Wish You Were Gone(17)

“What do you think?” he asked her now, blowing on his coffee.

“It’s ridiculously good,” Lizzie told him. “My compliments to your grandma.”

“May she rest.” Ben bowed his head for a moment, then came back up with that smile on, his dimples showing. “So, I can’t stay long today. I have to go to the town council meeting. It’s New Business Monday.”

“Ugh, town council meetings.” They’d made her attend a half dozen of those when she’d first moved to town and put in her proposal for her business. The hoops they’d made her jump through to get her awning approved and ensure her new windows were up to code and on and on. You’d think she’d rolled into town on Spring Fest weekend and announced to all the little kids at the egg hunt that she was opening a sex den.

“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “Small-town bureaucracy. But how are you? What’s new? How was your day?”

Lizzie thought of her computer, the balance in her checking account. But no. She refused to obsess. Especially not when she had started to form a plan. “It was fine,” she said and licked a crumb from her lip. “A little weird.”

“How so?”

“It’s a long story,” she said. “And if you have to go—”

“No! It’s okay. The council can wait.” He laughed. “What’s up?”

“Remember my friend I told you about? Emma?”

“Oh! Everyone’s talking about her husband,” he said, his expression serious for the first time. “So tragic.”

“Yes, well…” Lizzie hesitated. Should she tell him Emma’s theory? Or would that be a betrayal? “I don’t know. I’m just worried about her. I don’t think she’s taking it very well.”

“That’s understandable, though,” Ben said. He picked up the discarded sleeve from his coffee cup and tapped it on the countertop. “It must have been a big shock. Do you know some people are saying it was a suicide?”

Lizzie almost dropped her coffee. “What? No, it wasn’t. It was an accident.”

“Well, obviously I don’t know anything about anything, but that’s what some people were saying at the café over the weekend. It was a big topic of conversation.”

“I see,” Lizzie said, and felt offended on Emma’s behalf. But then, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t surprised. A few customers had tried to talk to her about it last week as well, but she’d always shut them down—politely, of course, but still. It was all still too raw. She didn’t like the way they were using Emma’s tragedy as gossip fodder—acting like they were commiserating when really they were scandalized, curious, always hoping someone would feed them a new tidbit of information they could pass on to their friends.

But could James have killed himself? Would that explain all the oddities Emma was talking about? Maybe she should call her. But how do you suggest to your best friend that her husband, her partner in life, the person who was supposed to love, honor, and cherish her, had decided he’d had enough of that and checked out? Lizzie’s throat closed at the very thought.

Ten minutes later the scones were eaten and the coffee drained and Lizzie was seeing Ben out, promising to stop by the café later in the week. The sun had gone down while they were chatting—those ever-shorter fall days—and Lizzie was just opening the door for him when Gray suddenly barreled through, her stylish dove-gray trench coat swishing.

“Gray?”

“Hello, Mrs. Garrison!” Ben greeted her.

She looked him up and down, then eyed Lizzie, as if surprised that she had company. “Oh. Hello, Ben. How’s your sister?”

“You two know each other?” Lizzie asked. He’d told Gray about his sister’s cancer treatments? Just like that, Lizzie felt significantly less special.

“Of course. I know everyone in this town,” Gray said.

Right. Of course. She’d forgotten for half a second that Gray Garrison was the all-knowing queen of Oakmont. Gray tugged off a pair of leather driving gloves, finger by finger. The woman had endless pairs of leather driving gloves, in all colors of the rainbow. These were basic black and worked well with the gray of her coat. The gloves were such a silly affectation. No one used freaking driving gloves anymore outside of NASCAR.

Be the change, Lizzie told herself, taking deep breaths. Be the change.

“My sister’s feeling much better. Thanks for asking,” Ben said, his smile as genuine as ever. “I was just heading over to the council meeting to make that statement you all asked for. Did you need a ride?”

“No. Thank you,” Gray said. “I’ll be right behind you. I just have a bit of business with Lizzie here.”

“I already closed out the register,” Lizzie told Gray.

Gray gave a short laugh and glanced dismissively around the shop. “I’m not here to buy anything.” She said it like Lizzie’s stock of lovely handmade bowls, Egyptian cotton towels, and original artwork was made out of animal feces.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” Ben said, edging out the door. “Good night, Lizzie. Gray.” And he was gone.

Lizzie sighed. “So why are you here?”

“Because.” Gray said the word imperiously, leaving Lizzie wondering how anyone could say that word imperiously. “Emma is obviously spiraling. We’re her closest friends. We have to convince her to drop this whole not an accident thing before she gets obsessed. It’s not healthy.”