“I’m exchanging one pain for another. Losing the farm would kill me. It’s the last thing I have left. If I can get the lavender shop to do what I thought it’d do…but I need money to invest in it. A better website, people to work for me, and so many things I can’t afford. It’s a cycle.”
She smiles at me. It’s a genuine smile as if she understands me, or she can see past whatever was stopping her from liking me before.
“Okay then, we’ll do this together. Tell me where you want everything. If you want to talk about any of them, I’m here. If not, we’ll just put the memories safely in a box.”
“Thank you.”
A few beats later, she asks, “How old were you here?”
I turn around, and it’s yet another picture of Mane and me. “Maybe seventeen. It was before he left for college.”
“How long were you two together?”
I trace circles in the purple comforter, trying to calm myself.
I shrug in response. “It’s complicated. You could say that since I was four? I don’t know. There’s not a moment in my childhood where I can see myself without him. At least, until he moved away from Luna Harbor. After that, we’d see each other during the summer, and it just happened naturally. Until he never came back.” I mumble, “I guess we drifted apart.”
She frowns. “You guess? It’s not like you said, ‘fuck you, I don’t want to be with you.’”
I nod, trying not to show my anger because that would’ve been a lot better. “That’s what I choose to think and what I tell those who ask about him. The entire town swore we’d be together forever. It sounds better than ‘the asshole never called me again.’ It often happens when you’re a small-town girl. Outsiders come, they promise you forever, and by the end of the weekend or the summer, they forget your name.”
She scowls, and I’m not sure if it’s at the picture, at me, or at Mane. Silently, she places the picture in the box. I’m glad she doesn’t ask more. I don’t want to discuss him. I also thank my lucky stars that she doesn’t say something like you dated Manelik? The Manelik?
I bet that picture would sell for a lot. Somedays, when I see those tabloids with celebrity gossip, I wonder if I could make a lot of money by selling his old pictures or his life. I know his past. Everything.
I could, but I’m not that kind of person. Even when there are days that I hate him, I don’t want to ruin his life.
I notice that Grace keeps going to the fridge where Langdon said he’d leave food for us. He only left lunch and snacks. At five o’clock, he shows up.
“How far did you get?” he asks.
“We’re done. The movers took almost everything,” I say, proud of myself for taking that step.
“Good, the cleaning crew comes tomorrow morning. The contractor will be here by one o’clock. They’ll paint the house and do some repairs over the weekend. The carpet people should be here on Monday to replace some of it, and when did you say the furniture will arrive?”
“I didn’t,” Grace answers. “I need to do another walk-through to make sure we order what we need. How did it go next door?”
I dare to ask, “Did you buy the acreage next door?”
“We did. Why don’t we go for dinner?” he suggests.
I’m assuming that they’re going to the sports bar, so I say no. “I have a few things to do with the lavender,” I excuse myself.
“Zeke and Ethan told me you were invited. They cooked for you too,” Grace mentions.
I smile. “Well, if they’re going to be there,” I say. “How do you know them?”
Zeke and Ethan used to play for the band Sinners of Seattle. They’ve been visiting Luna Harbor since I was in high school. A few years back, they bought a cabin, and now, they’re building a house. Zeke is one of my most loyal clients.
Grace answers, “They’re my cousins. When I told them I’d be here to move things around, they offered to let me stay in the guest room.”
“Thank you again for helping me.”
“It was nice to spend some time getting to know you.”
Chapter Eight
Manelik
I lost the bet.
Byron Langdon is an asshole. I’d bet all my money that he’s overpaying for the place, or he found some poor soul who needed the money—maybe both. I keep wondering who could’ve rented him a house big enough to fit us all, but I can’t figure it out.
It’s been years since the last time I set foot in that town. Maybe someone built a house big enough, and they were renting it. I just can’t believe it.
Lang says it’s the perfect place with seven bedrooms. Grace went to Luna Harbor to help him choose rooms, furnish the place, and ensure that the facilities were set for Beacon. Fisher and Sanford left on Monday so they could meet with Lang and my brothers. I still had to tie up a few loose ends in Baker’s Creek so I stayed behind until Friday. Vance, Beac’s brother, flies me to Seattle.
“Call me if you need anything,” he offers once we land.
“I will. Thank you.”
“Anytime. We’re family,” he repeats the same thing that his brothers did when I was leaving. I’m just glad Beacon finally has his brothers in his life. He’s always wanted that, and it’s something that finally happened.
Now, they think we’re part of their family, and maybe we are.
“Fly carefully.”
“And you keep an eye on my brother when he moves in. In fact, I’m going to be the one taking him to Luna Harbor, so I’ll see you next month.”
I salute him.
As promised, Lang has a car service waiting for me, and the driver takes me home. If Myka wasn’t waiting for me there, I’d just ask the driver to take me down to the ferry terminal. Lang’s idea of setting up a helipad or a strip on the acreage we bought next to the house we’re renting isn’t a bad idea. I’d rather just have a thirty-minute flight than a two-and-a-half-hour car-ferry ride. To think that while growing up, the best part of my weekends and summers was when Dad took us to Luna Harbor.
When I arrive home, Dad is in the kitchen. Myka is on the veranda, looking toward Washington Lake.
“Hey, Pa.”
He turns to look at me and smiles. “It’s about time.”
He can’t say nice to see you. He has to lash out about my fucking timing. I don’t engage because anything I say will be disrespectful, according to him. I love my father, but I doubt we’ll ever understand each other.
I look around and ask, “Where’s Abuelo?”
“It’s chemo day,” he answers. “Uncle Gary took him.”
“Any news?”
He shakes his head. “No. He has three more rounds of chemotherapy. After that, it’s three weeks of radiation.”
Okay, so that’s about six weeks of torture, and then I can come back home and everything will go back to normal. Luna Harbor will be billions of miles away.
I dare to ask, “What’s the plan after those six weeks?”
“We don’t know. Are you already planning your next escape?”