‘Tonight?’
‘Tonight.’
Chapter 14
LOVE BETWEEN THE LINES
Back at the Pink House, I sprawled out on one of the striped outdoor daybeds and opened the diary I’d found at The Last Word. After all, I’d never found a diary I hadn’t wanted to snoop through. (Sorry, Tiff.) And Josephine Lovell’s diary was primed for snooping. She had lovely languid handwriting full of loops and swirls, and wrote cheerfully about visitors and whisperwinds and the dance parties that had apparently been commonplace at the Whisperwind Cove town hall. I’d flipped through the volume looking for insights into her love life, but there were only a couple of passing references to someone called Emmett, who seemed to come from a wealthy family a few towns over, and someone called Felix, who worked in Whisperwind Cove over the summers.
And this one line:You only get so many chances to tell someone how you feel.
I owed the diary a closer reading – especially the bits where there seemed to be missing pages – but my attention span was not having it. Perhaps it was the whipping of the ocean breeze, or maybe it was my impending date with Finn, but my reading session thus far had mostly consisted of gazing off into the distance and running through various romantic hypotheticals as I bopped along to the Belinda Carlisle playlist Rosie had filtering through the portable Bluetooth speakers. Well, whenthe speakers weren’t picking up a snatch of movie dialogue or an errant whisperwind about a lost love, that is.
But how could I not be distracted? Finn was frolicking in the ocean rinsing off the sticky remnants of our melted ice-cream outing, and Noah was in the tiny studio down the garden path, poring over his law-school textbooks or quietly working on his latest painting. Every now and then, I could see his silhouette darken the small window that overlooked the garden, and I’d wonder if he was looking out at me. Each time, I’d shift my pose to something more painterly, just in case. Because it wasn’tentirelyout of the realm of possibility that he was painting me. He’d done so in the past, when he was practising forms and poses for his high-school art classes. And though I hadn’t seen actual proof, he’d apparently sketched me at the bonfire.
Perhaps The Last Word should have delivered Noah’s sketchbook instead of Josephine’s diaries. I was pretty sure the former would be more revealing.
Spinning my glass of lemonade on its coaster, I wondered idly if I should go in and offer Noah a drink of water. Maybe one of Rosie’s éclairs, although she was complaining about how they hadn’t turned out the way they should’ve. Would it be weird? It wasn’t weird to check on a friend, was it? A very handsome friend who was possibly painting my portrait? A very handsome friend whose brother I’d just spent the afternoon flirtatiously eating ice cream with, and who I’d just agreed to go on a date with?
Ugh, this was all so confusing.
The silhouette appeared at the window again, and I hid under the diary. Noah Tucker was definitely looking my way. I adjusted my pose once more, aiming for a sort of sultry lady of leisure. There, that wasn’t too terrible. That was worth painting, wasn’t it?
Oh goddess, he’d caught me lookingagain.
I waved hesitantly.
The silhouette waved back.
Well now, Ihadto go see what he was up to, didn’t I?
I’d set down the diary and got as far as hoisting myself off the daybed when Tiff came out, a glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other. She was part-way through a very long and effusive goodbye, the sort that inevitably resets with a, ‘oh, I forgot to tell you …’ multiple times over, until someone finally says, ‘well, on that note …’
‘Bye, Damien,’ I called, doing everyone a favour.
The silhouette in the studio disappeared. Well, there went that moment.
Tiff rang off and took a perch on the other end of the daybed. She seemed a tad tipsy, and the physics of her usual hammock perch were quite possibly beyond her.
‘You and Lara had fun, I see,’ I teased.
Tiff groaned. ‘Her liver is made of sterner stuff than mine. The B&B is really cute, though.’
‘You do know your B&Bs,’ I noted. ‘With all your jet-setting around the world like Carmen Sandiego.’
In a true big-sister move, Tiff stole the chunky-knit blanket I’d been snuggled up under and wrapped it around her legs. ‘Consulting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Living out of a suitcase, eating wobbly hotel eggs day after day, never being able to commit to a time zone.’
Huh. Curious. According to her conversations with Mom, Tiff was living the dream. But, then, Mom said the same thing, and she mostly seemed to spend her days voice-composing emails and telling Dad that he needed to ‘push the creativity, Rufus. Really push it.’
Tiff sighed. ‘And it would be nice to actually spend time with Damien. In person, and not on a screen.’
I could hear the wistfulness in her voice. Could it be that Tiff’s life was actually not the embodiment of perfection in every possible way?
‘What’s stopping you from going to Damien right now?’ I asked quietly.
She sipped her wine. ‘Geography. And familial obligations.’
I slapped her leg lightly. ‘Tell me how you really feel.’
