“Hmm, and how long will that take?”
“Depends on when Gus, the utility guy, makes his way to the village.”
Lauren laughs so hard she snorts. When she’s done, she says, “Oh, you were serious.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What year is it there? I mean comparatively speaking? Like 1940ish?”
“All right, just because you’re still in the center of the universe doesn’t mean this isn’t also…a place to live.”
Hope fills her voice. “You can always change your mind.”
“Tell that to my bank account." What starts out as a smartass remark rings all too true when my voice cracks.
“Oh, hon, you’re not okay.”
“I am. I’m just tired from the drive,” I say. “This will be good for me. Really, it will.”
“And if it isn’t, you can come back here. I’m more than happy to help you find a dilapidated place here in the city to hide out in. We can pretend you’re doing it for me because I miss you so much.”
Taking a deep breath, I say, “I know you’re trying to help, but to be honest, I’m all filled up on people doubting my decisions and making me feel guilty for one day.”
“I take it your mom called?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” Lauren says, her voice all but getting lost in the background music. “But I am proud of you, Abby. You’re doing something genuinely brave.”
“Thanks. That’s more like it,” I say, glancing at the clock. “I should go. I'm starving and dinner service ends at seven p.m.”
Lauren bursts out laughing again, and this time, I find myself joining in. “Don’t forget to slap on some Bengay so you’ll fit in with the other seniors,” she says.
“Already slathered in it. It really does ease my muscle pain. Now, I just need to slide on my orthopedic loafers and I’m all set.”
“Enjoy your first night.”
“That’s unlikely. I may have moved, but I’m still actively anti-enjoyment.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Hugs and shit.”
“Hugs and shit back.”
* * *
I stand at the entrance to the inn's lively pub/dining room with the latest Liane Moriarty tucked under my arm, scanning the room for a quiet spot at the back. Seaside views, dark woods, and cheerful lace tablecloths make it look like a scene out ofMurder She Wrote. I half expect to see Angela Lansbury typing away in the corner.
The ten or so tables are packed with tourists eating while they remember the day they’ve just had. A well-shined mahogany bar sits on the opposite side of the room, and a man with a shock of thick white hair and rosy cheeks is behind it, filling a glass with red wine. My only option is the empty stool at the bar. God, I hope this guy doesn’t serve up a side order of chitchat with my meal.
Seating myself, I hardly have time to read the chalkboard menu on the wall before I am greeted by the man. “Start you off with some wine, love?”
“I’m thinking of a beer, actually.”
“Guinness?”
“Sounds delightful.” I open my book and look for my spot on the page.
