“My name is mud when it comes to workin’ with the community and anything involving children or charity or the public. It’s a long story,” Marianne said, turning to her youngest. “Nate, puppy face.”
Nate wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and very carefully poked out his bottom lip, angled his chin down, and widened his eyes to the point that Margot feared for his eyelids. “Please, Cousin Margot, won’t you please help run the Founders’ Festival and save our town?”
Margot pursed her lips. “That’s playing dirty,” she told Marianne.
“I’m a desperate woman.”
“I don’t even know if I’m going to be here in October,” Margot exclaimed. “I could get a job offer in the next few weeks and move, and then where would you be? Even more confused and unproductive.”
Marianne frowned as if she’d forgotten that Margot wasn’t a permanent resident of Lake Sackett. “Oh, right. Sure.”
“I’m sure it will work out just fine,” Margot said. “This always happens with big community events. Egos and chaos and details that don’t get addressed until the last minute. But it will come together, trust me.”
“Sure.” Marianne looked down at her plate and poked a bit of egg around with her fork. “So, Aiden, tell me about this new book you’re readin’. No scary ventriloquist dummies this time, right? That one gave you nightmares for a month.”
“Nope, this time it’s garden gnomes, thirstin’ for revenge!” Aiden said, grinning viciously.
Carl gave an exaggerated shiver and ruffled Aiden’s hair. “That’s creepier than the dummies. I don’t trust anything that tries that hard to be cute.”
Margot glanced at Nate, who was still using the puppy face while reaching for the strawberries on her fruit plate. “Exactly.”
MARGOT WAS RELIEVED and disappointed that Stan wasn’t waiting for her with an explanation when she arrived at work the next morning. She buried herself in details and busywork. She faxed. She filed. She even vacuumed flower petals out of the west chapel when Eunice Woodson’s grandson knocked over a vase full of daisies.
And that nauseating mix of anxiety and irritation hadn’t ebbed out of her stomach. It was still there, hovering under her diaphragm, when Uncle Bob poked his head in the door, his expression uncertain. “Margot, are you done with the Branson file?”
“Yes,” she said, handing him the manila folder from the neat stack on her desk.
While Bob had handled the planning and sale portion of the process, the Branson service was the first set of paperwork that Margot had completed on her own. It had not been easy, given all the customs and niceties—not to mention state laws—she’d had to remember while talking to Mrs. Branson. And it had given her an odd sense of accomplishment to finally slide the file into the outbox.
“Mrs. Branson called to double-check some details and I talked her into upgrading to the Buchanan casket with the bronze fittings, rather than just the brass-plated,” Margot said proudly. “And the bronze-lined burial vault, plus the waterproofing, which I don’t think anyone has ever ordered here, given the way the supplier reacted when I requested it. Mrs. Branson agreed with me that it was a much more fitting tribute to her husband, and if it happened to add another four thousand dollars to her total bill, so be it.” She offered her uncle a cheeky smile . . . which he did not return.
In fact, Uncle Bob looked downright horrified.
“Margot, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that if Mrs. Branson wanted to make herself feel better by spending a little extra on her husband’s funeral and the business happens to make a little extra money, what’s the harm? I took Mr. Branson from a Toyota Tercel funeral to a nice respectable Cadillac.”
Bob’s voice dropped to a stern level she’d never heard out of her cheerful uncle. “The harm is that Arlene Branson can’t afford to spend a little extra on her husband’s funeral. Her George’s cancer treatments ate up most of their retirement funds. She’s havin’ to move in with her daughter as it is. To play on her grief like that, to make her spend more, that’s not how we do things, Margot.”
Margot’s brow wrinkled. Upselling was one of her main skill sets at Elite Elegance. She was known for her ability to talk clients into premium catering orders, bigger floral arrangements, better linens. It was what she did. The idea that this talent might not be appreciated at McCready’s left her unsteady. She wasn’t sure what else she had to offer.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know we were running a nonprofit,” she said crisply.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. We’re not runnin’ a charity, but we are runnin’ a company that has stayed in business for almost a hundred years because we don’t treat our neighbors like sheep for the fleecin’. We’re part of the community, Margot. And we take that seriously.”
“Fine,” Margot said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bob’s lips pinched into an unhappy expression. “I’m going to call Mrs. Branson back and explain to her that the suppliers didn’t have those upgraded features after all, but we can give her a deal on a package somewhere in the middle. Give Mr. Branson a comfortable Ford Taurus funeral.”
Margot knew he was trying to soften the blow with a joke, but she couldn’t find it in her to smile. She prided herself on her work ethic and talent. Flamingos aside, she’d never been chastised for how she handled events. And at this stage, she didn’t need the knock to her confidence.
“I’ll leave you to do that.” Margot stood and grabbed her purse. “I’m going to go into town and grab some lunch. Would you like something?”
“No, Leslie’s got me covered. Why don’t you just let her fix you something at the Snack Shack?”
“Because I need to eat something green that doesn’t involve gummy candy,” Margot shot back. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“All right, then.” Bob sounded disappointed in more ways than one as he sat at her desk and picked up the phone.
Margot sped down the hall and outside into the stifling heat. This was manageable. A little fruit, some lean protein, and she would be back on track. Everybody has bad mornings at work, and it wasn’t as if Tootie was going to let Bob fire her. Of course, she’d had a bit of a spat with Tootie the last time she’d spoken to her, too. Maybe there was a reason she’d grown up without an extended family. She didn’t seem to be very good at it.
Margot rooted around in her purse for the set of truck keys Duffy had graciously shared with her. And when she looked up, she realized she was walking toward Stan, who was waiting for her by the truck. He looked more rumpled than the first time she’d met him, more worn. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced now that those eyes were infinitely sadder. But his eyes were clear and his hands were steady.
“Just what I need,” she muttered under her breath.
Stan chewed on his lip as she approached, as if he was still trying to figure out what to say to his daughter. Margot made it very easy for him.
“Whatever excuse you have for standing me up yesterday, I don’t want to hear it,” she said, clipping past him. She still couldn’t find the damn keys. How did giant pre–keyless entry metal monstrosities like that get lost in her relatively small purse?
“Margot, I’m sorry,” Stan said.
“Sorry for what, exactly?” she asked, her voice icy as she pawed through makeup, tissues, her phone. “Missing a lunch you agreed to, the first commitment you’d made to me in thirty years? Or being absent for those thirty years? Because if it’s the former, don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
“I don’t know what your mother told you about me—”
“She told me you were a drunk. That you weren’t the sort of man she wanted raising her daughter, that you were unreliable and unstable. She wasn’t wrong. She’s still not.” Her fingers closed around the keys and she pulled them free.
“About the drinking, no, not at the time. She was right about that,” he agreed. “But I’m dried out now. Got my twenty-year chi
p, even though I never got to make my amends to you. Your mama was right to—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, unlocking the door and yanking it open. “I really don’t. I was wrong to reach out to you. I was setting myself up for disappointment. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want a dramatic apology. I don’t want to hear about your feelings. I just want to come to work, earn my keep, and get out of this town and far from you.”
“Margot, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never did.”
Margot wedged her foot into the truck and hurdled into the driver’s seat. “And yet you have, over and over. You had a choice yesterday. You chose not to show up.”
“I wanted to, but—”
She slammed the door, but unfortunately, Duffy had left the window down, so this conversation continued. “Was there a work-related emergency that couldn’t have been handled by anyone else?”
He shook his head, swallowing thickly. “No.”
“A mechanical failure affecting every vehicle in town that prevented you from keeping your appointment with me?”
Stan’s big sad eyes narrowed a bit, like he didn’t appreciate her frigid tone of voice. “No.”
“A cell phone tower outage that kept you from being able to call me to tell me you weren’t coming?”
“No.”
“So you chose not to show up, you let me sit here in my office waiting for you, wondering where you were. And you didn’t think that maybe that would hurt me?” Margot slid the keys into the ignition.
“No, I knew it would, but I thought it would be better than hurting you some other way.”
“That’s bullshit. It’s emotionally lazy bullshit,” she snapped. “Look, when someone shows me who they are, I believe them. You’ve shown me every day, since before I can remember, who you are. I believe it. Now, please, just let me work. Nothing’s changed. We don’t know each other and we don’t have to know each other. We are two strangers who happen to work in the same office. And that’s fine. I’m fine.”
Stan stiffened, staring at her for a long time. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” Margot nodded, turning the key. The engine roared to life and Stan’s response was drowned out. Margot gunned the engine, whipping her head forward and speeding off.
MARGOT COULDN’T BRING herself to go to the diner and face people, so she went home to forage in her fridge. As the truck bumped over the gravel drive of the McCready compound, she spotted Arlo waiting for her on her front porch. His ears perked forward and he hopped to his feet as she climbed out of the truck.
“Oh, no,” she said. “You just go home to Aunt Tootie. I don’t have time to lint-roll away dog hair. I only have an hour for lunch.”
Arlo whimpered and cocked his head to the side.
“Seriously, go,” Margot said, shooing him away with her hands. “Now.”
Arlo darted to the door and plunked his butt in the center of the frame.
“I will wait you out,” she said, leaning down and pointing a finger in his face. “I outlasted a shoe model who threatened not to walk in the Ladies Charity League Spring Fashion Show until she got a hyper-dry triple-shot soy cappuccino, because there’s no such thing. I can outlast a rescue mutt.”
Arlo yipped and licked at her finger.
Sighing, Margot turned her back on the dog and stared out at the sunlight flickering across the expanse of the lake. She hated to admit it, but her view was one of the things she enjoyed about living in Lake Sackett. In the mornings, she got up a few minutes early just to drink her coffee while watching the dragonflies dart across the surface. After dinner, she’d spent the evening on her porch, just staring out at still water purpled by twilight.
Margot glanced down the drive. She still didn’t know who had once lived in the yellow house with the dilapidated green roof. She hadn’t had time to ask anyone. She’d thought she would feel crowded and put-upon, living so close to the family. But Margot found it was a lot like living in her apartment building. She knew her family was close by, but everybody seemed to respect each other’s privacy. And there were times she was absolutely unnerved by the silence. She was used to the constant rumble of traffic and the wail of sirens—even in her relatively nice neighborhood. The lack of noise made her feel like her cabin was surrounded by a layer of Styrofoam.
But now, the noise in her head felt overwhelming, like she had an ocean between her ears, roaring and crashing. She couldn’t believe a simple lunch invitation had turned out so badly. It was a nightmare, all of her childhood insecurities, every question she’d asked herself about her father, all dredged up at once. She sank to the porch step, not caring when the seat of her pants suit landed on the dusty wood. Her mother had been right. Her father wasn’t a father. He wasn’t capable of that kind of responsibility, even sober. Linda was not a mother who hugged or even showed approval that often, but she’d done a loving thing in taking Margot away from here.
Arlo padded over to Margot and slipped his head under her arm and into her chest. She sighed, forgetting about dog hair, and combed her fingers against his neck. The warmth of his fur and his heartbeat under her hand, even with the doggy smell, were comforting. She relaxed around him, letting her face drop against the top of his head. For a brief moment, she let her eyes burn and water. She took a wobbly breath.
Why did missing one stupid lunch hurt so much? She’d had worse done to her by people she liked more. Why was she giving so much power to someone she barely knew? And why was she burying her face against dog fur?
“No,” she said, gently easing Arlo out of her lap. “No offense, Arlo, but no.”
She stood, shoving her door open. Arlo yipped and dashed into the house. “No! Arlo!”
Arlo hopped on the couch, made a couple of circles, and burrowed into a throw pillow. “You’re not staying.”
Arlo made a whining noise that sounded like a canine version of “That’s what you think.”
Margot crossed to the fridge, which had nothing green in it. Nothing. Not even mold. She groaned. “That’s it. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
MARGOT DROVE DUFFY’S truck to the Food Carnival at the end of town. While Leslie and Tootie had been diligent about delivering casseroles to her door, Margot really needed to start stocking her own pantry. She couldn’t keep living on a diet entirely based on Velveeta and cream of chicken soup.
As she pulled into the parking lot, she reminded herself that she’d shopped in tiny bodegas while living in the city and she could make do with whatever she found on the shelves. And then she walked into the cheerfully lit shop, saw motor oil displayed right next to fresh fruit, and almost lost her nerve.
While there were huge pallets of sunblock, beer, and pool noodles, there were no ethnic foods beyond the pasta aisle. There was no organic produce. And when she asked for the health food section, the clerk directed her to a display of Flintstones vitamins. She was a little discouraged by these developments, but they weren’t nearly as concerning as the store’s use of Snacky the Clown as its mascot.
She stocked up on produce, almonds, and oatmeal and with apprehension turned toward the toiletries section. She’d brought half-full bottles of her prestige-brand toiletries to Lake Sackett, expecting them to hold out until she found a new job and moved on. But she was running low on basically everything, as the ridiculous heat had her showering twice a day. Between her dwindling funds and spotty Internet access, she was going to have to break down and buy . . . bargain brands. She fully expected her pampered blond locks to rebel and detach themselves on principle.
Margot was considering which overscented fruity body wash would offend her sensibilities the least when a girl around age five with a honey-blond ponytail ran full-tilt into her legs. The girl bounced off Margot and went sprawling across the floor and started crying. Margot glanced around, searching for a parent who would fix this. But most of the other shoppers were just staring at her as if she’d knocked a child to the floor on purpose.
r /> “I don’t know what to do here,” Margot said, helping the girl to her feet. The little girl leaned her head back, opened her mouth, and let loose sobs that could have shattered the store’s front windows. Margot couldn’t help but notice the girl’s windblown hair and a very interesting outfit consisting of khaki shorts, a purple-and-orange-striped sweater, and pink rain boots with little green whales on them. Maybe she was one of those feral children you saw on the news? It would explain the fashion choices and the lack of a parent to soothe her out of her sobs. Margot awkwardly patted the little girl’s arms. “I don’t know how to deal with crying kids. Do I give you a Band-Aid? A hug? What’s going to make you feel better?”
Suddenly the girl stopped crying and her huge brown eyes popped open. “Candy.”
Margot’s own eyes narrowed, but there was a little quirk to her lips as she said, “Oh, you’re good.”
The little girl grinned and did not look one bit sorry. There was something familiar about that expression.
“June?”
“Daddy?” The girl’s head snapped left as Kyle Archer rounded the corner of the body wash display. He sagged with relief when he saw Margot crouched in front of his daughter. Margot quickly released June’s shoulders and stood, taking a step back from the girl.
Damn it. This was just not her day for uncomfortable interactions with fathers. Fathers. The little girl had called her truck-seat paramour “Daddy.” Margot’s stomach dropped. Where was the mother? She glanced down at Kyle’s ring finger, which was bare but still showed the faintest of tan lines. Not married, then. That was a relief.
Margot took a step back, staring at Kyle’s open smile. How could he look so happy, with his daughter in his arms, but so miserable when he was away from her? Was it a custody thing? Was he only cheerful when his daughter was around?
Kyle lifted the girl into his arms and leveled her with serious but not angry eyes. “Juniper Grace Archer, we’ve talked about this. You can’t run off on your own at the store.”