On the Rocks(29)

Chapter 8



Leave It to Me to Stump Webster’s




TUESDAY MORNING, at the beginning of my first official week in Newport, I worked up my courage and walked into the store with the HELP WANTED sign in its window. Grace had gone back to the city for the workweek, and I was feeling at loose ends. It was time to get my life back in gear. I stood outside for a few minutes watching ladies enter and roam around the store, buying candles and straw handbags and other essential summer items. After about ten minutes of standing on the sidewalk, I pushed open the screen door and entered the store. I was immediately overcome by the smells of scented beach candles and potpourri. I wanted this job badly. I felt like somehow it was so much more than a job. It was the fresh start that I desperately needed.

I walked up to the register, sidestepping a wicker basket overflowing with striped throw blankets. I smiled at the woman sitting behind the counter, flipping through papers in a navy blue folder. She was classically pretty, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes. She was wearing khaki shorts that all but hung from her thin frame, a loose white T-shirt, and canvas sandals.

“Hi,” I tried to say, but my voice caught in my chest. I cleared my throat and tried to speak clearly. “My name’s Abby, and I’m here about the HELP WANTED sign,” I said nervously. I hadn’t applied for a job in a very long time. I forgot how much I hated it.

“Oh hi,” the slight woman behind the register said as she extended her hand to greet me. “I’m the owner, Lara Richards. Nice to meet you.”

Lara Richards? I stared at her a second longer than I should have, trying to figure out if she was the person I thought she was.

“I’m sorry, this is going to sound crazy, but did you go to Milton Academy?” I asked. She was understandably taken aback by a reference to high school. We were in our thirties now. At some point you don’t want to be recognized for who you were fifteen years ago.

“I did. I’m sorry, do we know each other?” she asked curiously.

To say we knew each other would be a stretch. Lara was the most popular girl in our high school. She was the head cheerleader, in the National Honor Society, and drove a super-cool red Saab. She was one of those annoyingly fit, blond, and naturally jovial girls who might as well have jumped off the pages of a Sweet Valley High book. She was three years older than I was in school, so I admired her from afar—and by “admire” I mean I was so insanely jealous of her that I couldn’t even bring myself to be in the same room with her. Which was a good thing for me, because for all of high school she pretended that the underclassmen didn’t exist. So no, the short answer to her question was, she didn’t know me.

“Not really, sorry, I don’t mean to sound creepy. I went to Milton too. I was a few years younger than you were, but I recognized your name. I’m Abby Wilkes.”

“Oh, what a small world. It’s nice to meet you, Abby,” she said with a smile.

“You too, Lara. You haven’t changed at all since high school.”

“High school,” she sighed as she stared vacantly out the window overlooking the street. “How much would you give to have your biggest problem be that you didn’t finish your math homework?” she said, her smile helping to break the ice.

“Or lost a field hockey game?” I suggested.

“Or ripped your friend’s favorite sweater?”

“Who told you?” I joked.

Her eyes suddenly grew cloudy as she continued. “Unfortunately, things these days are a lot more complicated than they used to be.”

“I hear you, believe me.” We stood in awkward silence for a moment as Lara’s mind drifted off somewhere else, before she shut her eyes tightly and returned to reality. I immediately liked Lara. Why was it so easy to find women you clicked with in an instant and thirty-one years on this earth wasn’t enough time to find a guy who didn’t have a severe mental problem?

“So this is your store?” I asked, hoping to return the focus of the conversation back to the fact that I needed a job and she needed help.

“It is. I knew the previous owner, and when I heard she was selling it, I jumped at the opportunity. My husband, Mark, and I were living in Atlanta, but then he had a great job opportunity in Boston, and I really wanted to move back north. My parents live in the area, so it sort of worked out perfectly.”

“Congratulations, the place looks great. A perfect spot for all your beachy needs,” I chirped, trying a little too hard to convince her I was the girl for the job.

I found myself intrigued by her decision to move home. It seemed odd (to me at least) to give up the yearlong warmth and sunshine of Georgia to be buried under snow and wearing roll-neck sweaters until April in Rhode Island. I looked at her again and was struck by how little she had changed from how I remembered her. She had the same blue eyes, the same perfect nose, the same friendly look, and even now, a twenty-six-inch waist. Just in case I needed another reason to envy her.

“Yeah, I like to think so. It’s not much, but I love it.” She looked at a display piece that was overflowing with starfish coasters, nautically themed linen napkins, and huge chip-and-dip trays decorated with multicolored flip-flops. The store had everything you’d need to entertain, every knickknack you could ever want in a beach house.

“So what brings you to Newport? Just escaping the city for the summer?” she asked.