He sighed, still looking at the ceiling. “We can’t. Orshecan’t. Something about the shape of her uterus, or maybe one of the tubes, something like that.”
For the first time since I’d taken up with Landon, I felt sorry for Alison. Not because her husband was cheating on her, not even because she couldn’t have kids, but because it didn’t seem right, him telling me something so personal in such an offhand way. Like my mom had said, she was areal lady, and I knew she’d be mortified.
Worse, she’d be hurt.
“You could adopt?” I suggested, and he looked over at me, his face suddenly very serious.
“If I’m going to have a child, it’s going to bemine.It has to be a Fitzroy.”
That was the first time I had a peek at that other Landon Fitzroy. The Heir, the Future Politician, the Man with a Destiny.
Unfortunately for both of us, it wasn’t the last.
Pages of unfinished manuscript titled “Be a Good Girl: Lo Bailey, Landon Fitzroy, and the Scandal That Brought Down a Dynasty.” Found among possessions of August Fletcher, 8/3/2025
CHAPTER SEVEN
July 18, 2025
16 Days Left
For the next week, the inn keeps me too busy to think about Lo or Edie or anything but dealing with twenty teenagers spread out over five rooms on the first floor and their two harried (and not particularly observant) chaperones. It’s a youth group from Mississippi, ostensibly here to do “acts of service,” which means that they spend about fifteen minutes every morning picking up trash along the beach and the next sixteen or so hours tanning, screeching at one another, and running down the inn’s hallways so loudly a guest on the second floor called down to see if we were doing construction at 10PM.
Normally, I’d be so happy about seven rooms booked at once that I wouldn’t have cared if they’d all taken up Riverdancing in the lobby at midnight, but they’re paying a deeply discounted rate because back in the ’80s, when the inn was doing well, my dad had decided to do a kind of “Rosalie Inn Gives Back”promotion for youth groups that want to come to town and do community service.
I’ve let that fade away for the most part, but apparently the First Baptist Church of Piedmont, Mississippi, hadn’t forgotten because they’d booked early this year, and I’m a sucker.
I’m heaving a mighty sigh of relief as their van bumps off down the gravel-and-shell road when August suddenly appears at my side.
“Have to say, until this trip, I never realized that innkeepers should be considered for sainthood, but watching you deal with that crowd? You should probably start polishing the halo now.”
I laugh, closing the front door with one hand and pushing my sweaty hair back from my forehead with the other. It doesn’t seem to matter that I grew up in this very building—every summer, the heat catches me by surprise. I keep telling myself it’s not any worse than usual this year, but each morning, the air feels heavier than the last.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I tell him. “We had a bachelorette weekend three years ago that turned my hair completely white. This?” I point to my head. “Very expensive dye job.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, his eyes crinkling. He’s wearing a white T-shirt this morning, setting off the deeper tan he’s acquired since he got to St. Medard’s Bay, and my stomach gives a pleasant little swoop.
“Well,” he says, putting both hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels, “I’m sure you want to face-plant into the nearest margarita after all that, but I was wondering if now might be a good time for that interview. And we can multitask and grab lunch while we do it.”
Between visiting my mom, the shock of learning Edie’s background, and the general chaos of the church group, I’d never gotten around to talking to August like I’d promised, and eventhough I know there are a million other things I should be doing, I find myself nodding. “Yeah, sure, let me just tell Edie I’ll be out for a little bit.”
I find her in the office, once again on the NOAA website, studying the two-week forecast. Now that I know about her family, her anxiety over storms makes complete sense. “Anything to report?” I ask, and she frowns, the bright blues of the map reflected in her glasses.
“There’s a system I’m keeping an eye on out in the Caribbean. Not loving the look of it. Did you know that the water temps are already higher than they were this time last year? Not loving that, either.”
I look over her shoulder at the map. I’ve been lucky—in the few years since I’ve taken over the inn, the worst weather we’ve had was a couple of severe thunderstorms. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t prep for a hurricane every year. Both Mom and Dad instilled in me early on that a good innkeeper is always prepared. So before June 1—the official start of hurricane season—I make sure the generators have plenty of fuel and are still in good condition, check the storm windows, and load up on bottled water that I store in the office. It’s silly, but it always makes me feel like I’m doing some kind of protection ritual, gathering my talismans or something.
The Witches of St. Medard’s Bay, I find myself thinking, and almost smile.
Instead, I reach out and pat Edie’s back. “Well, forewarned is forearmed, right?”
She only grunts, and I give her shoulder a squeeze before letting her know I’ll be off the property for a little while but will have my phone with me.
I don’t tell her I’m going with August, or that he’s interviewing me for Lo’s book. In fact, we haven’t talked about Lo at allsince that morning on the porch when Edie told me she was sure Lo had killed Landon Fitzroy.
It had taken me aback, the certainty of it.
It had surprised me even more to realize that I didn’t believe her.
