Stargazey Point (7 page)

She climbed the steps, deliberated about ringing the bell or just walking in, and decided on the latter. She stepped into a charming foyer, decorated in chintz and wicker. A dark wooden registration desk curved against one pale green wall; next to it an archway led to the gift shop. It appeared to be open, but no one came to see who had entered the premises.

Abbie walked into the shop almost tiptoeing. The ambiance seemed to call for it. A glass display case was filled with jewelry and figurines. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf held the latest fiction, cookbooks, books about the South and about Charleston, and a pamphlet on Stargazey Point.

Abbie picked it up and was just beginning to read when a woman about the same age as Abbie came into the room.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said in a soft drawl, “I was in back.”

Abbie noticed that she had a purse slipped over one shoulder. “Are you open? I didn’t see anyone so I just came in.”

“Yes, I’m open. Can I help you with anything in particular?” The woman smiled. She was nice-looking, though not wearing makeup, with dark shoulder-length hair and dark eyes. As she reached to put her purse down, Abbie saw that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.

“Actually I just came in to see if you sold writing materials.”

“For writing letters or journaling?”

Did people still write letters? Or journaling. It’s what people in the suburbs or in recovery called putting your thoughts on paper. Abbie couldn’t bring herself to call it that. “A journal, if you have it, or any kind of a notebook.”

“Sure. Just over here.” She led Abbie to a rolltop desk that held stacks of colorful journals and beach-themed notepaper.

“You must be the guest the Crispins have been expecting.”

“Yes.” Abbie reached for a seashell fabric journal.

The woman was just trying to be helpful, and Abbie was being rude. She forced a smile and looked up. “I just got in yesterday.”

“I know. I mean, I’m not usually so nosy. But you’re all Millie has talked about for the last week. We’ve all been waiting for your arrival.” She bit her lip. “They’re just so sweet, all three of them. Beau comes in for my rhubarb pie sometimes.” She looked thoughtful. “And to talk.”

“Beau? He hasn’t said much since I’ve been here.”

“Oh, well, mainly I talk and he listens. It’s nice to have someone listen.”

Abbie smiled. “I’ll take this one.” She thrust the seashell-patterned journal into the woman’s hands. “And two of these pens.” She grabbed the first two she could reach and handed them over.

The woman flushed. Looked as if Abbie had slapped her, and Abbie chastised herself for being so abrupt. The woman was probably lonely. The town wasn’t exactly crawling with tourists. But she hadn’t thought it would be this hard—a simple conversation with a stranger. She’d been holed up with herself far too long.

“I’m Abbie Sinclair,” she said.

“Hi. I’m Bethanne Bridges. I run the inn and the gift shop. Actually I own it; well, my husband and I did, but . . .” She shrugged, trailed off.

“It’s lovely,” Abbie said.

Bethanne rang up her purchase and Abbie paid cash. No reason to keep receipts for her taxes. She wasn’t on location.

Bethanne returned her purchases in a neat white bag with a picture of the inn marked out in blue. White and blue seemed to be a theme around here. She’d seen the blue door on the community center she’d passed by as well as on the real estate office and a tiny hole in the wall that she assumed was a post office.

“Thanks.” Abbie started to leave. Bethanne grabbed her purse and caught up to her. “I was just going over to Flora’s. They serve afternoon tea or coffee. It can be daunting in a new place where you don’t know anyone. Would you like to join me?”

Abbie’s first response was to decline, but she stopped herself. Bethanne was being friendly, and Abbie needed to start interacting with people again. “Sure. That would be . . . great.” Abbie let Bethanne lead her out of the gift shop and through the front door.

She turned a sign over that said back in ten minutes. “Which hardly matters since I don’t have a soul staying at the inn now. Come on, it’s just right down the street.”

They walked to Flora’s Tea Shoppe, which was spelled with two
p
’s and an
e
at the end, though a sign in the window assured passersby that they made the best mocha cappuccinos in town, which wasn’t hard to believe since they appeared to be the only coffee/tea shop in town.

Inside Flora’s was everything you’d expect and more. Blue gingham half curtains finished in blue gingham ruffles. Polished wood-planked floors. A glass display case only partially filled with an array of pastries.

Bethanne led her to a table by the window.

“It’s such a luxury to have all this space to ourselves. In season you can’t buy a seat.”

“That’s good,” Abbie said, wondering how any of them could do enough business to stay open; she hadn’t seen a car except for the rusted-out Chevy since she’d come to town. There was no one staying at the inn, and none of the other tables in Flora’s were occupied.

Flora turned out to be a middle-aged woman with springy reddish-blond curls, bright red lipstick, wearing jeans and a Vanderbilt sweatshirt.

“Before you ask,” she said, addressing Abbie, “I’m Penny Farlowe, owner of Flora’s. Flora died twenty-something years ago. I should put up a sign.” Penny looked down at her with eyes a shade of blue green that Abbie had never seen. Contacts?

“This is Abbie Sinclair,” Bethanne volunteered. “She’s staying up at Crispin House.”

“So she is,” Penny said. She seemed to be perpetually bubbly, perhaps cultivated for the ambiance of the tea shop. “This calls for high tea.” She leaned over the table and effervesced. “At least the Point’s version of it.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve pastries with fish heads sticking out of it.” Abbie had eaten a lot of weird things while out on a shoot, but fish heads . . . not so much.

Penny laughed. “I see you’ve heard of the famous Stargazey Pie. We tend not to push that delicacy here too much. We love our fish, especially of the shellfish variety, but summer people can get a bit squeamish.”

Bethanne frowned at them. “What are y’all talking about? Did I miss something?”

“Just a kind of pie they make in Cornwall,” Abbie said. “I only know about it because when I googled Stargazey Point, it was the first thing to come up.”

“Is it something weird, Stargazey Pie?”

“It’s fish pie, with their little heads sticking out of the pastry,” Penny said.

“Ugh.” Bethanne wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but it sounds disgusting. Do people really eat it?”

“Beats me,” Penny said. “Do you know?”

“I guess they must,” said Abbie.

“I think we’ll just have some of your cucumber and watercress sandwiches and your pimento cheese strips. Does that sound okay, Abbie? And Penny makes a really good pecan torte.”

“I’ll bring you the works. Coffee or tea?”

“Actually, I’d kill”—Abbie’s voice caught on the word—“for a double-shot latte.”

“From your mouth to Penny’s ears. Bethanne? The usual?”

“Constant Comment, please.”

Penny bounced away . . . there was no other way to describe it.

“She’s very . . . upbeat,” Abbie said.

“She’s a good person and a good friend.”

Abbie heard the
whoosh
of the steamer, and her mouth automatically salivated. That was one of the things she’d missed most when they were out on location. Good specialty coffee. Guess she wouldn’t be missing that anymore.

“Is something wrong?”

“What?” Abbie looked up to see Bethanne frowning at her. “Oh no. Just thinking. It’s nothing.”

Bethanne nodded, and Penny reappeared with a three-tiered plate loaded with enough food for several people.

“So sue me,” she said when she saw Abbie’s look of surprise. “Gotta use these babies up while they’re fresh.”

She was gone and soon back again with a tray of tea and a huge cup of coffee.

“It smells heavenly,” Abbie said.

“That alone will get you the local rate.” She placed the cups and teapot down on the table. “Y’all just yell if you need anything else. I’ll be in back making cheese straws for the Gentry-Palmer wedding reception on Saturday. They want three hundred. Hell, my arm might fall off before then.”

Bethanne sighed. “They wanted to have the reception at the inn, but there just isn’t enough room. At least most of our rooms are let for the weekend.”

The front door opened.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Penny said.

“I smell caramel macchiato,” said the newcomer, a young petite African American woman wearing overalls and a batiked turban.

“Hi, Sarah. Come join us.” Bethanne scooted her chair over to make room. Then she stopped. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Me?” asked Abbie. “The more the merrier.”

Sarah pulled up a chair from another table and sat down. “Okay, I confess. I saw y’all comin’ over and I just wanted to say hello.”

“And find out the scoop on the new girl,” Penny said, placing another cup on the table.

“This is Sarah Davis,” Bethanne said. “She’s home taking care of her great-grandmother and running the after-school program at the community center.”

“Oh, girl, you better not let Ervina hear you say she needs takin’ care of.”

“Ervina?” Abbie said. “I think I met her last night at the Crispins’.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “There was a time that woulda pissed me off plain and simple. But, hell, it’s turned into a kind of bad dinner theater.”

“Playing a role?” Abbie asked and took a sip of coffee and sighed.

“Oh yeah.”

“I thought maybe they were playing a joke of some kind. They seemed more like old friends.”

Sarah barked out a laugh. “They weren’t friends unless it was on the sly. They grew up in the same town, around the same time. Ervina is a bit older, we think. She claims she doesn’t remember how old she is.

“But they didn’t grow up ‘together.’ Ervina lived over the way with, let’s just say, folks of her kind. It was a long time ago, remember. Her mother worked for the Crispin family and then Ervina after her.”

“A long history.”

“Yeah, for all the good it’s doing me.”

Bethanne leaned forward. “Sarah’s having the kids put together an oral history of their families.”

“Was. The whole project was a bust,” Sarah said, and slumped against the chair back.

“What happened?”

“I thought I could accomplish two things at once. Preserve a culture while keeping the kids engaged. But none of the parents cooperated. The kids got bored. The equipment is ancient. I guess we’ll just have to limp along until I can come up with something else to keep them out of trouble all summer long.”

“How old are the kids?” Abbie asked.

“Five to fourteen, mostly. A few older.”

“Wow. Maybe a more focused project?”

Sarah dipped her chin and looked up at Abbie. “You got any suggestions?”

Abbie nearly bolted out of her seat. “Me? No. Why would I?”

Sarah shrugged. “Don’t know. Just asking.”

Abbie peered at her, trying to read her expression and wondering how much she knew. Jeez, she was getting paranoid. Sarah had more to worry about than googling some tourist. She let out the breath that had stuck in her lungs.

“Heard you also met Cabot, the third, last night.”

Abbie grinned. “Millie introduced him as the third. Do people really go by that here?”

“No,” said Bethanne, swatting Sarah with her napkin. “Well, maybe Miss Millie when she’s having one of her spells, but just Sarah when she wants to annoy him.”

“Why? Because he acts like he owns the place?”

“Was he doin’ that?” asked Sarah in round-eyed mock surprise.

“A bit. I got the feeling he didn’t like me being there.”

“That’s Cab all right, like a mangy dog with a bone.”

Bethanne giggled. “Sarah. You’re awful.”

“Well, he is sometimes.”

“Does the Reynolds family own property around here? I’m guessing he isn’t a plumber though he said he was helping you with your new hot water heater.”

Sarah threw back her head and laughed. “He’s no plumber.”

“No, he’s—” Bethanne began.

“He owns horses,” Sarah said, interrupting.

Bethanne smiled. Abbie noticed that one cheek had a dimple.

“Oh. I didn’t see any horse farms on my way in. Of course, I wasn’t looking. Racing stock?”

“Something of the sort.”

Bethanne reached for a sandwich, which conveniently kept her from having to look at either Sarah or Abbie. What weren’t they telling her?

“He doesn’t play polo, does he?”

Sarah snorted and pressed a napkin to her mouth. “Lord, polo. I can just see ole Cab in one of those funny helmets.”

“Okay, not polo,” Abbie said. “Breeding stock?” Not that she really cared what he did.

Sarah shook her head. “Somewhere in between. You get him to tell you on your date tomorrow.”

Coffee sloshed out of her cup, and she quickly set it down on the table. “It’s not a date.” To Abbie’s horror her eyes filled up. She blinked rapidly, cursing herself for letting herself be caught off guard. “Millie coerced him into offering to show me the sights. That’s all it is.”

“The sights? Honey, if you walked into town, you’ve seen ’em.”

“It is pretty small,” Abbie said. “Maybe I should let him off—”

“A date.” A sob broke from Bethanne. Abbie looked up to see tears spilling over her cheeks. “Bethanne?”

“Excuse me, I have to talk to Penny about something.” She pushed her chair back and ran toward the kitchen.

“Oh, my God. Is it something I said?” Abbie asked. “Are she and Cab . . . ?”

Sarah leaned on her elbows across the table. “It wasn’t you. And she and Cab aren’t.”

“Then what?”

“She and her husband, Jim, moved into town a few years back, fixed up the old hotel, and made it into a real showplace. They were pretty successful, too, considering . . . Well, you’ve seen the town. Tourism is off, which is tying a ribbon around it.

“Then one day Jim comes down with a virus; it turned to pneumonia, and before they got him to the hospital, he was dead. Just about killed her, too. Did kill the baby. Bethanne miscarried the next week.” Sarah shook her head. “Now you know her business.”