Page 93 of The Candlemaker

“Fine. Good. Doctor checked her again last night and said she’s in the clear.”

I let out an unsteady breath. Lately, all my breaths seemed unsteady. Like they were just waiting for the next thing to catch them off guard.

“Good.” At least one thing was going in the right direction.

“How are things going with Frankie?”

I wiped a towel over my face and grunted. “They aren’t.”

“Still won’t talk to you?”

I frowned. “No.” If it were easy, it wouldn’t be Frankie.

He made a noise.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.” He paused. “Maybe a little—oh, hold on.” There was a rustle, and then I heard his muffled voice say to someone else, “I’m laughing because Chandler has found someone who’s just as stubborn as he is.”

My shoulders sagged.

The line rustled again. “Your mom wanted to know why I was laughing.”

“Great.”

“She wants to see you, Chandler,” he said, his voice lower so she wouldn’t hear.

I hadn’t seen Mom since we’d brought her back to Edgewood a week and a half ago—a whole four weeks after my conversation with Tom at the hospital. After what happened, I couldn’t help but think it was my fault she’d ended up in the hospital in the first place. I was the one who’d made her so upset the day before. I was the one who caused the first domino to fall. And now that she was finally healed and home…I couldn’t live with myself if I was the one to make things worse again.

“Maybe,” I croaked. “Maybe after I talk to Frankie…if I ever talk to her.”

For a week, I’d showed up at the Candle Cabin with a blueberry scone and a coffee from the Maine Squeeze the way I knew she liked it. Every day, I walked in the front door, and she walked to the back. So, I left the breakfast on her desk with scribbled notes on the napkin.

I’m not leaving, Frankie.

Please talk to me.

I’m not going anywhere.

At first, I thought it was a good sign that it was gone the following day until I stuck around on Wednesday to see if she’d break down and talk to me and instead watched her take the coffee cup to the back, only to hear liquid down the drain a minute later.

“What would Frankie do?” Tom asked.

I gritted my teeth. If our roles were reversed, who the hell knew what she would do. Kidnap me and tie me to a chair and force me to listen to her. Get her brother or her cousin or some other conspirator to drive her around behind me with a megaphone so there was no ignoring her. Fly a plane and write her confession in smoke signals in the sky.

“She wouldn’t play fair.”

“So then don’t play fair back.”

Maybe that was the answer. She would do whatever it took, and maybe it was time I did, too.

“And if she calls the police on me?” I wondered, only partially teasing.

Tom chuckled again. “I guess it’s a good thing you have me to bail you out.”

I stood at the gate in front of the inn—the rust removed and the iron repainted since the last time I’d walked through it three months ago.If I was going to get through to Frankie, I wasn’t going to do it alone, and the one person—the first person I knew I needed on my side—was Lou.

I looked up at the façade of the building, already so much of it having changed—improved from before. Even the heavy bronze sign, the Lamplight Inn, embossed into the metal, heralded the historic weight of the landmark to the community.

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