Text Appeal

Connor: How are you doing this morning?

Me: Fully recovered.

Connor: Let me know if you need emergency ice cream or anything.

Me: Ha. Will do.

“Riley,” greets Noor in her husky voice. “I picked some chilis from my garden just for you, darling.”

“Thanks,” I say drily, pulling up a seat.

Joyce and Martha both laugh at me. Something I am getting used to.

Friday’s craft projects are rainbow-colored blanket squares for Joyce, another rude cross-stitch for Noor (this one says “Don’t Be A Cunt” inside a circle of daisies), and Martha is busy reading something on a tablet.

As promised, the women are sipping cocktails. My mental health demanded I do the same. I tried to write in the apartment. I tried to write in the café downstairs. (The topic of the dueling tip jars was whether toilet paper should be hung under or over.) I drove out to the point and tried to write with the salt wind blowing in my hair and the noise of the waves lapping at the rocks surrounding me. Nothing. Nada. Not a single damn word.

“Honey, we need another mimosa,” says Joyce.

“Coming, Ma.” A man’s voice comes from the back kitchen this time. Makes me wonder how many members of her family are involved in running the place. It must be wild, working with people who know you so well. People who have known you your whole life. I should write a book about a family business. Lots of people to interview for information here.

Thanks to the weather, the three women are seated inside the Mermaid Café. It rained through the night and into the morning. Only stopping an hour or so ago. However, the sky is still thick with clouds.

“Nice to see you’re no longer as red as a firetruck,” says Martha. “I was worried about you there for a minute.”

Noor snorts. Today her lipstick is a rich brown to match her shirt. An ornate silver necklace hangs around her neck and her hair is pulled back in a French roll. The woman is goals. Though I doubt I could put in as much effort on a daily basis, as evidenced by my baggy jeans, ribbed tank, and Birkenstocks.

“Why on earth did you do it?” asks Joyce. “If you know you can’t handle hot food, then why eat it?”

I keep my mouth shut.

Noor shrugs. “Maybe she’s a masochist. Or maybe she just loves Mexican.”

“I told you,” says Martha. “She was sticking it to Denise.”

The smart move would be to continue to keep my mouth shut. Watch me not do that. “Yeah. About that. I know she’s your daughter…”

“So what?” asks Martha. “At any rate, you’re wrong. Denise is my daughter-in-law. Her ex-husband, the boys’ father, is my son. And you’d be hard-pressed to find a more useless, irresponsible, and selfish creature.”

Now I don’t know what to say.

“He left town a long time ago,” says Noor in a quiet voice. “Back when the boys were in school.”

“That was a hard time for everyone.” Joyce sighs sadly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

A mimosa is set in front of me. “Thank you.”

The handsome bald man nods before heading out back. Talk about muscles. He is ripped. I bet he could bench press me.

“I’d have thought Denise would be in a good mood what with the town picnic coming up this weekend,” says Joyce.

Martha snorts. “All hail the chowder queen.”

“What am I missing?” I ask, setting my drink down.

“Years ago, when Denise was crowned Miss Port Stewart, she had an idea for fundraising.” Noor studies her cross-stitch as she speaks. “I thought it was rather clever. A chowder cooking contest that coincides with the annual town picnic in the park.”

“People take their chowder seriously in these parts,” Martha informs me.

Joyce just nods. “Even more so since the start of that competition. Phew. Some years you’d think it was all that matters. I am more of a pie girl myself. Let me get in the kitchen and bake something and I am happy.”

I don’t have any strong feelings about soup. But it’s interesting how both Ava and Denise were crowned Miss Port Stewart. Having things in common might account for why Denise is such a hardcore fan.

“In other news,” says Noor, stopping to sip her drink, “we heard about your writing and decided to try one of your books.”

My brows rise. “You did?”

“Yes. You were the inaugural choice for our new book club,” says Joyce. “We also let the local bookshop know there was a new author in town.”

“Oh. Wow. Okay.”

“Connor told me you write romance,” says Martha. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Riley. You should have said something.”

I shrug. “People can be weird about the genre. Call it smut and porn and other nonsense.”

“People don’t know what they’re missing. We read the one about the rich man and his assistant,” says Joyce with a twinkle in her eye. “Boy, were those bedroom scenes racy. You have quite the imagination. I had to borrow some of my grandchildren’s dolls to sort out the sexual positions. What limb went where and such. But don’t you worry, I figured it out in the end.”

Martha frowns at her tablet. “I am not done yet. Don’t tell me how it finishes.”

“Thank you,” I say, a little surprised. “I appreciate you reading it.”

Noor smiles. “Of course.”

This sort of thing is always a little awkward. But my curiosity is real. “Dare I ask what you thought of the story?”

“I was hoping you would,” says Noor. “I was an English teacher here at our local high school for many years.”

“That’s great.”

“Yes. You’re a wonderful writer. The book we read was a lot of fun. Very hard to put down, and I found myself getting choked up during the emotional parts. You have a way with words and a gift for telling stories, Riley. I am working on your backlist, but when can we expect your next one?”

I wince. “Let me get back to you about that.”

“Oh no,” says Joyce. “What’s wrong?”

“Is it writer’s block?” asks Noor.

I just nod.

“For how long?”

“Since I moved to town.”

“Just this week?” asks Joyce. “That’s not so bad. You’ve been busy. Give yourself a chance to settle in and get comfortable.”

Martha sets down her tablet on her lap. “If you lot are finished, I want to talk about you and my grandson.”

“Time to spill the tea, huh?” I respond.

Someone walks into the café and up to the counter to order. Business is quiet, though the weather can’t be helping. Things probably pick up around lunchtime.

When the patron is out of earshot, Joyce asks with much enthusiasm, “Did your heart beat all fast and fluttery when you first saw him?”

“Yes, it did,” I answer. “Though some of that might have been due to there being a large, strange male standing outside my door.”

“But some of it was also thanks to him having a nice tush, right?” Joyce says.

I laugh.

“He is very nice to look at,” says Noor. “So tall, blond and handsome. And so strong too. This one time he was moving a big tree branch that had come down in a storm for me. I’m not ashamed to say I poured myself a glass of iced tea and took a seat on the patio to watch.”

Martha clucks her tongue. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I’m not dead yet and I’m not related to him either,” says Noor, working on her cross-stitch as she speaks. “It’s like the potter Beatrice Wood said. The secret to long life is chocolate, art books, and young men. Or something like that. I can’t remember the quote exactly.”

Martha does not appear convinced.

“He is very handsome,” I admit. Something tells me anything other than the truth won’t work. These three are too canny. “But he’s other things too. I don’t know. It just feels good being around him.”

“How do you mean, Riley?” asks Joyce.

A bead of perspiration runs down the side of my glass. I track its path with the tip of my finger. “He asks me what I’m thinking and he listens when I speak. That’s a low bar, but in all honesty, not many others have made it. And I’m comfortable with him, pretty much have been right from the start. I think it’s because he has this honest, genuine quality about him, and it makes me feel like I can be completely myself with him too. He knows who he is and is comfortable within himself. And he loves his family. The funny stories he told me about Lulu when she was little were so cute. How he used to babysit her. And I love his curiosity. The way he wants to talk about all sorts of things. His mind is open and his heart is large and…I really like him. Like a scary amount.”

Joyce arches her brows. “You say that like it surprises you. That you’re comfortable with him.”

“Yeah. I guess it does. He seemed so serious and moody at first, but he’s actually really funny and interesting and he has this great smile. It makes my tummy do weird loops. Though just the sight of him does that. The thought of him too.”

“He took you home to meet his family,” says Noor. “That’s a good sign.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Alright,” says Martha in a far less friendly tone of voice. “You said you weren’t looking for a relationship. What changed?”

Joyce shrugs. “She met him, of course.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.” Noor gently pulls on her needle and thread. “I stopped dating years ago. As Whoopi Goldberg said, I don’t want somebody in my house. But I wish you all the best, darling.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

Martha watches me in silence. The first time Connor and I met, he said something about his grandmother mentioning it was a pity we weren’t together. How it might solve some of his problems. He swore he wouldn’t tell anyone about our agreement. But I do wonder what she’s guessed about us.

“Did he invite you to his fifteen-year reunion dance at the high school this Saturday?” asks Joyce.

“No. But we have plans for tonight.” I don’t mention what they are on the off chance he’s changed his mind about us showing our faces at the welcome home party. “I don’t suppose anyone’s seen Ava?”

“Her parents went to pick her up from the airport yesterday,” says Joyce. “They stayed in Seattle last night for a family dinner. Her older sister lives there with her children. But they should be home today on the afternoon ferry.”

“That explains why she sent me a photo of the Needle.”

“You two still texting?” asks Martha.

“Not really. It’s more along the lines of passive-aggressive warfare. She sends me pictures of landmarks letting me know she’s getting closer and closer.”

“How ominous,” says Noor.

Joyce nods. “She’s coming to steal your man, Riley.”

“That’s up to Connor.” I shrug. “But going by the things he’s said and done…I highly doubt he’s interested.”

Martha sighs. “Old habits can be hard to break.”

“What do you think, Martha?” asks Noor. “Do you approve of your grandson’s new girlfriend?”

“I know it seems sudden. But I like the idea of them together,” says Joyce, wielding her knitting needles with expert ease. “Of course, I only knew my first husband Fred for a week before we got hitched and that worked out just fine.”

Noor tips her chin. “He died a couple of years after you met him.”

“Yes, but we got along well together when he was alive.”

“You two certainly weren’t backwards about making babies. I’ll give you that.”

Joyce smiles dreamily. “Like I said…he was fun.”

Meanwhile, Martha takes her time answering. And the look she gives me…I still can’t read it for shit. At long last she rests back in her chair and says, “I don’t know. You and Connor might be good for each other. I suppose we’ll just have to see.”

Me: Can you come over early? We need to practice being a couple.

Connor: Which involves what exactly?

Me: You’ll see.

Connor knocks on my door at a quarter past seven. He’s holding the most beautiful bouquet. Dahlias, daisies, delphinium, and many more in a myriad of colors. The scent is heavenly. I don’t know what it cost, but it couldn’t have been cheap. The way my heart swells and imaginary orchestral music kicks in. No one has ever given me anything like this. Not that I am being given it now. I am not his real girlfriend, and the flowers are just a prop. But they sure are pretty.

“Riley?” he asks when I am silent too long.

I shake off the weirdness and take a step back. “Hey. Yes. Hi. Come on in.”

“I parked out front and walked down to the florist. Gave everyone a chance to see them. I used to buy her flowers, and you said to act as into you as I was with her,” he says. “That hasn’t changed, has it?”

“No.” I rush about searching for a vase. An empty cookie jar is the best I can manage. “Good work.”

He jerks his chin.

Tonight is going to be big. Meeting an ex is dangerous. There must be no doubt that you are the better option for the person you’re dating. To demonstrate my immense suitability, I am wearing a navy silk halter-neck top with blue jeans and sandals with a block heel. It’s seaside boujie. My pale blue hair is hanging loose, silver hoops are in my ears, and my makeup is all about the smoky eyes.

As for Connor, my fingers itch to mess up his golden hair for some reason. No idea why. It must be the chaos monster in me. But few could wear boots, blue jeans, and a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms half as well. The way he leans into the arm porn is a gift to humankind. I know I for one appreciate it deeply.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “How do we practice being a couple?”

“We need to work on touching.”

“Touching?”

“Yes,” I say. “We did fine the other night with the impromptu hand-holding. But there are going to be way more people at this party tonight and some of them are bound to be hostile, right?”

“I guess so. You don’t just want to see what comes naturally?”

“Is it going to come naturally what with us faking?”

He frowns.

“Besides,” I say, “the last time we did no preparation, I incinerated my insides with chili and then bitched at you about it for over an hour.”

He removes his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms over his chest instead. Like his guard is up. There’s something going on with him tonight. “I’d prefer not to repeat that.”

“Me too.”

“Okay. What are you thinking?”

“Well, we have to communicate to the town that we’re in love.” I stand in front of him. “What level of PDA are you comfortable with, Connor?”

A whole lot of nothing from him.

“Come on,” I say. “Be brave and touch me. I’m neither poisonous nor covered in spikes.”

“Yeah. But do you bite?”

“No. Why? What have you heard?”

No laughter. He’s still too busy hesitating.

“Let’s start with the basics.” I stand beside him and offer him my hand. He stares at it for a moment. Then he takes it in a gentle grip, and I smile. “This is how we walk over there, right?”

“Right.”

“What else will we be doing?”

He thinks it over for a second. “Hanging out, talking to people. Eating, drinking, stuff like that.”

“Sitting or standing?”

“Could be either.”

“What did you and your ex used to do?”

He releases my hand, moves closer, and carefully drapes his arm across my shoulders. The weight of the limb settles slowly, with him watching me all the while. It takes approximately forever for his hand to brush against my bare shoulder. For his fingers to rest lightly against my skin. I am not saying I hold my breath in case he startles. But it’s a near thing.

“What should I be doing?” I ask.

“Slip your arm around my waist.”

I do as asked. His long body is stiff as a board. Stone would be more malleable. Though it’s distracting how good he smells. Even better than the flowers. It’s the same cedar and salt cologne from the car the other night. Something inside me hums happily. My willpower is hard-pressed to restrain me from giving him a good sniffing. Which would not be strange at all.

“Connor, do you mind if I lean into you a little?”

He nods.

With the high heels, I come about halfway up his head. This should work. Though thank fuck we’re doing this in private the first time. Because fitting my side to his takes a minute. I angle my shoulder this way and that. I cock my hip and bend my knee and try to position myself just so. No amount of yoga could prepare me for this. Aerial acrobatics would be easier. I try going limp as a noddle. An upright noodle. Then I cling to him like plastic wrap, which is terrible for the environment. But nothing feels right, and he remains as rigid as can be.

“This is not going great,” he grumbles in the same low voice.

“We just need to get used to each other.”

He takes a deep breath. “She used to put her hand in the back pocket of my jeans.”

“Would you be comfortable with me doing that?”

His gaze meets mine and oof. There’s a world of worry in his eyes. A mess of misery. Of course, he’s stressed about seeing his ex for the first time. I’ve had my heart battered and bruised. It’s not pleasant. But moving on from someone you’ve been with for half your life must be a whole new level of pain.

“This is just…”

I wait for him to finish.

“Normally when I’m touching someone there isn’t this much heavy thinking. You know what I mean?”

“It’s awkward, isn’t it?”

He nods.

“Why don’t we give it a rest for now?”

The tension in his jaw eases, but the unhappiness in his gaze remains the same. He’s deep in his angst. Were he a statue, he would be titled stoic but would secretly rather die than do whatever this is. And in all honesty, I am pissed on his behalf for having to carry out this charade. Fake dating isn’t necessarily as fun as you’d think.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Connor?”

His head jerks up. “What do you mean?”

“I know you said there was no chance of you two getting back together. But this doesn’t exactly seem to be making you happy either. Maybe if you told me what happened between you two…”

His scowl would scare small children.

“Or not. It is, of course, your choice.”

The front windows must have hurt his feelings something awful, given the way he glares at them. And the uncomfortable moment drags on for a good long while. Until finally he says, “Last Christmas when she was home I asked her to marry me.”

“Wow. Okay. And I take it she said no?”

“There I was, down on one knee like an idiot, and she looked at the ring like it was something out of a horror movie.”

“I am so sorry, Connor.”

“No.” He shakes his head and shoves an agitated hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. The second that word came out of her mouth I was so fucking relieved.”

“Oh.”

“She was standing there crying, making all these excuses, and it was honestly like a weight had been lifted. I thought it was time. That getting married made sense. Then the words were out there and I knew it was the wrong thing to do.”

“Fair enough.” It’s a lot to take in. “If she said no, then why the hell is she back now all ready to fight for her man?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s changed for her. But we don’t belong together, and we don’t make each other happy.” He gives me a half smile. “I just want to get on with my life, Riley. So please, tell me, how do we make this work?”

“Ah,” I say with much wisdom. “We could get to know one another better by finding points of commonality. They’re important in relationships.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s talk about goals,” I suggest. “Life, career, whatever.”

He doesn’t even need to think about it. “I want to make some money, buy the place next door to where I live, and drive the Transalpina Highway in Romania.”

“In what kind of car?”

“A really fast one.”

“Are you going to visit Dracula’s Castle while you’re over there?”

He raises his brows. “Haven’t actually thought about it. But it would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

“Why do you want the place next door?”

“My house is kind of small. Having just the one bedroom and office is fine for now, but eventually I’m going to need more space,” he says. “What about you? What are your goals?”

“I want to make the New York Times Bestseller List.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. For now,” I say. “And given the list is curated, it’s a lot harder than you think. My dream was to live in a small town by the sea, and I am doing that, so…”

“Good for you.” He smiles. “Where will you head when your lease is up here?”

“I haven’t decided what I am doing yet.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “How did you choose Port Stewart?”

“I wanted the opposite of where I grew up, so the Pacific Northwest made sense. Then I read up on coastal towns and this one sounded nice.”

The expression on his face is not supportive. In fact, the downward slant of his eyebrows is judgmental as heck.

“You don’t approve of my flippant research technique? Or you don’t approve of me frivolously moving around the country?”

He raises his shoulder in a half shrug. “I just wonder what people like you are looking for. If there’s even a chance you’ll find it, or if you’ll just get bored and set off on the next big adventure.”

“Okay,” I say, choosing my words with care. This conversation suddenly has sharp edges. “Well, in my case, I’m looking for a place that feels right for me.”

“This is my point. How do you even quantify that?”

“Wait. What are you saying?” I ask. “Do you really think that I, a grown-ass woman, am incapable of understanding my own feelings?”

His mouth opens then closes again. A wise choice on his part.

“Not all of us were lucky enough to be born where we feel we belong, Connor. For some of us it takes some searching.” I think calm thoughts for a moment. Walks on the beach and bowls of breakfast cereal—things like that. But it doesn’t really help. “Does your reaction have something to do with your ex not wanting to settle down here, do you think? Or just a general disdain for people who come from the city?”

“I’ve insulted you.”

“No shit.”

He sighs. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sure.”

And neither of us speak.

Seems we’ve successfully managed to push each other’s buttons. He says nothing and I say nothing and this goes on for a while. Long enough for us to start fidgeting and feel uncomfortable. He looks so damn miserable. Like this night is an abject failure before it begins.

“What?” he says when he catches me watching him.

“You know we don’t have to go,” I say, choosing my words with care. “You could disappear right now and it would be okay.”

Nothing from him.

“Or we could try to shift this mood and go have a casual dinner like you first suggested. Or open a bottle of booze, sit on the couch, and stare at the TV in a comradely fashion,” I say. “After you apologize to me for being a jerk just now, of course. But Connor, you have options.”

“None of those are going to fix my problem.”

“No. But fuck those people.”

His gaze remains grim. “You mean my friends and family and half the town?”

I nod.

For a long moment, he just stares at me.

“If you don’t want to go, Connor, then let’s just not go. We’ll do something you want to do tonight. This situation doesn’t get to suck the joy out of your life all the time.”

Without a word, he steps forward and wraps his arms around me. Just presses all of him against all of me with nil hesitation. There’s nothing sexual to it. No. This is something else entirely.

I frown in confusion. “We’re hugging?”

“We’re hugging,” he confirms, giving me a squeeze. The man’s moods are mercurial. But having him wrap himself around me is sublime. The feel of his strong arms holding me tight. It’s warm and safe and sort of everything. He really puts his heart and soul into this hug. I give it twelve out of ten. Would hug again. “You’re a good person, Riley.”

“That’s just a vicious rumor,” I say, smooshed against his chest. “You’re going to get makeup on your shirt.”

“I am sorry about what I said. When you find your home, I’m sure you’ll know it.”

“Thanks. I think so.”

He’s smiling when he draws back. It’s not a big smile, but it’s there. And the sight of it makes my insides giddy. I don’t know how else to describe it. Then he holds out his hand and says, “Let’s do this.”