Relieved that everything seemed on point, she parked the golf cart and got out.
Kate pulled up next to her on her bike—not a motorcycle bike, but a bike-bike. She took off her helmet and hung it on the handlebars. “You sure picked an awesome day. I wanted to walk here, but I stepped on a shard of glass from a broken beer bottle on my morning beach run. It went clean through the sole of my Nikes.”
Liz winced at the mention of a broken beer bottle and her hand went to her scar. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just a small wound. It won’t stop me from enjoying the day.”
“You sure?” Liz asked.
“Of course I’m sure. Let me know what you need. Francie and Minna will take turns at the Barrier Island Historical Society table.”
As they walked, Liz said, “Captain Netherton will be at the other table handling the raffles for the Barrier Island Sanctuary and handing out brochures for Queen of the Seas.”
“Sounds like you have everything under control. Let’s get some java.”
Liz wanted to avoid Ryan. But if she was going to help Pops at twelve with the wine-and-cheese table, then what would it matter if she stopped in now for a coffee? Maybe Ryan would be more cordial in front of his grandfather.
Kate opened the emporium door and ushered Liz through it. “Age before beauty.”
Before the scar, Liz had taken her looks for granted. This morning, she’d thought of concealing the scar with makeup for the Spring Fling, then decided against it. Her surgeon had told her she should wait before applying anything topical that wasn’t from a prescription until after her next appointment, because the last graft needed time to heal.
Liz said, “I’m only older than you by one month, young’un.”
When they stepped inside, the foyer looked fun and festive. Josie had filled the space with flowering tropical plants and potted palms. The plants were for sale, along with the ones in her traveling flower shop camper, now stationed in the emporium’s parking lot. Pops, or Ryan, had relocated six iron bistro tables and twelve chairs from Deli-casies by the Sea into the foyer, to make room for the wine-and-cheese tasting table. They gave Liz the great idea to have Aunt Amelia buy similar tables and chairs for the entrance, where people could relax while their significant others shopped till they dropped. In the corner, against the back wall, were four musicians practicing on their stringed instruments—Liz had thought it would be nice to have live music instead of canned. At two o’clock, they would be replaced with calypso/reggae musicians.
Everyone was busy getting ready for the opening, including Brittany. Before Liz could ask if Brittany’s models had arrived, she saw two long-legged twin amazons seated at the counter of Deli-casies by the Sea, being catered to by an attentive Ryan Stone.
Six weeks ago, when she’d first walked into Deli-casies, Liz thought she was back in SoHo at her favorite Parisian brasserie, Balthazar. The shop floor had small white tiles interspersed with an occasional black tile, forming a honeycomb effect. The iron bistro tables and cushioned iron chairs were set inside three rough-hewn wood partitions, making the space appear like a separate café. Across from the café section was the barista counter, also constructed of wood and topped with an old-fashioned glass confectioners’ case. It was filled with sweets, some of which Pierre had contributed. Pops was a great cook, but he wasn’t much of a baker.
She looked toward Ryan. He wore a black form-fitting T-shirt and jeans, very New York, not at all Melbourne Beach. Of course, the black suited him and gave him that bad-boy vibe many women seemed attracted to.
Kate noticed her looking Ryan’s way. “You have to admit, he is one tall, cool drink of water.”
“And so are those two models who should be dressed in Sirens by the Sea clothing with price tags dangling from their armpits.”
Kate gave Liz her coffee order, then left Liz in order to get her shop in shape and feed Bronte. Liz strode toward Ryan and the models. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think it’s time you ladies went and changed into your first outfits. We open soon.”
Ryan said, “You’d better listen to Bossy Pants, girls. Let me transfer your macchiatos into to-go cups. And don’t forget to text your friends about the wine-and-cheese tasting from noon to five.”
“That’s if they’re twenty-one?” Liz added.
“Yes, Debbie Downer.” Then Ryan handed the “girls” their cups, and they strode away on their giraffe legs toward Sirens by the Sea.
After an awkward pause, Liz said, “Where’s Pops?”
“He’ll be here at eleven. He had a rough night’s sleep.”
“It must be a relief having you here.”
Ryan turned his dark-eyed gaze on Liz’s face. He looked puzzled by her compliment. “Well, if you have nothing else to do, princess, why don’t you help me cut up some of the cheese.”
“Don’t call me ‘princess’—and cut the cheese yourself!” Suddenly realizing how that sounded, she turned and stomped away. “And I have plenty to do,” she called back over her shoulder.
At the thought of the word “princess,” Liz felt her temperature rise. The 911 tape from that night long ago had become public. Liz could still hear it playing in her head, with Travis’s voice, “Princess. My princess. How could you do this to me?” followed by some indistinct garbling, then Liz’s voice, “Help! Please help! He’s out of control!” Followed by crying—Travis Osterman’s—the macho Pulitzer Prize–winning author of the best war novel in the last hundred years, sobbing like an infant. The nightly news had played the tape repeatedly. She’d first heard it in her hospital room, before her father had had a chance to jump up and turn off the TV. But it was too late. Until she’d heard her voice on the recording, Liz barely had any memory of what had gone down. But once she heard it, it had all
