“Work,” they all chorus together.
“Yes, well, I do own the place.”
Kate sticks out her tongue. “All you do is work.” When I cross my arms, her green eyes soften. “You can get a coffee first. Enjoy a walk and let the sun hit your face for a bit. Do you remember this place called outside? You’ll feel better.”
I feel fine. I do.
Kate examines her ballet-slipper pink manicure, pretending as though she suddenly doesn’t care if I go or stay. “Aren’t you a little bit curious about what he’s like?”
“No.” The phone rings, and I dive for it, but Zoe picks it up and gives me a subtle “fuck you” wave goodbye.
Sophie bumps my shoulder, her Burberry perfume overwhelming. “Izzy, live a little.”
I huff, tugging the bottom of my sweater over my floral sundress. “I live plenty.”
I’ve been dragging air through my lungs for twenty-eight years now. That counts, right? I’m finally getting ahead. If it means life finally feels steady for once, I’ll spend my days at the bookstore and my nights with a good vibrator. Sounds like a fair trade-off after years of that not being the case.
“I heard he’s cute.”
“I heard he’s slept with every woman in Boston,” I counter.
“Practice makes perfect,” Sophie chimes in, playfully pushing me toward the door.
“I thought you didn’t know who he was?” Maisie teases.
“I need new friends.” This, of course, is a lie. I adore my friends. I don’t know where I’d be without them, and they all know this.
“Your baby will be fine for an hour. She’s in good hands with Zoe.” Maisie steers me out into the September sun. I tilt my face up, pushing aside the panic spiraling inside of me at everything I’ve left unfinished this morning. There’s a never-ending to-do list always eating up my brain space. But for one blissful second, it’s just warm sun kissing my skin.
“Maybe you’ll even win,” Kate whispers with a cheeky wink. She spins into the crowded Main Street, which is closed off to traffic today for the festival.
“We can’t all have your legal record,” I joke.
Kate only shrugs. Last year, theBoston Business Journalnamed her in their “40 Under 40” list, making her the official overachiever of thegroup.
The air smells like sausage and cotton candy and cinnamon, a weird mix of fall in New England. It’s too early for the leaves to be changing, but if you look carefully, a few have spots of color.
The fire that took Merritt’s Catch Lobster Co. last month left a gap you can’t ignore. From here, the harbor is suddenly visible beyond the fire-charred pit in the ground where the seafood shack used to stand. On either side of it, a patchwork of scaffolding shrouds the neighboring businesses, repairs pressed for time before the dreaded winter swoops in.
That’s why there’s a charity auction at Fall Fest today. Annie Murphy, the owners’ daughter, decided her famous brother could be used as collateral to help fund the rebuilding.
The girls are arguing over when to buy a candy apple as they drag me through the crowd until we’re standing on the grassy common with the white wooden gazebo in the middle. Surrounding the green is Merritt Point’s town hall and church, then the small brick library where Maisie is a children’s librarian.
It’s quaint in a Norman Rockwell way. Probably why the tourists flock here in the summer. They all want to experience the New England aesthetic flooding social media. The irony isn’t lost on me that because it’s become an experience, the small-town feel is eroding under the influx of tourists. Condo projects and boutiques and trendy restaurants are geared more and more toward a demographic that expects the luxuries they’d find closer to Boston and less like the small town they fell in love with. Merritt Point isn’t far from the city anyhow, only forty minutes north, tucked along the rugged Massachusetts coastline.
The crowd waiting is seriously impressive. I’m on my phone, texting Zoe, who’s assuring me the store is fine. I know it’s fine. I do. But I like to be in control. Call it eldest daughter issues.
“How much are you going to bid, Izzy?” Maisie turns to me, quirking her brow, before breaking out into giggles.
I only glare at her.
“Geez, I’m just kidding.”
“You need to get laid.” Kate wags her finger at me. “Who better to do the job than Jack Murphy?”
“You keep talking about this auction like I care.” I turn and wave at Sloane Arden, the new editor of theMerritt Point Herald, and her boyfriend, Ethan Murphy. Yes, another Murphy brother.
The Murphy brothers’ little sister struts onto the stage next. Her curly blonde hair is tucked into a ponytail pulled through a royal-blue trucker hat. She loves a good pun, but I’m a little too far away to read today’s witty message.
