Page 77 of The Spotted Cottage By the Sea
Patty laughed. “I’ve been a stroke expert longer than you’ve been alive, honey.”
She was in a feisty mood. At least it wasn’t a stroke.
Sheila turned to Eliza “How was your day? Were you busy with all those orders?”
Eliza smiled. “A little, but it was fine. I got all of them to the post office by the end of the day.”
“That’s wonderful!” Sheila carried the pot roast to the table and, thankfully, Patty didn’t protest. She was busy sprinkling crispy onions on the green beans.
“Did anything else happen?” she asked, taking a seat.
Eliza shrugged. “No.”
Patty sat down and Eliza never lifted her eyes.
“Why are you being so quiet?” Sheila asked.
Eliza looked at Patty, then back at her plate. “I’m not being quiet.”
Something was up. Sheila was about to probe more when she heard what that something was: a melody drifting in from outside.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
Eliza looked up. “Yeah. What is that?”
Sheila strained to listen. “I think it’s a piano – or a synthesizer?”
Patty clapped her hands together. “Oh Eliza! Were you trying out the new speakers again? I told you to shut them off!”
She sat back and slapped her forehead with her hand. “Yes. That must be it. I’m just so tired from mailing all those orders, I wasn’t thinking.”
Eliza stood from her seat, but Sheila held up a hand. “I’ll go turn it off. I’ve just been sitting on my butt all day.” She got up, grabbing the keys off the hook by the door. “I’ll be right back.”
The punishing wind from the weekend had calmed to a gentle ocean breeze. It was a welcome change. The air was cold, paired with the lonely sound of waves hitting the shore.
The tea shop stood straight ahead, glowing against the rapidly darkening sky. At first, she thought Eliza must’ve left the lights on, but as she got closer, she realized it was more than that. Something was flashing on the patio, and the music was far too loud to be coming from inside.
Now she could hear the song clearly: “Head Over Heels” by Tears for Fears. There was a year of her life when she’d played this song on repeat for hours. Sheila couldn’t help but smile. Had Eliza been using one of her old playlists to test the speakers?
She rounded the corner and stopped her dead in her tracks.
There on the patio stood a black keyboard with a disco ball hanging above it, throwing flashes of light as it spun. Two enormous speakers were on either side, and there on the piano bench sat Russell Westwood in a black leather jacket.
He caught sight of her and leapt from the bench, clicking the microphone to life. He sang along to the chorus, completely unable to hit the high notes but entirely committed to the message. He pointed at her before mimicking ripping his heart from his chest and tossing it over his shoulder.
Sheila stood, stifling laughter, her hands over her open mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Russell said, his voice echoing in the microphone, “the guest of honor has arrived, the beautiful and talented Sheila Wilde!”
She laughed and turned around. No one else was there. “Hello,” she said with a wave.
“Let’s see if we can get her up here everyone! Let’s give her a round of applause.”
He tucked the microphone under his arm and clapped.
Sheila shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He walked toward her and held out his hand. “I think you know the words.”
