At seven twenty-nine, I shift the bottle of wine and bouquet I brought into one hand and ring Margaret’s doorbell with the other.
Heavy footfalls answer on the far side, and then the hot-pink door swings open to reveal Jodi in a different but nearly identical flannel, T-shirt, and jeans. “You’re on time,” she announces.
“And bearing gifts!” I thrust the wine and flowers toward her.
She eyes them skeptically. “Margaret hates trimmed flowers. They make her sad.”
“Oh.” I frown down at them, then meet her gaze. “What about you?”
Her square face softens a bit. “I don’t mind them.”
“They’re yours then,” I tell her, and because she did me such a solid, I add, “and if you tell me she hates wine, this is for you too.”
Her mouth turns up in an almost smile. “Sadly, I’m no liar. She loves wine.”
“Well, just tell her it’s for both of you then,” I say, handing it over. “But I should warn you, I don’t really drink, so it could be disgusting.”
Jodi jerks her head over her shoulder. “Come on in,” she says, back to all business. “They’re already out back.”
They. I’d assumed this was just a get-to-know-you dinner. If Margaret has friends over, I really should’ve brought my recorder. I always use both it and my phone, in case something goes wrong with one of the recordings, and I feel a little irresponsible for not tossing it in my bag before I headed over from the hotel.
In my defense, I’d been distracted combing through a list of Little Crescent Island’s monthly furnished rental properties online. Just in case.
At the back of the house, Jodi leads me through the glass double doors and down a flagstone path that winds around a wall of brush, the sound of cicadas, katydids, and crickets pulsing through the night.
A wide flagstone patio sits ahead, globe lights strung back and forth over the long wooden table in its center, and more still wrapped in a spiraling pattern up the side of a huge tree that partially hangs over the far end of the table.
Twelve people could easily eat here, but there are only three high-backed wooden chairs, two of them occupied.
“Well, hi there, Alice!” Margaret calls cheerily, pushing to her feet as, to her right, a rigid behemoth of a man essentially snaps to his.
Hayden doesn’t look surprised to see me, but he doesn’t look happy either.
I understand, of course—I’m not thrilled to find him here myself—but it still trips an old wire in me, a need not just to win him over but to root around until I find out what’s under his cold exterior.
I push my rising disappointment aside as I follow Jodi to the table.
Ultimately, I am still dining al fresco with the only remaining member of one of America’s most storied families—someone who has fascinated me since childhood.
“Good to see you both!” I say, reaching out to take Margaret’s hand. She holds my palm briefly between both of hers, her warm cookie scent engulfing me and her eyes as sparkly as ever. Which is to say, exceptionally.
“You too, sugar,” she says. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Thanks for having me,” I reply.
Her gaze tracks sideways to Jodi, and her smile falters.
Jodi heads her off. “The flowers are for me, so don’t you go getting any ideas.”
“And the wine’s for everyone,” I put in.
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” Margaret says, gently squeezing my forearm. “You remember Hayden, from yesterday.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m a big fan.” I specify, unnecessarily, “Of his work.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Hayden says, before lowering himself stiffly back into his chair.
“Sit, sit,” Margaret says, waving toward the open chair across from Hayden. As I take a seat, she asks, “What would you like to drink? Jodi’s an excellent bartender.”
“Oh, I’m good with water,” I say.
This seems to displease both Margaret and Jodi.
“Don’t deny a gal a chance to show some Southern hospitality,” Margaret says. “At least have some sweet tea or something.”
I look toward Jodi. “Coffee?” I say. “Decaf if you have it, regular otherwise?”
She nods and disappears back down the path, leaving the three of us to settle awkwardly around the table.
“So!” Margaret folds her hands together and slides her elbows onto the table. “I’m betting you two are wondering what exactly is going on. Well, you anyway, Alice. I was just telling Hayden here what I’m thinking.”
Hayden here takes an extremely terse sip from his water glass, eschewing the dark cocktail also sitting in front of him.
“I am a little surprised,” I admit.
“I know, I know,” she says. “I tried to make a quick decision, believe me, but I kept thinking about what you said, Alice.”
“What I said?” I say.
“This only works if it’s with someone I completely trust.” She shrugs. “And seeing as how I’m not the most trusting gal, determining who that might be will take some time.”
I cast a glance toward Hayden. He’s staring at his water, as if he’s trying to make the glass shatter with only his brain.
With a quick clearing of my throat, I look back to Margaret. “That completely makes sense. We should spend a few more days getting to know each other before you commit—”
“A month,” she says.
“A month,” Hayden and I say in unison.
She smiles cheerily, but the expression flickers when she reads something in my face. “Now, don’t worry,” she cries. “I’ll pay you both for your time, of course. Jodi’s inside working on some paperwork for you two to sign.” I look to Hayden again, take in his frown and the tension in his brow.
“I’m still not sure I’m following,” I admit.
“It’s like this.” Margaret sips from her frosted martini glass before going on. “I’ll pay you both, for the month, and provide a reasonable housing stipend. Jodi can send first offers to you or your agents, as you prefer. I’ll negotiate within reason, and in the end, you’ll both be paid the same. You’ll sign NDAs, and I’ll meet with each of you throughout the month. At the end, you show me what you’ve got so far. I choose one of you to do the book with, and we go off and sell it to the highest bidder.”
“Ms. Ives,” Hayden begins.
“Margaret,” she says, with a wave of her hand. “Just Margaret. Or Irene. That’s what everyone around here knows me as. Swapped my first and last initials. Guess I should’ve waited until after the NDAs to cop to that.”
She winks at me, and some of my unease about this arrangement fritters off, as if by magic.
“Don’t you think it would be easier to just—”
“Maybe,” Margaret cuts him off, smiling all the time. “But if you want something done right, you don’t go with easy. I’ve thought about it, and this is how I want to do it.”
“And what if one of us just bows out?” he asks.
She stiffens at this, the humor leaching from her eyes. “Well, I’m not just going to choose someone by default. I want options. So if one of you drops out—which is of course your prerogative—I’m still going to finish this monthlong trial with the other, before committing to anything. If I like what you’ve done, we’ll go from there.”
“So you’re saying,” Hayden bites out, “that we could both put a month of work into this, and you might not even decide to do the book?”
I’m surprised by how blunt he’s being, bordering on combative, but the gleam returns to Margaret’s eye and the corners of her naturally pink lips turn up. “That’s the deal.”
For the first time since I sat down, his eyes flash to me. “All right” is all he says. Not a word more, but somehow his tone makes it evident what he means: not All right, I understand or All right, I’ll consider it, but All right, I’m in.
Margaret’s smile widens as she spins toward me. “Miss Alice, what do you think?”
I think it through, ask myself whether there’s any reason not to stick around a few weeks and shoot my shot.
Who am I kidding?
I would’ve said yes even if she wasn’t paying. I would’ve drained my savings and put my job at The Scratch on the line and stood on my head while doing the YMCA with my legs if she asked.
I would’ve done just about anything for this opportunity.
“I’m in,” I tell her.
She claps her hands together. “Wonderful! This calls for a toast!” She hefts her martini glass into the air. Hayden, visibly skeptical, lifts his rocks glass to join her, and right as I’m about to point out that I don’t have a drink yet, Jodi drifts out of the shadows to set a tray down on the table.
A silver coffeepot. A steaming mug. A saucer of creamer and a little white bowl of brown sugar cubes. And next to it, a stack of tabbed documents.
Contracts.
I take my mug and lightly clink it against Margaret’s and Hayden’s cups.
Margaret lets out a refreshed sigh after she sips. “Now,” she says, “who’s hungry?”
After dessert—lemon meringue pie—Margaret is the one to walk Hayden and me back through the house to the front door. Only a couple of lamps are still on, and there’s no sign of Jodi, lending a bit more credence to my theory that she’s on the clock when she’s at Margaret’s.
“Now, you’ve both got your paperwork?” she double-checks as she opens the door for us.
“Yep!” I brandish the folder she gave me, and Hayden simply nods. He barely spoke at dinner either, just sort of glowered at whatever he was eating. I don’t know if it was my presence, or if this is how he always is, but it’s hard to imagine a man like this coaxing Len Stirling’s breathtaking, heart-squeezing story out of him, let alone finessing it into the beautiful version I read.
Then again, I know better than most that you can rarely tell who a person really is, or what they’re going through, just from looking at the surface of things.
For all I know, Hayden came straight to dinner from getting unwelcome personal news or arrived on Little Crescent straight off a breakup. In my experience, it’s best to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“And your pie?” Margaret asks.
Now both Hayden and I lift our little Tupperware containers of leftover fluffy meringue in confirmation.
“Well then,” she says with a wink. “My people will be in touch.”
“I can’t wait!” I tell her, going in for a hug before I can think better of it.
Luckily, she reciprocates with a tight squeeze across my back. “More to come, more to come,” she promises, then turns, with her arms wide, to hug Hayden. Only, he’s already lifted his hand to shake hers.
She laughs a little, but takes it warmly, between both palms. “You two get home safe,” she says. Then: “Where are you staying?”
“The Grande Lucia,” I say.
Hayden’s eyes cut sideways toward mine, his mouth twisting down for a brief moment before he faces Margaret again. “Grande Lucia,” he bites out.
“Oh, good!” she says. “Glad you won’t be far from a friend, if you need one.”
I flash Hayden a smile. He doesn’t look over.
“Anyway,” I say brightly, “we’ll get out of your hair.”
“And you get that paperwork back to me, so we can get started!” She ushers us through the front door and waves as we make our way down the path toward the road, so I wave over my shoulder every few feet or so, a game of Southern Hospitality Chicken, both of us waiting to see who cracks first.
Hayden, meanwhile, is stalking ahead, eyes on the prize (the prize being getting the hell away from me, apparently).
I throw one last wave over my shoulder as I follow the bend in the path that leads to the gate.
Hayden has left it open for me, and I hurry after him to the quiet, moonlit country road beyond. “So,” I say, “should we talk schedule?”
“Schedule?” He doesn’t slow his pace.
I jog to catch up with him by our cars, his parked in front of mine.
“I was thinking we could divvy the days up, so you work with her Monday through Wednesday, and I take Thursday to Saturday.”
He stops and faces me so suddenly I nearly collide with his chest. Instead, I screech to a halt close enough that I have to tip my head up to meet his eyes. “Then you would get the weekend and I’d only get weekdays.”
“Okay,” I say. “Then I’ll take Monday through Wednesday, and you take Thursday through Saturday.”
“Then you only have weekdays,” he points out.
I laugh. “And that’s a problem for you?”
“I assume you’re still writing for The Scratch, and I’ll need time for my freelance work. We’ll both need some weekdays free,” he says. “Plus, to get a full picture of a subject, you’ll need a more complete view of her schedule.”
I feel my brow inch up toward my bangs. “So, what, you’re looking out for me? Instead of just taking the upper hand?”
Just more proof that there’s always more to people than what you see first.
He rolls his eyes and turns away from me, stalking toward his car. “Trust me,” he calls as he pauses to unlock his car door, nothing but a huge shadow against the moonlight, “I don’t need an upper hand.”
