Every Little Thing
Page 97

“You love her. That’ll make a man act like a fruitcake. Speaking of . . . I . . . um . . . well . . . I was going to wait to tell you in person but I don’t see you getting out here for a while now that you and Bailey . . .”
“Dad, spit it out.”
“Diane left me for good. I . . . blew it.”
He was disappointed for his dad, and for Diane. “I’m sorry.”
“I can’t change how I feel,” he explained. “I’ve felt this way too long. I don’t want to remarry. My wife is gone.”
“Dad . . . you’re being stubborn, and you’re going to lose someone you love because of it.”
“I do love Diane. And I would be with her for the rest of our lives. But she seems to think my not wanting to marry her means I don’t love her and there is nothing I can do to change her mind.”
“You could marry her.”
“I don’t want to,” he said firmly. “Sometimes . . . there’s just no finding that compromise.”
Frustrated with his father, but hearing the resolve in his voice and knowing what that meant, he realized this was in fact the end of his father’s relationship. And he was sad for him. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Me, too. I . . .” His words grew thick with gruff emotion. “I’ll miss her.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say, son.”
He had a thought. “Come out here.”
“What?”
“To Hartwell. Spend a few days, a week, however long you want. Take a break from New York.”
“I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of an important deal. But after? I would like to spend more time with this young lady of yours.”
“Definitely. Dad, you’re welcome here anytime.”
“Good,” William said. “Well, I best get going. And you . . . give the redhead some time. Be patient.”
They hung up and Vaughn put his phone down on the table. He stared at it, thinking of his father’s advice, and his heart began to beat a little faster. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little black velvet jewelry box.
It was light in his hand but it may as well have weighed ten tons for all it symbolized.
“Be patient,” he murmured, and slipped it back into his jacket out of view.
Bailey
I stood in the doorway of Dahlia’s workshop, watching as she sat on a stool, bent over a piece of jewelry. Her brows were drawn together in focus. Her total concentration and the fact she had rock music blaring loudly meant she didn’t realize I was there.
Years ago she’d given me a spare key to her shop.
The store was light and bright, and it was filled with Dahlia’s own jewelry creations. She was a gifted silversmith and had converted part of the storeroom in the back of the building into a workshop. As well as jewelry, Dahlia sourced unique gifts, books, toys, witty mugs, clothes, and accessories. For the past year, since George Beckwith closed down his tourist shop, Dahlia had been selling Hartwell tourist stuff—T-shirts, magnets, mugs, postcards, key rings, etc.
The air smelled heavily of the coconut diffusers she had placed around the store to mask the heavy aroma from her workshop. Although Dahlia described herself as a silversmith, she also worked with copper, bronze, and gold. She liked to oxidize metals, using a chemical called liver of sulfur to oxidize silver, and it made the place smell like rotten eggs. Hence the diffusers.
After seeing the Closed sign on her door, I’d decided to check in on her. It was Aydan’s day off at the inn. Mona was watching over the place while Jay supervised in the kitchen so I could make sure my friend was okay.
Realizing Dahlia wasn’t going to look up anytime soon, I crossed the room to where her phone sat in a music dock and I switched it off at the wall.
“Ah!” she cried out behind me.
Trying not to grin and failing, I spun around to face her. “Hey, there.”
Dahlia glowered at me. “I nearly died.”
“You do insist on listening to your music that loudly.”
“What are you doing here?”
“The shop is closed.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged, refusing to meet my eyes. “So?”
“Considering that blast from the past yesterday and the fact that you wouldn’t talk to me at all about it, I was worried. I am worried.”
Grimacing, Dahlia got up off her stool and wandered over to me. “You don’t need to be worried. I closed the shop because . . . what if he’s still here?”
I braced myself to tell her what I’d discovered in my conversation with Michael yesterday. “I don’t think he is. The . . . uh . . . the woman that was with him?”
“Yeah?”
I blew out air between my lips, not sure at all how my friend was going to handle this news. “That was his wife. And I’m guessing by her angry reaction to his staggered reaction to you that they’re on their way home now and she’s yelling at him the entire way.”
“Wow.” Her eyes widened before they dropped to her feet so she could hide her expression from me. “Wow. Okay. Wow. Yeah.” She threw her hands up, laughing, but it was a hard, ugly sound that made me wince. “Of course he’s married. Michael wanted marriage and kids and all that jazz. All the stuff you want! What normal people want, right? Not people like me. Not weirdos like me.”
“Dahlia—”