“You look cold.”
“I’m okay.” Her insides were warm, but her skin was covered in goosebumps.
“Here, take my flannel. I insist.” He said, lifting it from his white T-shirt.
They stopped, and he wrapped it around her petite shoulders; his hand grazed the nape of her neck. Their eyes locked. In his blue orbs, she saw comfort, a sense of ease. Her heart raced like a sprinter about to cross the finish line. A second seemed like an eternity. She felt seen for the first time in her life. This was crazy. She barely knew him, yet there was a kinship here. It was one she could feel but couldn’t explain. Not yet anyway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
July 5
The next day, Dahlia biked into town, and the wind carried her into another world. One where she felt things with all of her senses again and wanted to lean into them daringly. Her body was airy as she pedaled past some of her favorite old houses, replaying the events of last night. The aroma of fresh-cut grass and sun-ripened honeysuckles filled the air, and the weekday sounds of landscapers occupied the airwaves. Dahlia forgot how much she loved this place. She lifted her hands from the handlebars and let this new mood carry her. Maybe Kara was right—a summer fling with her handy hunk was just what she needed.
Dahlia’s hip buzzed, waking her from her tempting thoughts. It was probably Spence. He always had the worst timing. She stopped her bike along the shoulder and pulled the phone from her side purse. It was Daisy. Her face brightened as she read her text.Eloise canceled, wasn’t feeling well. We rescheduled it for next Sunday. KYP.
“That’s a bummer,” Dahlia mumbled, then typed back,K, love you. Be safe.
LY2.
Dahlia leaned her face into the warm sun like she was leaning into hope. Her body felt expansive and free. Bit by bit, Monica was disappearing, and Rachel was slowly taking her place. It was apparent her feelings were evolving. But into what? Dahlia still didn’t know, and she was okay with that.
She parked her bike outside the five-and-dime, in between the planter and a display of American flags. Dahlia pulled the oil-making list from her pocket and grabbed the sack inside the bike basket, excited to try some of Lil’s essential-oil recipes. The bells chimed as she opened the door, along with a waft of cold. She stood there, feeling unhurried. It was a familiar summer sound and smell. As much as the outside world had changed, Southold remained stuck in time. And Dahlia was happy to time travel, even if it was for a short stint.
The list included mason jars with lids, cheesecloth, coconut oil, and vitamin E capsules. She slowly walked the aisles, dropping what she needed into her bag. Lil had some 100-proof vodka, but she’d get witch hazel, just in case. She retrieved a jar from the old metal shelf; it reminded her of the can she and Noah found yesterday. The significance of the number eighteen remained a mystery. She shook her head and tossed it in, along with a few more. Dahlia noticed two girls in their twenties trying on sunglasses at the end of the aisle. The short blonde lifted her chin and asked, “How do I look, darling?” with a Zsa Zsa Gabor accent.
The taller one with a slicked-back pony spun the rack and said, “Marvelous! Hey, you think we’ll see Noah Sterling at the vineyard? Page Six said he was spending the summer out here.”
“I don’t think so. I heard he’s still in hiding, grieving Josie.”
Dahlia stumbled into the display stand. Josie? And what exactly was he grieving? She still didn’t have specifics. Afterregaining her footing, she walked closer, pretending to look at the vitamins. She gripped the closest plastic container; her eyes focused on the nutritional information while she eavesdropped. She was wildly aware that just last night, she’d wanted him to be the one to tell her about his life, but in that moment, that small detail seemed insignificant.
“She did a number on him, and with that best friend of his. What a total douche. Poor Noah. She was the love of his life.”
Dahlia felt her body shrink at the sound of those words. She couldn’t compete with the love of his life.
“Yeah, he deserves so much better, but she is gorgeous and a TikTok star with millions of followers, so I’m sure it won’t be long before he takes her back. I mean, he always does,” the blonde said.
Dahlia’s stomach dropped to her feet, and her throat was bone dry. This changed things. There was no reason to feel rocked—no promises had been made beyond house support—yet Dahlia couldn’t help but feel duped. Like she was in a bar having the time of her life, and suddenly someone turned on the lights and said, “It’s over, folks; go home.”
She rushed to pay and rode back to Meadow Lane.
With Noah gone all day helping his sister with the restaurant, Dahlia took a break from gardening to explore her creativity. Or, as Lil would advise from her bucket list, a “hobby.” There was still plenty to do around the house, and the list was growing by the hour, but she needed a break. The anxiety might swallow her whole if she couldn’t connect with nature. Plus, she felt connected to the flowers in ways she never had before. She wanted to claim the unspoiled feeling for as long as possible while contemplating this new Noah intel.
It would seem he was emotionally unavailable. And the bit of happiness she felt when she was around him was still in the infancy stage. She could easily let it fly away and be fine. But did she want to? Being alone was something she was used to, even when she’d been married to Spence. Just because she was good at it didn’t mean she didn’t deserve more.
Dahlia’s thoughts continued to meander.It’s good that I know what I’m dealing with, she thought. The cards were now on the table. She couldn’t conceive of competing with someone like Josie, the TikTok star. She gave herself a once-over: Her bare legs were covered in soil and scrapes. She could feel her stale skin and her humid hair curling at the base of her neck. Dahlia had a girl-next-door charm, and many told her she looked like Allie fromThe Notebook, but she couldn’t see it.
With the phone in hand, she was tempted to look Josie up. She wanted to know exactly what she was up against. But the majestic English-looking flower beds captured her attention and interrupted her quandary; with that, she set the phone back down again. She needed to focus on the house and herself—things she could control.
Dahlia clipped the blooms exactly where Lil had shown her to, a quarter inch above the leaf, smelling the aromas as she went along. There was a pang of guilt in her chest for not driving out in the spring to prune. But how could she have? She was grieving Lil.
She hummed Miley Cyrus’s song “Flowers” as she filled the copper bowl with cuttings she would use for the enfleurage and cut more for a bouquet. It would be nice to have fresh flowers in the house again, and she certainly didn’t need a man to buy her any when she had all this outside her door. She looked out over the blanket of colors that reminded her of the inside of a candy shop. Her eyes welled with happy tears.
Dahlia could still hear Lil’s sweet voice the day before she died. “Remember, the garden first when you get to my house.” She finally understood why Lil had loved gardening as much as she did and how the flowers kept her company.
After dusting off her mucky hands, she grabbed her camera and wandered through the beds. She ran her palms along the blood-orange poppy petals. She would miss this. The reality was setting in, and it was hard to believe she wouldn’t be here next year to enjoy it. It was the middle of the day, and the sun was intense. Dandelion fur drifted through the tepid air. The lonesome mourning dove above offered her another element of peace. She took a few botanical photos and then captured a ladybug on an alyssum stem. The strong fragrance grounded her in the moment. She didn’t know what she’d do with all the pictures yet, but she wanted to document everything. That much she knew.
The kitchen was muggy when she entered through the back door. With flowers in hand, she filled Gran’s blue and white chinoiserie vase with water. Leon had bought it for Lizzie for their fifth wedding anniversary. Gran wasn’t the type for lavish gifts; she liked purposeful gifts with style. Whenever she pulled it out from the hutch, never fail, she would retell the story over and over again to anyone who would listen. “When I arrived home, he was there, waiting for me in the kitchen with this vase, a dozen long-stem roses, and chocolates. The card read,I missed you, mon amour.”
