Where Your Heart Is (Lilac Bay Book 1) (9 page)

I made a mental note never to tell Mimi that Paul was attempting to make her granddaughter a vegan. She would probably move heaven and earth to stop the wedding if she knew that.

“If you want, I could take you guys to the farm this weekend,” David said. I tried to suppress the little shiver I felt at the idea of spending time with him outside of work. “So you could see it for yourselves.”

“Ooh, yes,” Posey said immediately. “Except…” She glanced back and forth between David and me, and I suddenly got the sense that she was up to something. And I wasn’t going to like it, whatever it was. “I don’t think we should wait for the weekend. If we’re going to make a big change like this, we should get everything in order before the season starts.”

“But you have school…” The glint in her eyes told me that I had hit on her diabolical plot. “
Posey
.”

“You’re right! Oh, darn,” she said, as if she had never thought of that. She was such a bad actress. “Well, the two of you should go then. Tomorrow. Neither one of you is working, right?”

I really could kill her. “Posey, I’m sure David doesn’t want to spend his day off taking me to some farm on the mainland.” I couldn’t help stealing a glance in his direction.

He shrugged. “I was planning to go into town anyway. It wouldn’t be a big deal to swing by Carl’s, too.”

“Then it’s settled,” Posey said, clapping her hands. “You guys go and get all the info, and we’ll make a game plan for convincing Mimi when you get back.”

“Posey—”

But now that her little plan had come to fruition, she was in no mood to be argued with. She hurried me up off my stool, simultaneously reaching behind the counter for my purse and sweater before pushing me toward the door. Even Mimi Rose would have been impressed with her efficiency. “Come on,” she trilled. “I need to stop off at home, and we don’t want to be late for the Libbies.”

“Oh God,” I groaned, shooting David a look over my shoulder. “Help me.”

“Remember what I said about the wine,” he called out, smirking. “Good luck.”

I had thought David’s scowls were devastating—I had completely forgotten the effect his smiles could have on me. As Posey hurried me through the door, I thought about spending the entire next day in his company, and I shivered. I was definitely going to need some luck on my side.

L
ibby’s store
was located a few streets over from the café. Nestled between a pub and the island’s biggest fudge shop, I probably wouldn’t have even known it was there if it hadn’t been for Posey pulling me along. “Someone really needs to tell the business owners on this island about proper signage,” I told my cousin.

“You should do a workshop for the Commerce Committee,” she suggested. “Share your big-city business knowledge with the people of Lilac Bay.”

I snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like exactly what I want to do. I’m supposed to be on vacation, remember?”

“Says the girl who’s been taking Mimi’s ledgers to bed with her. Now come on, we’re going to be late.” She pushed me through the glass door, following one step behind like she was afraid I was going to escape.

For a moment, it was difficult to take in my surroundings. It was simply too loud in the room to focus on anything but the noise. “Posey!” several voices shouted, rising above the general chatter and laughter.

“Posey! Iris! I’m so glad you could come!” It was Libby herself, dressed tonight in a cashmere sweater dress that I was pretty sure I had seen the last time I was at Saks and slouchy knee-high brown boots that looked as soft as butter. She pulled me into a tight hug, and I breathed in the scent of jasmine and sandalwood. I wasn’t normally a fan of touchy feely greetings, particularly with near strangers, but there was something about Libby that set me at ease.

She pulled back to peer in my face. “You look terrified.”

“I may have spent part of my afternoon listening to horror stories about your club,” I confessed.

“Ooh, I’m going to smack David the next time I see him,” Posey muttered behind me.

“Girl, are you crazy?” Libby asked, releasing me and turning to my cousin. “Don’t say that name so loud in front of this group. They’ll never shut up once they get started on him.” She put a reassuring arm around my shoulder. “Relax, Iris. David is a special case. Unless you also have gorgeous grey eyes, biceps for days, and an ass that won’t quit, you don’t need to worry.”

For the next several minutes, I was subjected to a round of introductions that I had no hope of remembering. The other Libbies girls seemed to range in age from early twenties to mid fifties. I actually recognized two former classmates from my time on the island, Margaret Munson, who taught with Posey over at the Island School, and Tessa, whose married name I didn’t catch and who appeared to be about twelve months pregnant. Cora, the pub owner, I recognized from the mulled wine table at the fish fry—and from the café the other day, though I was trying not to think about the way David had been so nice to her. The rest of the introductions passed in a haze of names and professions—and lots of hugs. Apparently, half the girls in the Libbies thought we were well on our way to being best friends based on everything they’d heard from Posey and my grandmother.

When the crush of women awaiting introduction started to wane, I was finally able to take a look at Libby’s shop. Her description at the fish fry was pretty accurate—the store did, indeed, seem to contain a little bit of everything. Jewelry, knick-knacks, books, pottery, homemade jams and jellies wrapped up in burlap and lace with raffia ribbons. The layout was cozy (or cluttered, depending on how generous you wanted to be), with little nooks and corners all filled with shelves and displays.

“This is nice, Libby,” I told our host when she approached me with a glass of wine. I thought briefly of David’s warning and stifled a laugh, figuring I was safe, what with my lack of—what had she said? An ass that won’t quit.

“Thank you.” She tapped the edge of her wine glass to mine. “I opened six years ago this week. I love it. For the most part.” She saw my gaze land on one of the paintings hanging on the wall—a watercolor of the Big Hotel, standing guard over the island on its tall bluff. “They’re all local,” she said, gesturing at the paintings. “Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed, looking excited. “I have a few of your mother’s!”

“Yeah?” I wondered if she could hear how flat my voice was. Regardless, it didn’t seem to deter her. She grabbed my elbow and pulled me through the crowd to a display near the front window.

“I usually can’t keep her work in stock once the season starts,” Libby said. “She just sent these over last week. Lucky timing for you, huh?” She was grinning at me widely, so I did my best to plaster a smile on my face as I took a step closer to examine the paintings. My mother’s paintings.

They were very different from the landscapes I had noticed on the other wall. Instead of soft watercolors, my mother painted in bold, vibrant hues, using a mixture of oils and mixed media—prints, metal pieces, even magazine clippings painstakingly cut out and decoupaged into her pieces. The result was a much more colorful, textured image than most of the others Libby had hanging in the shop. Instead of grand landscapes and vistas, she focused her attention on smaller details of island life. The waves crashing into rocks down by the pier. A close up of the warm brown eyes of one of the carriage horses. My breath caught a little as I recognized the tulip garden at my grandmother’s house.

“She’s a very talented woman,” Libby murmured, her voice sounding far away.

“Yes,” I replied. “She is.” I stared at the paintings, trying to imagine my mother sitting in her studio and creating them. Trying to connect them, in any way, to the woman I had known, had idolized, for the first fifteen years of my life.

Finally I turned away, not quite liking the hollow feeling in my chest. “Any more wine?” I asked, voice bright.

“Of course. We should be getting started soon.” Was I imagining Libby’s eyes searching my face?

“Ladies,” she called out, and the chattering lessened slightly. “Let’s head back to the tasting room.”

I had been wondering how we were all going to find seats in Libby’s little store. The women were crowded into every conceivable space. But at Libby’s suggestion, they all began moving toward a doorway, pushing aside the beaded curtain to the room beyond. “There you are,” Posey said, appearing at my side as I watched the crowd file through the doorway. “Ready?”

I followed Posey through the curtain and found myself in a large, stone-walled room. Dark wood beams stretched across the ceiling. “This used to be part of the old inn,” Posey explained. “It’s ancient—a couple hundred years. Part of the earliest settlement on the island.”

“She uses it as a tasting room?”

Posey nodded, gesturing to the bistro tables set up around the room. “She hosts events for the wineries down on the peninsula,” she explained. “They’re very popular. During the season, she pairs them with fudge and chocolate tastings from the shops in town.”

“This is great,” I murmured, taking in the large, stone fireplace at the far side of the room and the antique sconces scattered across the walls. If there was one thing I was good at, it was evaluating a space. It was a huge part of my job in property development—determining what would be the best use of any given space and then figuring out what needed to be done to get it there. Libby had hit on the perfect use for this room. Cozy, warm, and unique. The perfect place to sit with friends or a date and chat over wine.

“Come on.” Posey tugged at my elbow, pulling me toward one of the tables. “All the good seats will be gone.”

“Okay,” Libby called from the front. “Whose turn was it tonight?”

“I thought you were supposed to be in charge,” Tessa pointed out. “Shouldn’t you know?”

“I’m not your mother, Tess,” Libby replied, eyebrows raised.

“True,” Tessa said thoughtfully. “My mother would never get it on with Ken Billings behind Cora’s bar.”

There was a chorus of squeals and catcalls. For her part, Libby merely smiled slyly. “Ken is the police chief,” Posey said softly, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “He’s been obsessed with Libby for years.” She grinned. “He’s forty and totally a silver fox.” Posey straightened, addressing the whole group. “Wasn’t it Cora’s turn tonight?”

Cora groaned. “Okay, so in my defense…”

There was a chorus of boos mixed with laughter. “This group is hopeless,” Libby said to me, sliding into the empty chair at our table. “People are constantly signing up to host—”

“Or being forced to sign up by certain overbearing shop owners,” Posey corrected, earning a slight nod of agreement from the shop owner in question.

“And then forgetting,” Libby finished as if she’d never been interrupted.

“Forgetting what?” I asked. “What does the host do?”

“They’re supposed to come up with the recipe, if we’re baking,” Posey explained. “Or lead the book discussion.” She scrunched up her nose thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, we haven’t done a book in a long time, have we?”

“Well, the last one was a bit of a disaster,” Libby said, and Posey’s eyes grew wide in some remembered horror.

Cora had pulled some brown shopping bags up onto her table. “Someone could offer to help.” She sounded a little cross.

“You still haven’t told us what we’re doing,” Posey pointed out.

“Oh, right.” Cora pushed her hair behind her ears. “So, obviously, I totally flaked on the whole coming up with a recipe thing.” More good-natured booing.

“She’s too busy banging Colin every night to care much about baking,” a middle-aged woman with an unfortunate perm called from the back, making everyone laugh.

“I deny nothing,” Cora said, flashing a wicked grin at the room. Suddenly, I wasn’t so annoyed with her for stopping by the café the other day. “Can I go on, or did you all want to tease me about my sex life some more?”

“Definitely tease you,” Libby said, to scattered cheers.

“Anyhow,” Cora said loudly, ignoring the catcalls. “I figured I’m shit at baking anyhow, so what in the hell am I going to teach all of you? Better to stick to what I know.” She pulled a bottle of gin from one of the bags, her grin growing. “Let’s get hammered, shall we?”

The room erupted into applause. I had a fleeting thought of David’s warning.
Those women are crazy
.

“I figured I’d do a little martini tutorial,” she said, pulling more bottles from her bags. “And then you guys could try to make one of your own.”

“Like a contest?” the girl at the table in front of us asked.

“That’s Riley,” Posey informed me. “The most competitive person you’ll ever meet.”

“Yes, Riley,” Cora said, rolling her eyes a little. “Like a contest.”

“What does the winner get?” Riley immediately shot back.

“The winner gets the honor of me selling their drink at my pub,” Cora replied.

Posey raised an eyebrow. “So, basically, you’re going to profit off of our hard work and creativity?”

“Exactly,” Cora said, sounding pleased with herself. “If I’m feeling kind, maybe I’ll put the winner’s name on it.” She pulled a red Solo cup from one of her bags. “Now a few of you get off your lazy asses and help me pass these out.”

“We’re making martinis in red Solo cups?” Tessa asked.

“Yup.” Cora tossed a sleeve at her. “Because we’re classy like that.”

Of course Posey, always the helpful joiner, jumped up from her chair to help Cora pass out supplies, so I followed. “Thanks, Iris,” Cora said, handing me three bottles of gin. “There are a couple more of these. I think I have enough so that three tables can share a bottle.”

“What’d you do, Cora,” Posey asked, peering into a bag, “raid your own bar?”

“I had limited options,” the other woman protested, “considering I just remembered I signed up for this crap an hour ago.”

I snickered. I had a feeling Cora and I might actually get along pretty well. She didn’t seem to hold the Libbies in quite as sacred a regard as Posey did. I grabbed the bottles of gin and walked from table to table, making sure they were evenly spaced.

“And who are you?”

I looked up into inquisitive green eyes. The owner of said eyes was a brunette, her hair nearly as dark as mine, several years older than I was, but younger than Libby. Or maybe it was just the way she was dressed. She was wearing a white blouse, perfectly molded to her skin, the top several buttons undone, revealing a rather impressive display of cleavage. Black-framed glasses sat perched upon her head. And she was staring at me like I was the most interesting thing she’d seen all day.

“I’m Iris Holder,” I said, feeling strangely self-conscious. Her face immediately lit up.

“
You’re
Iris. I’ve been hoping to meet you.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Jill Franklin.”

Have you met Jill? You will
.

“Uh, hi, Jill,” I said, shaking her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“We should chat later,” Jill said, her smile taking on a frankly frightening quality. “I’m just positive we’ll be the best of friends.”

“Sure.” I wasn’t sure why David had sounded so ominous when he mentioned her name, and I wasn’t really in a hurry to find out. So I plopped my last bottle of gin on her table and scurried back to Cora, only to find that the rest of the supplies had been handed out.

“Okay,” Cora said as I slipped into my chair, “first thing’s first. To make a good martini, you must start with good gin.”

“I don’t know about that,” Bad Perm cackled from the rear of the room. “I find that any old gin will do in a pinch.”

“That’s because you’re married to Vern,” her tablemate shot back. “I’d be drinking anything I could get my hands on if I were in your shoes.”

“Exactly,” Bad Perm agreed, laughing heartily.

Cora sighed. “Do you want me to do this or not?”

“Aw, get on with it,” Margaret called from the other side of the room.

“Like I was saying.” There was a bit of a bite to Cora’s voice as she continued. “We’re going to make a classic martini first. Then we’ll do something a little more fun.”

Cora led us through the steps of first making a classic gin martini before moving onto a chocolate and marshmallow-flavored concoction that tasted as good as it sounded. It took her a while to get through the recipes, considering the other girls were constantly interrupting with jokes and comments, which seemed to get more and more crass the more they drank. And they were
drinking
. I was pretty sure more of the gin was going straight into their mouths rather than into their martinis. A lady at the table next to us didn’t seem to be adding any other ingredients at all, just topping off her cup every time she ran low on booze.