Page 87 of Summer Longing
“Come to dinner with us tomorrow night,” he said.
Surprised, she looked at him. Somewhere in the back of her mind hummed the understanding that she had other plans. But it was distant, background noise. It was easily ignored.
“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.”
At nine that night, the porch of the Beach Rose Inn was filled with guests lounging on deck chairs, plastic cups of wine in hand. Elise, coming to see Fern, patted Molly’s head on her way up the front steps, trying not to feel very much like a contrite dog herself, arriving with her tail between her legs.
The lobby was empty except for Rachel behind the front desk. Next to her, a mahogany English serving buffet held half a dozen open bottles of sauvignon blanc and rosé. Around the room, tables were littered with empty or nearly empty plastic cups.
“They’re compostable,” Rachel said.
“Oh,” said Elise. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Most people don’t, but I still feel defensive. You looking for Fern? She’s out back.” Rachel handed her a plastic cup.
“Oh—thanks.” Elise poured herself half a cup of rosé, tossed it back for fortification, and made her way to the rear of the house just as Fern and Amelia were walking inside.
“I know, I know—I promised she’d be home for dinner and now look at the time. It’s entirely my fault,” Amelia said, linking one arm through Fern’s and another through Elise’s. “But some conversations just take on a life of their own, don’t they?”
“They certainly do,” Fern said.
“No problem,” Elise said. “I was just thinking I could walk Fern home. I missed her.”
“So sweet! Who says marriage kills romance?” Amelia said. Elise looked over and found Fern smiling at her. She felt such a wave of relief it was almost embarrassing. So Amelia had done it—she’d talked Fern into a truce.
Amelia bade them good night at the foot of the stairs, then said to Fern, “Call me if you need anything.”
Elise couldn’t help but wonder what Fern could need. Help with the shop? With their relationship? What had they been discussing for so many hours? But then, what did it matter? Amelia could only be trying to make things better.
And yet, once they got outside, the warmth between them dissipated in the night air.
“I’m going to Boston for a few days,” Fern said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Hoping to make some inroads with the farmers’ markets and explore the possibility of getting our tea into a few restaurants.”
Elise stopped walking. “But…what about the shop?”
“I’m confident you can manage with Cynthia.”
Elise just nodded, unable to look at her, certain this trip had nothing to do with farmers’ markets and everything to do with Fern putting more distance between them.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In the days since Fern had left the house, Elise carried herself with a muted sadness. Olivia did not know exactly why Elise was so upset, but her unhappiness was impossible to miss, even for Olivia, who generally focused on herself. And so, when faced with Elise’s melancholy over morning coffee, Mira yawning in her arms, Olivia impulsively said, “Do you need help with the baby today?”
Several hours and many diaper changes later, Olivia was questioning why she’d made this offer. She didn’t know how often most babies cried, but this one seemed to cry a lot—an awful lot. Midmorning, it dawned on Olivia that perhaps this was her fault, that she was misreading the baby’s cues. But what were her options aside from feeding, holding, and changing her? She heated a bottle, pacing in the kitchen, holding Mira, and murmuring “Shh, shh,” while it was warming up.
Passing the window, she glimpsed movement in the backyard. She stopped to take a closer look and found it was Marco hanging fresh seaweed. It was the first time she’d seen him since the day they’d picked oysters together. She jumped away from the window, not wanting to get caught spying on him.
Mira’s crying got louder, if that was even humanly possible. “I have to put you down to get your bottle,” she said, marveling at how quickly she had gotten used to talking to someone who had no capacity to understand what she was saying. She tested the temperature of the formula with a few drops on her wrist like she’d seen her mother and Elise do and determined it was good to go.
The baby’s dark eyes seemed intently focused on her as she drank the formula, her little hand fluttering aimlessly up toward the bottle and then down again.
Olivia exhaled. There was something deeply satisfying about resolving such a primal need.
“You know what I think?” she said. “I think after this bottle, we’re going to take a walk outside in the backyard to get some fresh air.” Yeah, that was the reason. For the “fresh air.” Fortunately, her fussy little sidekick was in no position to judge.
