It’s not like anyone enjoys the process of contacting contractors and gathering estimates. Working with Hunter would make it easy. Hopefully also easy on the pocketbook, and definitely easy on the eyes.
“Even Nathan and his biscuits can’t bully me into something I was going to do anyway,” I say, keeping the tone light and playful. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“Are you still at the inn or staying at Maggie’s place?”
Ah, yes. Here it comes. He’s not going to let this go.
“At Maggie’s,” I say. “But—”
“Oh,” someone else breaks in. “You’re staying at Maggie’s apartment?”
Finally, the moment I’ve been weirdly dreading arrives. Joyce Blakely has made her way around the table to stand before me.
Joyce may look like the Platonic ideal of a storybook grandmother, but the way she’s glaring at me now suggests there is some truth to Maggie’s dislike. Her eyes are sharp, her mouth turned down.
“That’s so interesting. My Elizabeth was about the same age as Maggie’s daughter Miranda, and you’re just about Hunter’s age and have auburn hair, just like Miranda. Just like Maggie. Living in her apartment. Taking over her store right after her death. Helping plan her memorial.” She clears her throat and looks around the room as if waiting for attention before saying, loudly, “Why, you must be a Kirkwood!”
The room goes completely silent.
Worst of all, the look Hunter gives me? Pure disgust.
“Of course you are,” he mutters, shaking his head sadly.
19.
I’m immediately swarmedby Southern people who have smelled a tragedy and need to sink their teeth in. Hands grasp my shoulders and pat my arms. I’m told my grandmother was a spitfire, a saint, a beauty, a character. I’m told I look like her, the spitting image, how didn’t they notice? I’m told that Arcadia Falls has been waiting for me. A few people, however, Joyce included, keep their distance, whisper behind their hands, and look me up and down like I might secretly be a reptile.
“Can’t believe she never told us! And you weren’t at the funeral!” the caftan lady mutters indignantly, like it’s somehow my fault.
“They didn’t know each other,” Colonel shoots back. “I only found out a few weeks ago when Riley tracked down the prodigal granddaughter. Now let the poor girl breathe!”
It gets awkward after that, once all the condolences have been condoled and the monster cookies monstrously devoured. I swiftly make my exit, glancing around the room in hopes that I can avoid either of the Blakelys. Of course, in the crush of peoplenavigating the furniture-strewn lobby of the inn, I manage to end up at the door at the same time as Hunter. The look he gives me is resentful, but I guess I deserve it.
He stands back. “Please. Go ahead.”
And I’d argue, but I want out of here. So many new people, so much to keep up with, so many eyes on me. I’m not accustomed to being the center of attention, but I’m learning that being the new girl in a small town is like being a chicken nugget in a flock of pigeons, especially after Joyce’s truth bomb about my ancestry.
I nod and murmur my thanks, aware of him waiting to follow me out. The night air has a welcome coolness, and I exhale a big breath and close my eyes for a moment, grateful for the space. The scent of late summer rides the breeze, heavy with jasmine and camellia, their glossy leaves rustling prettily behind the inn’s white picket fence, and when I look up, it seems like the stars are closer than usual.
“You never mentioned you were a Kirkwood,” Hunter says.
I take a deep breath. “That’s because I’m not a Kirkwood. I’m a Wolfe. I never met my grandmother. My mother hated her and left this place to escape her. So whatever beef you have against her has nothing to do with me. I’m sorry she left y’all angry.”
“You don’t understand,” Maggie starts, but I give the backpack a slight shake. This moment feels important, a make-or-break thing between Hunter and me.
He looks around, buying some time to think. “Angrydoesn’t quite cover it, but that doesn’t mean it’s your fault—or that it’s safe for you to walk around at night by yourself. Can I see you home? That alley is dark, and you’re the only person going back there tonight.”
He’s right. I own the next three properties, so they’re all empty, and the candy store closes early. There’s no reason for anyone else to be in that alley, which means that if they are, it’s not good. And I’m pretty sure Big John and Buttercup would be of no use in case of an attack. Hell, they’d probably wring their little raccoon hands and bide their time to eat my corpse.
“Sure. Thanks.” We start walking, and, not gonna lie, it’s awkward. I slip out of my blazer, let the breeze hit my shoulders and flutter my silk shell. “Speaking of which—would it be really expensive to make an interior staircase that goes directly into the store? Or even just a ladder. Or a fireman’s pole? I don’t like the idea that if I heard something down there in the middle of thenight, I’d have to go all the way around the alley first.”
Something about him softens. He’s relieved, I think, to have something to talk about besides our whole Romeo-and-Juliet vibe. “There actually is a stairwell already. Maggie had me wall off the door upstairs. She liked her privacy. So really, I’d just cut out the drywall and reframe the door in the apartment.”
I try to imagine where a hidden door might be and, failing that, try to remember any spare doors in the actual store. A wave of guilt sweeps over me as I realize that I, the business owner, have only set foot in my store for a combined total of five minutes, maybe. I just assumed Abraham would be running it, or not running it, as usual. Since he didn’t contact me at all and Maggie didn’t suggest I talk to him, I kinda forgot all about it.
So far, I am not the ideal entrepreneur.
As we reach the square, I squint across the darkened street and note that the lights are still on at the Arcadia Falls VideoEmporium& Boiled P-Nut Palace. Then again, I guess people with a hankering to rentMannequin Twoon VHS don’t want to wait until the morning. I haven’t seen hours posted anywhere, but that fits in with everything I’ve seen so far of my grandmother’s business. The best time to peruse twenty-year-old VHS tapes is clearly when an entire town of old folks is already asleep.
