“Oh, Poppy,” the old lady replies, making no attempt to stop her rickety descent. “There you are. I was coming to ask if you had any of those delicious cupcakes.”
Poppy hurries up her neighbor’s steps, taking her arm. “Of course. A dozen again?”
Mrs. Sinclair nods. “Perfect. It’s my turn to host book club tomorrow evening, and the ladies won’t stop asking about your cupcakes. It’s almost as if they’re more interested in those than the book itself.”
Poppy laughs. “Consider it done. I’ll drop them by first thing tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” The old woman reaches a shaky hand for her purse, fumbling with the old-fashioned gold clasp, but Poppy stops her.
“There’s no charge, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“It’s Sylvia, dear, and I’m not taking your cupcakes for free.”
Poppy gives a huff of feigned exasperation. “I’ve told you before, I won’t take your money.”
The woman frowns. “And I’ve toldyou, that’s a terrible way to run a business.” She turns to start up her steps again, and Poppy takes her arm without missing a beat.
“I know.” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “How’s this? You give my card to each of your book club ladies, and we’ll call it even.”
Sylvia grumbles, but seems to agree, and Poppy helps her back inside. Then, she turns back to us, combing her fingers through her fiery-red hair as she returns to the sidewalk.
“Sorry. My neighbor.” She laughs. “She’s always at book club, off to the theater, or volunteering at The Met. I swear, that woman has a better social life than I do.”
Daisy grins as we head along Fruit Street. “I’ve seen her in Joe’s. She’s sweet.”
Poppy nods. “She is, but I worry about her. All alone in that big house.”
“No family?” I ask.
“They live out of town, and from what I can tell, she’s not overly close with them. She said her granddaughter visits sometimes, but I haven’t met her.”
Daisy’s smile fades. “I know what it’s like not to be close with your family,” she mutters, and I glance at her.
“We have that in common,” I say dryly.
Violet tilts her head. “But I thought you worked for your dad?”
“It’s… complicated,” I mumble. I consider leaving it there, but decide not to. If I want to become actual friends with these people, I need to let them in, regardless of how humiliating it might be. And the truth is, I desperately want to be friends with them. They’re kind and funny, and make me feel so welcome.
Taking a deep breath, I tell them what I didn’t share the day we met. “My father’s forcing me to work for him to pay off my student debt.”
“Ugh,” Violet says. “Okay,nowI get it. That sucks.”
“Yup.”
We walk in silence for a while, past the firm’s offices, windows dark and lifeless. Out here in the frigid night, I can almost imagine I’ve never been inside. The thought is bittersweet.
“Oh.” Violet stops us short. “That’s the architecture firm we’re meeting with,” she tells the others, and I freeze.
“Prescott & Associates?” I ask, voice squeaky as I pretend to read off the brass sign.
She nods, and I realize I don’t know what she does for work. “What do you do, exactly?”
Violet smiles. “I run a historical restoration company with my husband. We’ve acquired an old carriage house down the street, and we’re looking for an architect to help us reimagine it. Normally we work with clients on their properties, but lately we’ve been branching into adaptive reuse. Old warehouses,firehouses, even carriage houses. Spaces where we can keep the history, but give them a new purpose.”
“I love that,” I murmur. The Wetherly Cove lighthouse springs to mind, and I smile. If Aidan took on the carriage house project, I may be able to help.
Violet motions to the offices across the street. “I don’t know if this is the right firm for that, but I’ve heard good things about John Prescott. We’ve got a meeting set up the week after next.”
