Lucy folded her arms and pouted. “Abigail, Abigail. Everything’s always about her. She’s always been spoiled because she can’t find her own way out of a damn paper bag.”
Annie laughed. “I don’t think swearing will help resolve the situation. My dad used to say that, for better or worse, all things change with time. Until then, why not find something else to do? Did you bring Francine cookies today?”
Lucy nodded. “She asked for peanut butter this week.”
As per their original agreement, Lucy provided the Inn with cookies on a regular basis; the Inn made them available to the guests, day or night. Her profits were going into her college fund—hopefully they wouldn’t be diverted now to pay for her to run away from home.
“Did you make muffins?” Annie asked.
“No. Francine makes them better.”
“What’s the difference?”
She shrugged.
Annie stood up. “Okay, here’s an idea. You have two weeks before school starts, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not take advantage of it? I bet Francine won’t mind if you help her with the baking. Maybe she can show you some things she’s been learning at college.”
Pursing her lips, Lucy seemed to ponder the suggestion. “I suppose.”
“Don’t suppose. Say yes. It will get you out of the house and away from the sister who right now really sucks.”
She pursed some more. “I’m going to the fair with my friends on Friday.”
“Good. Between now and then, maybe you can further cultivate your baking skills.”
“But can I . . . can I stay here? Like here in the cottage with you until school starts?”
Annie sighed. “I would ask your father, Lucy, honestly I would. But I’m going to be staying at your grandparents’. We had an emergency situation and needed to make extra space for a guest, so I’m moving out of here for ten days.”
Lucy stood up. She’d shot up over the summer and now was nearly eye to eye with Annie. “You mean there won’t even be room for me at Gramma and Grandpa’s? I figured if Winnie had no room, and if you didn’t want me, then I could at least have gone there. With Kevin inHawaii.” She wrinkled her nose as she said “Hawaii” as if she didn’t think that Kevin’s trip had been a good idea, either.
Annie didn’t want to mention Simon’s name. Lucy was an avid viewer of the news but hadn’t yet perfected the art of tempering her teenage exuberance with discretion. “I’m sorry, honey. Please understand, it’s not that I don’t want you here. I don’t have a choice right now.”
“Well,” Lucy said, her voice cracking most likely from feelings that were poised to let loose, “that sucks, too.” She then spun on her heels, left the cottage, and headed up the hill, hopefully to track down Francine.
The good part was that Lucy hadn’t once mentioned her mother. So maybe Jenn had left last night after all.
Annie rubbed the back of her neck, hoping it would help her relax.
* * *
After resuming what she referred to as her “writing position” while at the keyboard—feet flat on the floor, backbone straight, two fingers on each hand arced in a highly unprofessional, yet effective-for-her, manner—Annie tried to come up with a few clever blog post ideas (she’d be happy if she only concocted one) that could somehow relate toMurder on Exhibit. But she was feeling glum, and her thoughts wouldn’t gel. She wondered if other authors had trouble remembering the details of a manuscript they’d finished months ago when they were deeply embroiled in the next.
Several minutes later, she gave up, slipped into her flip-flops, and went outside for a walk. Instead of going toward the road, she turned and headed down to the beach, which she’d avoided most of the summer thanks to the tragedy it had wrought last spring. Like with other things, she needed to get over that.
The early afternoon was hot, the sun still filled with summer. She adjusted her sunglasses, tucked her hair behind her ears, and put her hands into the empty pockets of her sundress. She hadn’t brought her phone; she hadn’t locked the cottage door, so she didn’t have her keys, either. Sometimes when she felt a need to focus, Annie paid little attention to minutia.
She tried to remember the types of questions that readers tended to ask at her previous appearances—maybe they would offer a few kernels that she could turn into guest blog posts.
“Do you write every day?” No, she decided. Too boring.
“Where do you get your ideas?” No. Too broad-reaching.
“Why do you write mysteries?”Huh, she thought.That might be a good one. Then she remembered it was one of the first questions Kevin had asked her. He later admitted he had been trying to decipher whether or not his newly found sister was a closet sociopath. Or worse. They’d laughed together over that because by then Annie knew he could be a comedian. He had, however, insisted he wasn’t kidding until she threatened to stop feeding him, at which point he immediately confessed that yes, it had been a joke.
