August gestures at me with his notebook. “I’d actually love to grab an interview with you, if you have some time over the next couple of days.”
“With me?” I say, surprised. “I don’t really know how muchinsight I can offer. I never heard that much about Hurricane Marie growing up, much less Landon Fitzroy.”
I’m still picturing that box in the attic. I don’t know why I’m reluctant to mention Mom’s collection of articles and clippings, only that it feels wrong to tell near strangers about something Mom didn’t even share withme.
“Right, but you know the town, know the history of the place,” August replies. “And the Rosalie Inn is such a fascinating piece of that. Still standing after every storm, for nearly a hundred years now. And named after a shipwreck that killed another Fitzroy.”
That’s news to me, and in a flash, my true crime fantasies detour into popular history. I knew about the wreck, obviously, but had only ever heard it was “some bootlegger.” I had no idea that it had been a Fitzroy.
But I try not to let that intrigue show on my face. Instead, I tell August, “There’s usually a lull in the early afternoon when everyone’s on the beach. We could try to chat tomorrow?”
“It’s a date,” he says, and a little frisson shoots through me.
I haven’t really dated since Chris. I briefly tried the Dreaded Apps, but after a couple of awkward coffee shop meetups and one dinner date that hadseemedpromising until the end of the meal when he admitted that, okay, maybeseparatedwould’ve been a more accurate term for his relationship, rather thandivorced,I’d decided that maybe that whole side of my life was just over. I’d be like a nun, only instead of Jesus and the Pope, I’d have the Rosalie Inn and Edie, and that would be fine.
But now I find myself liking how August’s hair curls around his earlobes, how strong his fingers look clutching that notebook, the slightly crooked way he smiles at me.
A summer fling might not be the worst thing in the world…
I turn back to Lo only to find her watching me with the strangest expression on her face. Just a minute ago, she was joking and smiling, but now she looks… worried. Anxious, even.
It’s gone in a flash, replaced by another bright smile as she says, “Oh, thankGod, someone else can take Auggie’s five billion questions for an afternoon.”
“Kinda hard to ghostwrite a memoir without asking questions, Lo,” August says. His tone is light, the words tossed off with a casual shrug, but there’s a tightness around his jaw, annoyance in the quick glance he throws at her.
Edie comes downstairs then, her combat boots heavy on the carpeted runner as she calls out, “I swear, that plumber couldn’t find his behind with both hands and a flashlight, but the leak in 203 is finally taken care of!”
She falters on the last step when she sees me standing there with Lo and August. She drops her voice and adds, “Um. Anyway, that’s one thing off the list. Guess I’ll start crossing out the next chore.”
“It’s Edie, right?”
Lo has stepped forward, studying Edie, her hands braced on her lower back, and I remember they never got much of an introduction on the first day, how stilted Edie was with her.
I step forward. “Edie istheright-hand woman here at the Rosalie,” I declare with an exaggerated arm wave, like I’m a game show hostess presenting a refrigerator. But when I turn to smile at her, she’s already headed down the hall, like she didn’t hear Lo’s question.
“Okay, thatwasEdie,theright-hand woman here at the Rosalie,” I say, laughing and hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel.
But Lo isn’t fazed. She just pats August’s arm before sitting back down on the couch and saying, “Let me finish what I was reading, and then you can interrogate me some more.”
“I was planning on going for a walk on the beach anyway,” August says, nodding toward the big windows facing the ocean before glancing back at me. “Wanna join?”
“Can’t,” I tell him, even though it would be nice, walking next to a cute guy on a beautiful day. The sky is ferociously blue this afternoon, and the sun is hot, but there’s a breeze off the water. It’s the kind of weather that reminds me that St. Medard’s Bay isn’t all storms and responsibilities. It can be magic in its own way, and I should enjoy that more often. “I took the morning off for some family stuff, so I’m sure I have a ton of emails and bookings to deal with.”
I actually have a toilet to unclog in 112, and some mildewed towels that need bleaching, but “emails and bookings” makes me sound more like a serious—and attractive, I hope—businesswoman, less of a scullery maid.
“Gotcha,” August says, then gives a little wave before heading for the door.
I glance over at Lo, wondering if she’s watching us, wondering if I’ll see that same weird expression she wore when August and I were talking a few minutes ago, but she’s not looking at us.
She’s not looking at her magazine, either.
Instead, her gaze is trained on the hallway that Edie just disappeared down.
I met Landon’s daddy only once, and it was by accident.
After that first night, I’d never planned on seeing Landon Fitzroy again, assuming he had a lot better shit to do than hang out in a dive bar in a no-name town, but the next evening, when I’d gone in for my shift at The Line, there’d been a letter waiting for me on the heaviest paper I’d ever felt in mylife.Seriously, I’ve had mattresses thinner than that piece of stationery. It had his name at the top, or I guess I should say hisletterheadbecause he was the kind of person who hadletterhead.
It wasn’t a very long note, but what was in it made my heart pound, my head swim, my knees get wobbly, alllllll of that.
