“You know him?”
“Dean’s mentioned him. Your husband’s business partner, right?”
“And husband to my best friend Jessica. They own The Fiction Nook—the bookshop down the boardwalk.” Michelle refills my mug without asking. “Scott went through a rough patch with his writing a while back. Couldn’t get words on the page, felt like a fraud, the whole spiral. But he figured it out eventually.”
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic. “How?”
“That’s probably his story to tell. But between you and me?” She leans in conspiratorially. “I think it had something to do with finally being honest about who he really is. Dropping all the masks. Writing from the gut instead of the head.”
“Sounds easier than it is.”
“Doesn’t everything?” Michelle shrugs. “If you’re stuck, Scott might be worth talking to. He’s been where you are. And he’s good people.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The bell above the door chimes, and I glance over automatically. An older woman bustles in, already talking before she’s fully through the door.
“Michelle, you will not believe what I saw this morning. That new florist girl—Delilah—was out running on the beach before the sun was even up. Before sunrise! In this cold! And she was wearing the shortest shorts I’ve ever?—”
“Mrs. Jacobs.” Michelle’s voice is pleasant but firm. “Can I get you your usual?”
The woman—Mrs. Jacobs, apparently—deflates slightly. “Well. Yes. But I’m just saying, it’s not seemly. A woman her age, running around half-dressed?—”
“It’s called exercise, and it’s good for you. Americano?”
“Fine, fine.” Mrs. Jacobs drops onto a stool two down from me, still muttering about propriety and standards and “what would her mother think?”
I stare into my coffee and try not to react.
Delilah was running on the beach this morning. Before dawn. While I was lying awake staring at my ceiling like a lovesick idiot.
We probably missed each other by minutes.
The universe really does have a sick sense of humor.
Michelle catches my eye and gives me a tiny, sympathetic smile. Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and she’s not going to say a word.
“You should talk to Scott sometime,” she says casually, wiping down the counter. “About the creative block thing. He’s at The Fiction Nook most days. Tell him I sent you.”
“I might do that.”
“Good.” She slides a fresh pastry across the counter. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
The door chimes again, and this time I don’t look up. I just eat my pastry and drink my coffee and try not to think about Delilah Smart running on the beach in short shorts while the sun came up.
I fail completely.
THREE
DELILAH
Friday morning, I’m elbow-deep in tulip arrangements when my phone buzzes.
Jo:Dinner at my place tonight! Wedding flower planning! 6pm. Bring your appetite and your ideas.
I stare at the text for a long moment. Wedding flower planning. That’s innocent enough. Professional, even. Just the bride and her florist, talking centerpieces and bouquets.
Me:Sounds great! What can I bring?
