Page 84 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Off color?

Entirely stupid?

“I know this is all a little weird.” His gaze seems to land on the fact there’s a picture above the chest of drawers of a little boy in a sailor outfit riding a giant whale through outer space. “Very weird. But I promise you I won’t do anything to screw this up. I’m all in, Heidi. I want this to work. It has to work.”

I still. This feels like such a non sequitur and yet… isn’t it what I was worried about when I shoved him in here? Isn’t it why I feel like I can’t relax? Everything is out of control. First Quentin, then Teddy, now this situation with Norma. I’m going through the motions, hoping to strongarm everything into being totally normal, in hopes that I can regain my sense of control. Maybe that’s the only way I know how to handle things. Lather, rinse, repeat.

“You won’t talk to her about the case?” I ask in a voice so soft I’m not sure it’s mine.

“What case?” he says. He drops his hands on my shoulders, and the weight of his warmth is reassuring. “Don’t worry. Norma and I have plenty to talk about. And I hope you brought comfortable shoes, because I have a feeling we’ve got a lot of antiquing to do.”

***

I meet Quentin outside half an hour later, where he’s standing on Norma’s sandy front lawn, studying his phone. I take a deep breath, willing myself to shove past the signals in my brain that note how good he looks in his gray shorts and dark blue V-neck. I know before he turns around that it’s the kind of blue that makes his eyes look that much more like the ocean at dusk – dark and deep and wondrous.

He’s the reason we’re on this rescue mission, I remind myself. Despite whatever he said last night, I have to stay focused.

“You look like you’re about to star in a Michael Bay movie,” he says.

I grimace at him before glancing down at my basic sundress, through the lenses of my favorite sunnies. “Like the electronics are going to turn against us, and everything is going to start blowing up in dramatic, up-close slo mo?”

“Like you’re wearing heels as if they aren’t highly impractical footwear to run around in all day.”

“These aren’t heels,” I argue. “They’re wedges. Believe it or not, they check all the boxes for comfort. Plus they make my legs look extra long. Better to round-house-kick you with, if you get out of line.”

He doesn’t argue this. His gaze seems to trail up the length of my legs before he can catch it. He scrubs a hand up the back of his hair, looking away. “Let’s check the docks first?”

We head in the direction of the marina. I know before we get there that there is going to be no sign of the Virginia Marie. Just like last night. And at the first light of dawn, when I jogged over.

“You know you don’t actually have to go antiquing with me,” I offer. “You can go hang on the beach, or whatever. I’ve got plenty of work I can do. I’m sure I could con Billy Barnacle out of the wifi password.”

“The partners will work all aspects of the case together. That includes going undercover,” he says. “Today, your only job is making people believe you’re actually here on vacation. Which begins with enjoying yourself.”

He says that last bit as if it’s completely beyond my skill set.

“Fine,” I say. Please let the record show I am accepting this challenge begrudgingly. I will not miss an opportunity to prove him wrong. “Where to first?”

He passes me his phone, with all of the coordinates already mapped out. “You pick.”

I scan the list. The Treasure Trove. Island Thrift. Shelluva Deal.

“Oooh, this one. Mary’s Place.”

I can tell that he’s surprised. Of all the catchy names, it does seem the least appealing, but it’s the instincts from my childhood, tingling like spidey senses. The cutesy names are sometimes marketing schemes. Mary’s Place? It’s organic. It’s the kind of thing that named itself in conversations, when locals said things like, ‘I got it over at Mary’s place.’” I can hear my mom and Auntie Lena in the front seat of our old Toyota, scanning the newspaper and arguing over which ones to hit first. Somewhere like Mary’s Place is a great start, because you never know what you’ll find. It’s easy. It’s unpretentious. It’s eclectic.

“Trust me,” I add, as if we’ve hashed all this out loud.

There’s a glimmer in his eyes, and he nods, looking away. “I do.”

***

The sun burns off the morning’s thin layer of clouds, and we walk half a mile down the main stretch of road that runs the length of the island. A few times I think he might say something, but Quentin is uncharacteristically quiet this morning. My head is too much of a swirly mess, so we move along in companionable silence, watching the cars cruise past on the main road and the seagulls waddle along near the dunes that separate us from stretches of beach. The navigation on my smartwatch buzzes, and we veer off into an old neighborhood with weathered shiplap houses painted in bright colors.

Mary’s Place is exactly that. It seems she’s converted the first floor and carport to shop space, and she lives up top. All the first level doors and windows are thrown open, inviting the salty breeze and a trio of beach cats to roam in and out as they please. It reminds me of Auntie Lena’s place so much my chest clenches, and I love it immediately.

Don’t get me wrong – on the surface, they look next to nothing alike. Auntie Lena’s shop is that clean kind of retro, like maybe you’re stepping onto the set of Grease or went cruising around ‘40s Las Vegas. While my aunt’s shop smells like lemon and old paperbacks, this place has an aroma of sage and storm clouds, and it feels like you’ve stumbled into the cottage of a coastal forest witch. But they’re kindred spirits, I can tell.

I quickly get caught up picking through boxes and spinning racks of jewelry near the front window, and Quentin’s hand sweeps across my low back as he edges past, slowly disappearing into another room. I find myself glancing over my shoulder briefly, wondering where he’s gone, and why his touch always seems to linger longer than he does.

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