Page 40 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“Yeah, I’m here.” Physically, at least. Mentally, my brain is still back at the house, in the hallway outside Marilee’s room where I stood last night when I overheard Lucy telling my sister about the conversation she heard between me and Dad so many years ago.

I didn’t mean to stop. I was on my way back to my room—after a purposefully cold shower, during which I tried to forget the previous events of the evening—when I heard Lucy say my name. Then, it was as if my whole body shut down. I slumped against the wall and listened while Lucy’s gut-wrenchingly sad voice talked about how much teenage Blake had hurt her.

And just when I was about to storm inside, confess my sins, and apologize, she ended with, “I got over him a long time ago.” Because of course she did. Yet here I was, being that jerk trying to stoke back to life the feelings she’d once had. And for what?

I won’t do that to her. Not again. And I will find a time to apologize.

But not right now. Because right now, I’m busy plotting with Dale about our restaurant.

That, and buying the ingredients for a new grilled cheese recipe I want to try. Inspired, of course, by last night’s escapades.

By Lucy.

I snag a few bags of mini marshmallows while Dale drones on about details I should find interesting. The location he’s secured for our restaurant is at once upscale but not stuffy. It’s modern but has some architectural elements that will lend a mid-century vibe to it as well. He’s already signed the lease to begin July 15, once the current tenants move out, and he’s put out feelers for sous chefs. “Unless you want to be fully in charge of selecting your staff?”

Above me, a fluorescent light flickers. I’m one of the only shoppers here this early, though I’ve seen a handful of older folks come through buying cans of soup and loaves of bread. I blink at the two bags of chocolate chips I’m holding, one with mini chips and one with regular-sized. Everything in me wants to hang up this phone and get to my truck. My fingers are itching to experiment. But I can’t put off Dale like that. “Uh, to be honest, I’m not sure.”

“Really?” He pauses, and I can picture that vein that pops in his forehead when he gets worried or upset. “Is everything okay there, Blake? Are you still committed to this?”

“What?” I laugh, and it comes out stilted. “Of course I am.”

“You sure? Because for a guy on the brink of all his dreams coming true, it doesn’t sound like you’ve been thinking much about that dream at all lately.”

I toss both bags of chocolate into the cart and push harder than necessary. The wheels squeak and grind, and I grunt with the effort to maneuver around the corner, nodding at old Earl Flanders as he hobbles past me in his cowboy hat. The bell at the front of the store jangles. It’s getting later, and I’m running out of time to experiment before I have to open the food truck for lunch.

“Look, Dale.” I draw up my shoulders and continue my trek to the spice aisle. “I haven’t been as focused on the business side of things because I know you’ve got it covered. Besides, my main focus right now is getting these recipes ready, right? I’m doing everything in my power to get feedback on my offerings so I know what’s going to sell like hotcakes when we open the restaurant.” Here’s hoping he doesn’t see through my bluster, though, of course, there is some element of truth to what I’m saying.

To be honest, I’m not quite sure why I haven’t been obsessing about all the details of the restaurant. But maybe it’s better to just concentrate on one thing at a time. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that Hallmark Beach has a way of sucking you in and making you forget the outside world.

Hallmark Beach…and certain residents.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Dale’s voice hums with consideration. “So, you’re making headway on the new recipes then?”

Sure, if you call serving the same limited offerings for the last three weeks progress. Although after last night, I’ve got a spark back that I haven’t felt in a good long while. So I’m hopeful. Which is why I assure Dale that of course things are moving forward—so he doesn’t worry—and fly through the aisles grabbing the last ingredients for what I need after hanging up with him.

I reach the only occupied register with a decently loaded down cart, and Alberta Jenkins herself is acting as cashier. The seventy-something has bottle-red hair with gray roots nobody would dare point out to her. She purses her lips like she’s swallowed a vat of vinegar and inspects my cart as if its contents hold all my secrets. “That it?”

Uhhh, what else was she expecting me to buy? I’ll never know, because right when I open my mouth to say, “Yep,” Alberta’s eyes pop behind me, and her jowls wobble as she yells, “Earl Flanders, you put down that glass vase before you break it,” and waddles away, finger waving in the air.

Okay, then.

My eyes sweep the counter while I wait for her return, and they land on a stack of fliers with The Green Robin’s simple logo and information about their BOGO special going on this week. Lucy must have dropped them at all the local businesses like I did when handing out my own coupons. I glance back at Alberta, who is now following Earl around with her wagging finger as he clutches a vase to his flannel shirt, his nose tipped in the air as if he’s ignoring her. Then, before I can stop myself, I grab half of the fliers and stuff them into the back pocket of my slacks.

Finally, Alberta returns, muttering under her breath about insufferable men, and rings up my items without another word. I help bag everything to make the process quicker, and her eyes seem to soften around the edges. But of course, she doesn’t say thank you. The president of the town council is known for her forthrightness…and sometimes, her rudeness. Still, after I pay and she hands me the receipt, she tips her head toward me and says in a quiet voice, “I hope this town is being good to you while you’re back.”

“It is.”

“Good.” She blinks at me. “Your parents were fine people, and we sure do miss them around here. Glad you’re back, if only for a while.”

Whoa, what alternate universe have I stepped into where Alberta Jenkins—the woman who used to literally yell at all the school kids to GET OFF HER LAWN—is being nice to me? I clear my throat, nod. “Thank you.”

Then I’m outta there, making sure Main Street is clear of cars before I cross and walk down past the bookstore and Rainbow Ice to where my truck is parked. I set the groceries on the ground and dig my keys out of my pocket, waving at Chad Painter as he cleans one of the tables between the food truck and Rainbow Ice, which he owns with his wife Amber. In his early forties, he seems like a nice guy, but I haven’t had much time to chat with him. Between the business and his wife and their three young kids, he’s a busy dude. Plus, he closes up right at five and lets a few college students take the last shift.

I wonder what that’s like—to have a family to go home to, and to make that a priority. My last significant relationship lasted only three months and ended because Chelsea couldn’t handle my long hours. Not that I blamed her. Whenever I did see her, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open, and my mind was always back at the restaurant even when I wasn’t physically present there.

Is it bad that I kind of dread going back to that fast-paced lifestyle?

Shaking myself from the not-so-pleasant memories and the terrifying contemplations, I unlock the food truck and drag my grocery haul inside. Another spark of excitement zings inside my chest as I pull out what I purchased. Flipping on the grill, I refrigerate what I’ll need for later, and—before setting to work—tug Lucy’s fliers out of my back pocket. They’re a bit wrinkled, so I do my best to smooth them out, then set them on the sill of my window so I remember to put them beside the condiments station where patrons will be sure to see them…and hopefully take one to use later.

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