em, she’d made it so comfortable and easy to walk away, to smile and act as though he’d never wanted to completely consume someone so badly in his whole damn life.

  He’d walked away from it. Away from her.

  We would have been amazing together...

  “What’d you tell her?”

  Matt sighed and set another board. “That it was best if we just stayed friends.”

  Nathan thought about that. “And she bought that? What’d she say?”

  Matt stopped and glared at his brother. “She agreed. Can you let it go?”

  Nathan shook his head. “I hope you can live with it, Matt. I really do.”

  And with that his brother turned and walked away.

  Matt continued working, the whole while thoughts of Emily plagued him. Finally—blessedly—he reached the floating dock, and Matt screwed in the last plank. The ramp leading to it and the floater were both solid.

  The dock was finished.

  Matt shoved his hammer in his tool belt, gathered his drill motor, rose and started up the newly constructed, sturdy-as-a-rock dock.

  As he crossed over the marsh, he watched his reflection in the murky water beneath him. Saw the white underbelly of a ray top the surface, then flip and disappear. Listened to the saw grass whisper in the breeze.

  And up ahead, canopied beneath the moss and magnolias and crepe myrtles and swarms of magical dragonfly swarms, lay Emily Quinn’s house. Nathan may have been right. Maybe he’d made a wrong call.

  But Nathan didn’t understand the depth of their friendship. His brother had never had that with anyone else—not even the girl he’d recently lost in the drowning. Emily was special. Not just to him, but to everyone who came in the smallest of contact with her. But especially to him.

  And to his way of thinking, he’d keep it that way, no matter the cost.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IT WAS TWO days before the Fourth of July and the annual Cassabaw Station Shrimp Festival.

  It was also two days before Emily’s grand reopening of the Windchimer. She’d managed to pull it off. To coincide it with the island’s big annual Fourth celebration.

  And she’d done a damn fine job.

  Impressive.

  And yet he wasn’t surprised at all. Emily had worked day and night to perfect her Gatsby-themed opening, and she’d done it. The Windchimer had all the quirks and personality of, well, Emily. It may belong to her and Reagan, but it was Emily’s baby through and through. If a place could have humanlike characteristics, the café would have Emily’s.

  He’d been unable to get her off his mind. Haunted him. Day. Night. And in between.

  She, on the other hand, seemed to be handling their semijoint decision to remain only friends completely fine.

  Damn fine, actually.

  Which made his mood even darker. He couldn’t even be around Jep anymore without getting slapped in the back of the head. And his brothers were continually socking him in the arm. Giving dirty looks, or shaking their heads.

  Or accusing him of sitting on a damn stick.

  Christ almighty, he was sick of it all.

  Pulling up to the Windchimer, he parked his car—the 1972 Nova SS that he’d finally finished in the late, late hours, after wrapping up Emily’s jobs—beside Emily’s Jeep and climbed out.

  She’d beaten him here yet again, which had been her pattern for the past week. She’d spent every waking hour painting the cabinets an aqua sort of color to match the checkerboard colors on the tiled floor. According to Emily, though, it wasn’t aqua but rather sea-serpent green. He guessed it was, and she’d made it a point to correct him every time he’d called it otherwise.

  She’d also painted the oak table and chairs the same color.

  Old man Catesby had even found her a cash register from 1936 that still worked fine and Emily had placed it to use at the checkout counter by the door. And of course there was the penny counter. Impressive and one of a kind, the locals were already talking about it. The two employees she’d hired—a couple of local kids on summer break from college—would dress the part wearing suspenders and hats. Emily hadn’t let one detail slide by.

  That night when the penny counter was finished, he’d seen the pride in her eyes and it had socked him right in the gut. Emily wasn’t just a unique individual who spoke stranger than everyone, who had crazy ideas and notions and spontaneity, but she had a heart the size of a cannonball.

  She was sweet. Smart. Quick-witted. And damn, she knew how to lighten his mood and make him laugh like nobody else could. She’d been the one to encourage him to finish the Nova after it’d sat in the garage, hidden under a tarp, ever since he’d joined the corps. There was definitely nobody else like Emily Quinn.

  And yet he’d told her nothing could happen between them. Nothing except friendship.

  Stupidest move he’d ever made. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight. And now he didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Emily had accepted it and seemed to be doing just fine with their friendship the way it was.

  Matt sure as hell wasn’t. Torment kept him awake at night. Thoughts of kissing Emily. Holding her. Running his fingers through all of that long strawberry-blond hair.

  It was killing him. And he’d brought it on himself. All of it. The bad thing was, he’d let her go. Had set her free. And he had no choice but to live with it now.

  At least she didn’t hate him.

  The moment Matt turned the corner along the side of the café, he heard Emily’s off-key voice drifting toward him from the open-air veranda. He stepped closer, leaned quietly against the building and listened as she sang along with the tinny old melody. He recognized it right away. Hadn’t heard in, well, fifteen years. But he remembered every single word of it.

  Silently, the words to the song came to his mind, too, and he couldn’t help but smile not only at the memories it invoked, but at the person whose off-key voice rose on the air.

  Oh! Say! Let us fly, dear

  Where, kid? To the sky, dear

  Oh you flying machine

  Jump in, Miss Josephine

  Ship ahoy! Oh joy, what a feeling

  Where, boy? In the ceiling

  Ho, High, Hoopla we fly

  To the sky so high

  Come Josephine in my flying machine

  Going up she goes! Up she goes!

  Balance yourself like a bird

  on a beam

  In the air she goes! There she goes!

  Finally, he stepped around the corner. The moment Emily’s eyes found him, a smile spread over her face as she looked at him and continued singing. She sat there, bare feet propped against the handrail, long tanned legs clad in white shorts, coffee in hand, hair messy and braided to the side and draped over her shoulder, the café door open so she could hear the record player, and that smile? That song? The way her face always lit up every single time she saw him? As if each time was the first time?

  It was almost too damn much for him to stand.

  “Morning, Matt,” she finally said when the song finished. “The sun is about to make its grand introduction of the day. Come watch. And put your feet up like me.”

  Matt eased into the chair beside her and kicked his booted feet up, and watched the horizon.

  She waved a hand before her, toward the sea. “Watch as it turns from a thin, dull, bronze thread to a bright, bright gold string of planetary yarn,” she said softly. “And
then it starts forming a ball, see? Like someone is rolling that gold yarn like Rapunzel, as fast and fast as they can. And everything around it starts catching fire and turning all carroty and ginger-looking.”

  He turned his attention from the rising sun to the strange ramblings of Emily. She saw everything so differently from everyone else. Found excitement and exhilaration in things most folks would take for granted. He liked seeing the sunrise through her eyes. Liked seeing everything through them, actually. Strange and beautiful, and before he could turn away, she caught him looking at her.

  “Not me, silly,” she said breathily, and pointed. “The sun!”

  He looked, and it finally topped the horizon, and Emily leaped to her feet and clapped. “Yay!” she said happily. “And that, folks, is just the beginning of the show. The sun will be around all day to bathe us in summery warm luminescence!”

  She started singing again, patted his head with her palm and went inside the café.

  Since Matt was alone, and she could no longer see his face, he allowed the smile, shook his head and followed her in.

  “Why are you here so early?” Emily said from behind the register. “I thought you’d finished up yesterday?”

  “I did,” he answered, then shrugged. “I picked up the ceiling fans for the veranda.”

  “Oh, great!” said happily. “The gang will be ever so glad.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Emily held up one of the laminated menus. “Just going over these once more.”

  “You’ve been over them fifty times already,” Matt said. “They’re perfect. This place is perfect. You did it, Em. You’re opening on the Fourth. You’ll be fine.”

  She looked up and sighed. “I made it because of you. Thank you, Matt. For all your hard work.” Another bright smile. “For help making it happen.”

  He nodded, and hardly knew what to say. Her face, her eyes—she was the epitome of the phrase wearing your heart on your sleeve. Never was there a moment a person didn’t know exactly what Emily Quinn was thinking or feeling. And he could see in her eyes that, no matter how much she tried to hide it, she wasn’t as fine with their friendship-only status as she tried to portray. “My pleasure.” Just then, his cell vibrated in his back pocket. He looked at her. “Gotta get this.” When he checked his voice mail, it was a call he’d been waiting on. “Hey,” he said to Emily. “I’ve gotta run and pick something up. I’ll be back to install the fans.”

  “Sounds good,” she replied, and continued poring over the menus. He gave her a solemn glance—one she didn’t notice—and walked out.

  And ran straight into Jake the Idiot.

  “Matt, right?” Jake said cheerfully, and jutted out his hand. Matt shook it. “Good to see you again.”

  “Yep,” Matt said.

  Jake inclined his head. “Is Emily inside?”

  “Hey, Jake!” Emily said, suddenly at the door. “Come on in.”

  Jake met Matt’s gaze and smiled. “See you later.” He trotted through the door, and Emily smiled.

  “Bye, Matt.” She stepped in behind him and closed the door.

  The roar of anger inside Matt’s head deafened him. But he’d asked for it, hadn’t he? Damn well served her right up on a silver platter to Jake and any other guy with half a brain. The thought made his mood even darker as Matt made his way to Catesby’s cottage on the north end of Cassabaw. A typical white block Cassabaw cottage, it had an abundance of green kudzu vines clinging to the painted concrete. Matt pulled up next to Catesby’s battered Ford pickup, faded blue from the sea sun, and killed the engine. Catesby was waiting at the front door. His eyes were squinted as he peered at Matt. He’d known he was coming.

  With his pipe lit and dangling out of his mouth, and gray bushy brows that shot every which way except down, he glowered at Matt. “I got what you asked for, boy,” he grumbled. Deep lines clung to the sides of his face, around his eyes and mouth. “Wasn’t easy, findin’ a horn to fit what you already got. So it’s gonna cost ya.” He turned around and headed inside.

  Matt ducked inside and followed the old man through a small footpath of cleaned walking space. On either side, stuff. A damn lot of it. Mountainous and leaning, he wondered how the picked items hadn’t caved in on Catesby and swallowed him whole. Never to been seen or heard from ever again.

  Christ. Now he sounded like Emily.

  Through the dim interior Matt found Catesby in the back of the cottage. “Well, here she is,” he said. He pointed with his walking stick. “I’ll give her to you for five hundred.”

  Matt kneeled down. Inspected. And was impressed. It was just what he’d been looking for. He looked up. “One fifty.”

  “Are you crazy? Three.”

  “One seventy-five.”

  “Dammit, boy,” Catesby said. “Three hundred.”

  Slowly, Matt rose. “Nice doin’ business with you—”

  Catesby let out a string of curses. “Fine, dammit all, fine. One seventy-five.” He pointed. “Take it, take it. And cash only.”

  Matt dug the cash out of his leather wallet and handed it to Catesby, who grunted and grabbed the bills. Matt leaned over, hefted his brass treasure over his shoulder and left.

  Back home, he pulled the Nova up to the garage and leaped out, carrying the brass horn.

  A couple of weeks back Matt had wanted to get something for Emily—for the café. Something she’d really love, and he’d found it, back at that quirky antiques store in Caper’s Inlet. It had needed a bit of work to get it running, and in between working on the café, Emily’s dock house and the Nova, he’d spent hours tinkering with the old gramophone.

  Finally, with a little help from Jep, they’d gotten it working again. It was a nickel-operated gramophone, only it missed one important part: the big horn. He’d gone straight over to old man Catesby, who’d grumpily promised to find him one. And, he had. Mean old bastard, but he’d come through. Now Matt fitted the horn, and just as he was putting in the last tiny screw, Jep walked in.

  “Oy,” he said, using his old Irish slang. “Catesby got it, eh?”

  “Yep,” Matt answered. He ducked under the cabinet against the wall and fished out one of the 75 LPs he’d also found to play on the vintage machine. “Got a nickel?”

  Jep stuck his hand in his blue overalls and pulled one out. “Always got a nickel, boy.”

  Matt nodded, turned the hand crank over and over, and then Jep dropped the nickel into the crooked slot. An old, scratchy, tinny melody poured from the horn.

  “Those LPs sound a little better,” Matt said. “But she’ll get a kick out of this.”

  Jep eyed him. “You still keepin’ things cool with her?”

  Matt sighed. “Jep,” he warned. He didn’t know what he was going to do. For now, he kept it to himself.

  “Well, I just want it to be known how blamed stupid I think the whole thing is.”

  “You have. Several times over. Now let it alone.”

  Jep huffed and turned to leave, swearing under his breath. “You’re gonna screw things up for good if you don’t watch out, son.”

  “She’s seeing Eric’s friend Jake. So drop it.”

  “Well, that’s your own stupid fault now, isn’t it, boy?”

  Matt just shook his head. Old Jep was right. Hell, he didn’t know which way to turn anymore. Maybe the best thing to do would be to talk to Emily. Tell her everything. Gathering the gramophone, complete with a stack of LPs and the horn attached, Matt loaded everything into the Nova and headed back to the boardwalk.

  By the time he’d made it back to the Windchimer, the storm clouds had rolled in once again. Already one month into hurricane season, the thunderstorms boomed across Cassabaw nearly every day. Mostly, in the late-afternoon hours. But today it was creeping in early.

  He sat for a moment and stared at the treasure he’d purchased. The late nineteenth-century gramophone was now in near-mint condition, the horn a copper beauty etched with intricate design. She was going to abso
lutely love it.

  No. She was going to flip out.

  And, he admitted to himself, he was kind of excited to give it to her. He’d worried that he wouldn’t be able to find what he was searching for in time, but Catesby, in his grumpy, unkempt and hostile manner, came through. Had called him with the perfect match.

  It still floored him that Emily had called old man Catesby sweet.

  He was anything but.

  Then again, she thought Matt sweet, too, and Jep Malone would definitely argue that point. Straight directly into holy ground, so he’d say.

  Matt hopped out, ran around to the trunk and jammed the key in. Thunder boomed overhead just as he shouldered the old gramophone and LPs and headed up the gravel lane.

  On second thought, he stopped. Emily was probably in the front of the café. If he truly wanted to surprise her he’d carry the gramophone in through the back entrance, make her close her eyes, then he’d set it on one of the dining tables. Satisfied with that idea, he turned, slid his key in through the back-door lock and eased in as quietly as he knew how. Setting the gramophone down on top of the chest freezer, he strode into the dining area.

  And stopped dead in his tracks.

  Shocked. Surprised. And suddenly very, very hollow inside.

  He could do nothing but stare as Emily stood locked in the arms of a tall, tailored man in an expensive-looking suit. Not Jake. Someone else.

  Then the man’s hands moved to her head, held it still and swept his mouth against Emily’s lips.

  For a moment, his eyes were glued to the man fused to Emily’s mouth. Anger and disappointment—two emotions he had no right owning—washed over him. So much that he had to take in a deep, inconspicuous breath, then slowly release it.

  And then he did the only thing left to do.

  He let himself out of the back entrance of the Windchimer, just as stealthily as when he’d arrived.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EMILY WRIGGLED FREE, pressed her palms to his chest and thrust him away. “Trent!” Surprised and angry, she stood back, staring in disbelief. “Stop it! What—what are you doing here?”