Us? Now it was us? Why did she have to make this a personal favor for her? “Mom, I’m not going to be her wedding planner and pick up the pieces at the last minute. She made her bed. Now she can lie in it.”
“Just talk to her, then,” Mom said. “Before you leave.”
“And say what, exactly? I have nothing to say to her.”
“Sara, with all the quarreling you and your sister have done over the years, you should know things are never one-sided.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She gave me an exasperated look, as though she were dealing with a recalcitrant child. “It means I remember that it wasn’t perfect between you and Carter, especially toward the end. Sometimes we want to imagine what happens to us is someone else’s fault or responsibility when it’s not.”
Ah, there it was. She was sticking up for Mariel again, suggesting this wasn’t her fault. I got up. “Why do you act this way? You tell me you’re sorry and then you go right back to siding with her.”
“I’m not siding with her.” Mom stood up too. “I’m just asking you to be honest with yourself and think about the good and the…well, not so good.”
“I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it for the past eighteen months. And I wish you could see it from my side for once. She should get the acting awards in the family. She plays the victim so well.” I stepped into the aisle.
“Honey, wait.” My mother grabbed my arm, but I wrenched it away and dashed toward the doors.
“I’m sorry,” she called out. “I love you. And if it makes you feel any better, Mariel thinks I’m always sticking up for you.”
Chapter 5
Just One
The text message came through the second I left the playhouse: Delta telling me my seven o’clock flight had been canceled and to contact them to rebook. But that flight was the airport’s last departure to Chicago for the day. That meant one more night in Hampstead. One more night at the Duncan Arms.
The man at the reception counter booked me into another room on the second floor. This one didn’t have a fireplace, but there was a tiger maple four-poster bed, cheery blue-and-white wallpaper, and a nook with two windows and an L-shaped banquette.
I freshened up, changed into a pair of jeans and another top, and took out my planners—the rose-colored one I kept my personal appointments in and the blue business planner—so I could do a little work, but the distant thrum of a headache told me I needed food. Five thirty was way too early for dinner on a normal day, but this day had been anything but normal and it felt like ages since I’d eaten that orange-cranberry bread.
The Tree House was the inn’s more upscale restaurant, and although I thought about going there, I decided against it. For one thing, I was underdressed. For another, I wasn’t in the mood to eat alone in a place with candlelight, flowers, white linens, and couples. The Pub Room, with its dark paneling and checkered tablecloths, seemed a better choice.
“I’d like to get some dinner, please,” I told the girl at the hostess stand. There were about a dozen people in the restaurant.
“Just one?” she asked.
As if she needed to remind me. “Yes. Just one.”
If Carter had been here, he would have committed the name on her tag—Onyx—to memory. Like my dad, he never forgot a name or a face. He’d meet people once and remember them the next time he saw them—guys who pumped his gas, receptionists at other law firms, his clients’ assistants, and the assistants’ assistants.
And he knew the owner and manager of every one of his favorite restaurants and even his not-so-favorite ones. He’d always reserve the best table for us, order something delicious ahead of time, and have a wonderful bottle of wine waiting. He knew how to take care of things.
Looking around at the couples, I felt more alone than ever. I didn’t want to sit by myself at a table. A few women were having drinks at the bar. “I think I’ll eat over there,” I told the hostess. I took a seat at one end and set my planners on the mahogany surface.
“What can I get you?” a bartender asked.
The name tag on his fitted white shirt said JEROME. He had a little sparkling dot of an earring, like a diamond stud, in each ear. He might have been younger than me, but not by much. I told him I wanted to order dinner and asked if he would bring the dessert menu as well. Nothing wrong with planning ahead.
“Something to drink?” he asked.
“Sure. A glass of wine.” I glanced at the bottles behind the bar, amber light bouncing off their surfaces. “How about a glass of Riesling?”
“I have a Dr. Loosen Blue Slate that’s very nice.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
A moment later he placed my wine and a dinner menu on the bar. I put the glass to my lips and took a sip. The wine was crisp, cold, and slightly sweet, with the citrusy flavor I loved. I studied the dinner menu, starting with the appetizers, and quickly landed on a mixed baby greens salad with caramelized pears, aged goat cheese, candied pecans, and champagne vinaigrette. My mouth watered.
It was hard to select an entrée because there were so many good choices. The sesame-encrusted ahi tuna steak (seared rare, sliced, and served with stir-fried vegetables) looked amazing, but so did the prosciutto-wrapped breast of chicken (stuffed with ricotta and spinach, served with marsala sauce, red bliss mash, and asparagus).
I finally decided on the tuna, which left the dessert menu. The blueberry crumble seemed like the perfect choice. I was set. Jerome took my order, and I opened my business planner.
“What are you reading?” he asked as he set a place mat and flatware on the bar in front of me.
I looked up. “This? Oh, it’s not a book. It’s a planner. For work.”
He tapped some keys on a computer, inputting my order. “I’m reading that book Rx for Romance.” He sighed. “It’s sad romance is so confusing we have to read books to figure it out.”
I was familiar with the book. It had been on every bestseller list for months. I’d purposely avoided it, hoping my love life would improve on its own. “Maybe I should read it. I haven’t had the best luck with men.”
Jerome leaned toward me and whispered, “Hon, that makes two of us.”
True confessions, here we go. I laughed to myself, went back to the planner, and reviewed the list of things I had to do for the August board meeting, writing notes under some of the items. When Jerome placed my salad on the bar, I was happy to put the work away.
The caramelized pear was delicious, sweet and nutty. How did they make pears taste like that? I’d eaten here ages ago and vaguely remembered the old menu, which had been more of a meat-loaf-and-potatoes kind of thing. “I like the changes they’ve made to the menu,” I said as Jerome walked by.
“When was the last time you were here?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s been at least fifteen years. I think it was a Sunday brunch with the family.”
“The menu’s probably been changed a few times since then.” He put a saltshaker and a pepper mill on the bar by me. “Do you live in town?”
“I used to.” I slid another piece of pear onto my fork and popped it in my mouth.