Still, she sat down, wrote a long email to a friend who would understand. Ashley McLean—now Ashley Murdoch—reminded her, always had, always would, that life could go on.
She’d nearly called, just wanting to hear Ashley’s voice, but the time difference meant she’d wake her friend before Ashley got out of bed with her husband of ten years come June, got her kids fed and off to school and herself off to work.
And emails came easier—gave her time to compose her thoughts, edit things out. All she really needed was that touchstone.
It helped, it all helped, making breakfast, watching the sunrise with the man she had an undefined thing with, gearing up for a day of errands while construction noise filled the house.
Life had to go on.
With the dog as company—and why had she tried to convince either of them she wanted him to stay home?—she drove into town. At the post office, she unloaded boxes, carted them in, found herself caught for a full ten minutes in that oddity of small-town conversation.
“Check one off the list,” she told the dog.
She drove down Water Street. Busier today, she noted. Full-blown spring didn’t just bring out the green and the flowers, it brought out the tourists.
They wandered the streets, the shops, with go-cups and cameras and shopping bags. As she looked for parking, she saw boats gliding or putting out of slips, and the kayak/bike rental, with those colorful boats displayed, doing a bang-up business.
She really wanted to try kayaking.
She found her parking spot, pulled in, turned around to the dog.
“You have to wait in the car—I warned you—but we can take a walk around after this stop and before the grocery store. Best I can offer.”
He tried to get out when she opened the back to get the box, and the tussle that ensued to deny him illustrated clearly he’d put on weight and muscle. Gone was the weak, bone-thin dog limping down the shoulder of the road.
She got the back closed again, had to lean against it to catch her breath. When she glanced back, he was all but pressed against the rear window, blue eyes devastated.
“I can’t take you into the shop. That’s how it goes.”
She picked up the box she’d had to put down to win the war, started down the sidewalk. Looked back.
Now he had his muzzle out the partially opened side window.
“Don’t let him win,” she muttered, and aimed her eyes forward.
She knew Jenny worked that morning, as Jenny had called her the night before. Had offered sympathy and comfort. Had offered to bring food, bring alcohol, bring anything needed.
Friendship so easily offered was as unusual for Naomi as ten minutes of small talk in the post office.
She opened the door of the shop to a lovely citrus scent, an artistic clutter of pretty things, and the bustle of business. The bustle made her consider coming back during a lull—if she’d known when and if lulls happened. But Jenny, discussing an old washbasin currently filled with soaps and lotions with a customer, spotted her and gave her a cheerful come-ahead signal.
So she wandered, saw half a dozen things she wanted to buy. Reminded herself she hadn’t come to shop, had a house in crazed construction and shouldn’t shop.
And ended up picking up a set of wrought-iron candle stands that absolutely belonged in her library.
“Let me take that.” The minute she could work herself over, Jenny took the box, set it down. “And do this first.”
Smelling lightly of peaches, she wrapped her arms around Naomi, tight, tight.
“I’m so glad to see you.” She loosened the hug enough to tip back, study Naomi’s face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Xander stayed with you?”
“He stayed.”
“All right. We’re not going to think about it right now. It’s all anyone’s talking about when they catch a breath, but we’re not going to think about it.”
“You’re awfully busy.”
“Tour package.” Jenny took a satisfied and slightly calculating glance around the shop. “We’ve got two busloads in town for the day. The town planner worked the deal months ago. So we’re very carefully not mentioning what you and I aren’t thinking about in front of tourists. Or trying not to mention.”
She bent down to pick up the box again. “I want to show these to Krista. Come with me. She just went in the back, and we’re covered out here for a few minutes.”
“You’re really busy,” Naomi reminded her, but Jenny was already nudging her along.
Jenny skirted around tables, displays, all bright chatter, and reminded Naomi of a pretty bird singing as it flitted from branch to branch.
She skirted around a counter and through a door into a storeroom/ office area where a woman with streaky brown hair bundled up and held in place with a pair of jeweled chopsticks sat at a computer.
“Tracked the shipment—it’s out for delivery, praise Jesus.”
“I’ve got some potential stock and Naomi Carson for you, Krista.”
Krista swiveled on her chair and slid off a pair of purple cheaters. She had a good face with wide brown eyes, a long, full mouth—and the glint of a tiny ruby stud on the left side of her nose.
“I’m so happy to meet you. Pretend there’s a seat I can offer you. I really like your work,” she added. “I’ve combed your website several times, and nagged Jenny to get you in here.”
“I love your shop—which I’ve avoided because I’m weak. I’ve already picked out candle stands, and I probably can’t leave without that oval wall mirror with the antiqued bronze frame.”
“Jenny’s piece.”
“Flea market rehab,” Jenny confirmed. “Naomi brought us some photos.” Jenny set the box on the crowded desk. “I resisted pawing through myself.”
“It’s good to remember the pecking order around here.” Pushing off the chair, Krista opened the box, then put the cheaters back on to take a close look.
She’d gone with small prints, wildflower studies, a series of four of the inlet, one of the marina, another set of nurse logs.
“They’re beautifully matted and framed. You do that yourself?”
“Part of the process, yes.”
“I can sell these.” She propped a pair against the box, stepped back, nodded. “Yes, we can sell these. In fact, with the tour, we can sell some of these as soon as we get them on the floor.”
She took off the cheaters again, tapped them against her hand. Then named her price point. “Standard sixty-forty,” she added.
“That works for me.”
“Good, because I really want them. And I can take more, especially of local flora and fauna, local water scenes, town scenes. I can sell them as unframed prints, too. We can think about that. I’d love the inlet and marina shots as postcards.”
“I can do postcards.”
Turning, Krista wrapped an arm around Jenny’s shoulders in an easy, unstudied way that told Naomi they were good friends. “She can do postcards. Do you know how long I’ve wanted classy postcards?”
Jenny grinned, slid her arm around Krista’s waist. “Since you opened.”
“Since I opened. I’ll take two dozen postcards right off, as soon as you can get them to me. No, three. Three dozen. I can sell a dozen to the B-and-B in a flash.”
“A variety of shots?”
“Dealer’s choice,” Krista confirmed. “Jen, get these priced and out on the floor. Pick your spot. She’s my right hand,” she told Naomi. “Even if she’s planning to leave me in the lurch.”
“Not for months yet. I know just where to put these.” Jenny stacked them back in the box, hefted it.
“If you’ve got a few minutes, Naomi, I’ll print out the contract for what we’re taking.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t leave without seeing me,” Jenny said, and went out to work on the display.
“I’m going to do an order sheet for the postcards while I’m at it. How’s work going up on the bluff?”
“Really well, which is why I need those candle stands, the sinuous ones. They need to be in my library. I think the mirror’s for the foyer. But . . . it needs to be in there somewhere. And whatever smells so damn good out there.”
“That’s mock orange in our diffusers today.”
“I’m told I need those—the plants. I think I need them in the diffusers, too.”