Tabitha pulls the covers up to her chin. Have you ever lost anyone?
“She killed herself in her parents’ garage,” Franklin says. “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Oh, no,” Tabitha says. “I am so sorry.”
“It was tough,” Franklin says. “I carried guilt about it for a long time.”
“Guilt?” Tabitha asks. “Why?”
“I should have come home,” he says. “I should have come home and saved her. But I didn’t. I was too busy drinking pints at the Flask in Hampstead, playing rugby, and singing for money in Regent’s Park. I think her parents hold me responsible. It’s a small island; everyone here knows me. I think a bunch of people hold me responsible.”
“No,” Tabitha says. “Certainly not.”
“It’s okay,” Franklin says. “The rumor mill is part of the island, and the island is my home. I love it here.” He kisses her until she feels dizzy. This is happening.
When she wakes up, it is bright daylight, and Franklin is gone.
“Hello?” Tabitha says experimentally. The door to the bathroom is open; Tabitha can see Franklin’s toothbrush in a glass by the sink. She didn’t have a chance or the wherewithal to check the place out when they walked in the night before, but she’s relieved to see only one toothbrush. He’s a bachelor, as he said. Did he say that? Or did she assume? She checks the nightstand: the sandwich plates are gone.
Tabitha gets out of bed and finds her clothes—her white pants are flung over a chair, the Trina Turk halter is a puddle of crumpled silk on the floor. Tabitha can honestly say she has never done this before: slept with a nearly complete stranger—okay, a complete stranger—and then woken up in said complete stranger’s house forced to put on her clothes from the night before and find her way home.
Where is she?
She peers out the window and sees her FJ40 on the street. Yes! she thinks. She remembers that Franklin offered to drive it back here.
Once she’s dressed, she creeps down the stairs. “Hello?” she says. The house is quiet. She tiptoes through the living room past a moss-green velvet sofa with coordinating throw pillows in various textures and patterns. A woman’s touch? she wonders. In the kitchen, she finds a pot of coffee brewed, her clutch purse (thank God!), and a note. The note says: Had to go to work. Thanks for a great night! xo
Tabitha sets the note down and checks through her purse for her wallet and phone. Both accounted for.
She reads the note again. Had to go to work. Where does Franklin work? Did he tell her? Does he have a job other than playing the guitar? He did a semester abroad in London, but did he say what he was studying? She didn’t see what he drove. Was there a car or truck in the driveway when they got here? She has no idea. There must have been, otherwise how did he get to work?
Thanks for a great night! Well, it was a great night, but something about him thanking her feels yucky. There is no mention of getting together again, and he did not leave his number.
She has to admit she’s crushed.
It was a one-night stand, she tells herself. Just because it ranked as one of the best nights of her life doesn’t mean he felt the same. Men don’t take dalliances like this seriously.
But what about that thing he said? I’ve never wanted anyone like this before. He probably says that to all the women he brings home. Why wouldn’t he? It’s a very effective line. What about calling her breathtaking? What about the sandwich? Does he make pastrami sandwiches from heaven for all his conquests? Are there other conquests? He’s a singer at a bar—of course there are other conquests!
What about telling Tabitha the story of Patti Prescott? He gave her a peek into his sweet, soft heart. That was a real, adult conversation; it was intimate.
Tabitha can’t believe he didn’t leave his number or ask for her number. She can’t believe how much she cares. Probably Franklin thinks she’s the kind of woman who does this all the time. It’s no big deal to him. Why should it be a big deal to her? She needs to shake it off.
She pours herself a cup of coffee. There is a speckled ceramic pitcher of cream set out, and the sugar bowl is full. She feels like searching through the refrigerator and his cabinets. She wants to peruse all the photographs on the living-room shelves, see pictures of his family, maybe even of Patti Prescott. But if she’s never going to see him again, what’s the point?
She takes a sip of coffee, then abandons the cup on the counter. When he sees it, he’ll be forced to think of her. She’s tempted to leave her number, but that feels too forward, and she doesn’t want to spend the next few days wondering if he’s going to call.
It’s a small island, she reasons. If he wants to see her, he’ll find a way.
When she gets back to Billy’s house, she realizes she never heard from either Ainsley or Harper. It’s only twenty after nine, and the boutique doesn’t open until ten, so no one will be at the store just yet. Tabitha doesn’t quite trust either Harper or Ainsley to tell her the truth about exactly what’s going on, so Tabitha calls Meghan’s cell phone.
Meghan answers after five rings, sounding very, very groggy. “Hello?”
“Meghan?” Tabitha says. “It’s me. Are you okay?” It seems like she might have woken Meghan up—but today is Saturday, the first of July. The store is open, and Meghan needs to be there.
“I’m fine,” Meghan says. She pauses. “I’m a mommy.”
“A what?” Tabitha says. Then she gets it. “Oh, my goodness! Did you have the baby?”
“Last night at eight o’clock,” Meghan says. “A little boy. We named him David Wayne Mitzak. He weighed nine pounds two ounces and measured twenty-three inches long.”
Tears unexpectedly gather in Tabitha’s eyes. She’s so, so happy for Meghan, but she’s also thinking of Julian. “I’m thrilled for you, Meghan. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Meghan says. Another pause. “So I assume you heard about the party, then?”
“Party?” Tabitha says. Both her joyous and bittersweet feelings pop like soap bubbles. “What party?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… I mean, since you didn’t know I’d had the baby I figured you were calling because you were upset about the party at the store.”
Tabitha blows a breath out through her nose. Her head aches, and she desperately needs a shower, although she doesn’t want to wash Franklin’s scent off. Has she ever felt that way about a man before? Nope: never. But even her afterglow seems inconsequential when compared to the phrase party at the store.
“What party at the store?” she says evenly.
“For the record, I knew you wouldn’t approve,” Meghan says. “I told them it was a terrible idea, but I got outvoted.”
“Outvoted by whom?” Tabitha says. “Harper, Ainsley, and Mary Jo?”
“Mary Jo left the island,” Meghan says. “Didn’t Harper tell you? Marissa and Scott moved her down to Maryland finally.”