The beachside bed and br.., p.3
The Beachside Bed and Breakfast, page 3
Micah settled in, and his brothers ordered a pitcher of beer. Not much was said until the waitress had brought their drinks. Colton did the pouring, and when he pressed the glass into Micah’s hands, he said, “Drink up, brother. You escaped today.”
“Escaped?” Jude asked. “He didn’t escape. She broke his heart.”
Micah took a deep draft of beer and put down his glass. Clemson had turned over the ball. “Come on, y’all, can we watch the basketball game, please?”
“No. You need to talk about this,” Jude said.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to,” Colton replied, rolling his eyes in Micah’s direction. “I want to make it clear that I’m here in a show of solidarity. If you don’t want to talk, I’m down with that.”
Jude scowled at Colton, and Colton returned the look. Micah took another gulp of beer. “Am I going to have to break up a fight?” Micah asked.
“No,” his brothers said in unison.
“But you should talk about your feelings,” Jude said.
“Right.”
“You know this is true. You’re a preacher.”
Technically, he was an Episcopalian priest, but folk around here called anyone who stood in the pulpit a preacher. And if he started talking about his emotions, Micah feared he might confess stuff that neither of his brothers wanted to hear.
Stuff about his guilt for leaving them years ago.
Stuff about his interest in Ashley Scott.
Stuff about his anger with Mom and Daddy.
Stuff about how he had decided to settle for Brooklyn instead of love her.
Better not to talk about this stuff. He took another gulp of beer.
“So…” Jude leaned in.
“I don’t want to talk about my feelings,” Micah snapped.
“See.” Colton grinned at Jude and picked up his menu. “I suggest you get the biggest steak on the menu.”
“Seems reasonable to me,” Micah said.
“Come on, Micah. It’s okay to feel sad. After all, you loved her, and she said no.” Jude stared at him out of worried eyes. Micah appreciated his brother’s concern, but he was not ready to talk. Not about his most important thoughts. Sadly, losing Brooklyn might not be the biggest disaster in his life.
“Jeez, Jude, leave him alone.”
Micah hid behind his menu until the waitress came by and they ordered their steaks. By then, Micah was working on his second beer, and his grumpiness was fading into a little buzz. Also, Clemson was ahead by five points.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve decided never to order muffins at Bread, Butter, and Beans again,” Colton said.
Micah huffed out a breath. “Don’t penalize Brooklyn. It’s all my fault.”
“And why do you say that?” Jude asked, pouncing on this confession like a cat on a mouse.
Oh great. That had been a mistake. Maybe he should give them a tiny sliver of truth that Jude could take home to his wife. And then they could congratulate themselves for helping him. He had no doubt this brotherly dinner was all Jenna’s idea.
He gulped down some more beer. UVA was staging a comeback.
“You know, Micah, you’re always taking the blame for stuff that you’re not responsible for,” Jude said.
“What?” He tightened his grip on his beer.
“The part about it being your fault. It’s not. Just sayin’.”
He shrugged, unable to counter this obvious truth. But there were other truths beneath the surface. Otherwise, how could he explain that he was more humiliated than heartbroken? He studied the big screen for a moment and decided to speak the unvarnished truth. “I was settling.”
“What?” Jude sounded horrified.
“Oh boy,” Colton said, squirming in his chair.
“You proposed to a woman you didn’t love? Were you hoping to fail?” Jude asked, leaning in.
“Maybe.”
Colton scrubbed his face with his hands. “Y’all, do we really want talk about this?”
“Grow up,” Jude said, shooting Colton a sharp glance. It was a funny thing for Jude to say since he was younger than Colton. But maybe more mature than any of them. “Why did you want to fail?” he asked Micah.
Micah drained his beer, and Colton refilled it. “Look, you guys, it’s not that easy when you’re a priest.” He turned toward Colton. “There are rules I have to follow.”
“What rules?” Jude pressed. The ref blew the halftime. Clemson was down by five.
“I can’t date just anyone.”
“Oh? What does that mean?”
He huffed out a breath. “It’s against the rules for me to date anyone with whom I have a pastoral relationship.”
“What does that mean?” Colton asked.
“It means he can’t date members of his congregation,” Jude said, then frowned. “Holy crap, Micah, is there someone in the congregation that you’d like to date?”
He stared at Jude without the fig leaf of being able to tell him to watch the game since it was halftime. “No,” he said as firmly as he could. “It makes the pool of potential dates smaller, is all.”
It was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole truth. He wasn’t being entirely honest with them or himself.
* * *
“And then,” Shawna Braddock said, waving her glass of Chardonnay with a flourish, “after he dropped the ring, Brooklyn said no.”
“She didn’t,” Marcie Harvey said, looking up from the somewhat lopsided scarf she was kitting.
Shawna nodded, and Kerri Eaton, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to shape the crown of a beanie hat, let go of her knitting in frustration. She’d started this “easy” project right before Christmas and had ripped it out five times. Now her yarn was kinky and split in places, making the decreases along the crown an unholy mess.
Her girlfriends had formed this knitting circle, unofficially named the Stitch and Bitch Club, a few months ago. They usually met on Wednesday, but Marcie had called an emergency Valentine’s Day meeting because they were all over thirty-five and dateless.
“Why on earth would a woman Brooklyn Huddleston’s age say no to Micah St. Pierre? I mean, it’s not as if there are that many marriageable men floating around this island during the off season,” Shawna said.
“Amen to that, girlfriend,” Marcie said, stuffing her project into her knitting bag and pouring herself another glass of Chardonnay. “In fact, y’all, I’ve been thinking about moving back to the mainland. I could get a job at a bank anywhere. Preferably somewhere there are available men. I’m tired of living like a nun.”
“Maybe you should make a play for Micah St. Pierre,” Shawna said, taking a sip of wine.
Marcie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want a minister. I suspect that’s why Brooklyn said no. On the other hand, the preacher’s brother…Well, that’s a whole different story. Only problem with Colton St. Pierre is that he’s married to his business, near as I can tell.”
“And not likely to commit anytime soon,” Kerri muttered, putting her sad hat aside and picking up her wine. Summer before last, she’d had a whirlwind and completely secret affair with Colton St. Pierre. The man had commitment issues. He was not the Prince Charming Kerri was looking for. But then again, there was no such thing as Prince Charming. If only her stupid heart would believe that.
Marcie heaved a big sigh. “I know he’s a player, but one day he might get a notion. I live in hope of being the first woman he sets eyes on when that happens.”
“Right, and you might be too old to notice when he gets around to it,” Shawna said, cocking her head and staring at Kerri in a peculiar way.
Had Kerri said too much? Had her friend connected the dots? She didn’t want to expose her own foolishness over Colton. She’d known right from the start that her fling with him wasn’t going to be permanent. At the time, Colton had been carrying a gigantic torch for Jessica Blackwood. He probably still did, although Jessica had married Topher Martin.
“You know,” Shawna said, aiming her gaze at Kerri, “you’d be perfect for Micah St. Pierre since you’re such a good church woman.”
“What?” Kerri almost spilled her wine.
“You heard me. Why don’t you give him comfort in his hour of need?”
Kerri shook her head, searching for something that would end this conversation. “Shawna, we go to different churches.”
“So. You’re both Christians.” Marcie drained her glass and reached for the bottle.
“Well, yes, but I don’t know the man that well.”
“I’m sure you could wrangle an introduction.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Shawna wasn’t getting the hint. She wasn’t going to drop this subject, which was a problem. Kerri could not date Rev. St. Pierre when she’d slept with his younger brother.
It was icky.
And probably immoral.
Or something.
“No. Just…no,” Kerri said, reaching for the bottle and draining the last bit of wine into her glass.
“Well, if not you, then who? I mean, there are plenty of single women here in town. Maybe we can help him out and get him hooked up with someone we know.”
“Shut up, Shawna. I’m sure he doesn’t need a matchmaker. The man is tall, dark, handsome, and reliable. I bet he has to beat the ladies off with a stick,” Marcie said.
“Well, if that’s true, why hasn’t he gotten married before this?” Kerri asked. She suspected that Micah suffered from the same commitment phobia as Colton. They’d both come from a dysfunctional family where addiction had been present. It made for screwed-up adults.
“Girl, are you suggesting that he doesn’t like women?” Marcie asked.
“No,” Kerri said with a firm headshake. “But he might be terrified of commitment. He comes from a broken home, you know. And besides, it’s got to be complicated for a minister. I mean, what if his congregation doesn’t like his choice?”
“Good point,” Shawna said, an unholy, wine-fed glow in her eye. “Clearly, you have given this some thought, haven’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“That bit about him coming from a broken home, girl,” Marcie said with a little giggle.
“Well, he did.”
“Right. And you know this because…?”
“Everyone knows Colton came from a broken home. Don’t they?”
“I didn’t,” Shawna said.
“Oh. Well, I’m surprised because it seems to be general knowledge. And the minister has to be approaching forty years old. What’s been keeping him from getting married all these years, if not some deep-seated problem with commitment?”
“Right. Like I said, you seem to know a lot about it.”
“No, it’s not that at all.” Kerri took a breath and stopped speaking before she dug herself a great big hole she could not get out of.
“Well,” Shawna said, standing up, “I’m going to get more wine. I think we need to discuss this further, girlfriend. Because I think you have a little crush on the minister. And really, if you’re looking for a reliable man who probably wants a family, Micah St. Pierre is the one for you.”
Chapter Three
Micah strolled into one of the meeting rooms at the new City Hall building for the monthly meeting of the Jonquil Island Museum Board of Directors. This would be the first time the group had met in the new building, which would also house their new museum. He took a moment to appreciate the light-filled room with its ultramodern, modular furniture—a far cry from the dingy basement room they’d been meeting in for the last three years.
Tonight’s meeting marked a transition for the board. Most of the work on exhibits had been done, a museum director had been hired, and the museum would officially open in mid-March. Instead of hashing out history, tonight they’d be planning the museum’s unveiling ceremony and reception.
Micah had already announced his intention to step down as chair right after the museum opened. He had too many things on his agenda these days, chief among them the renovation of Heavenly Rest Church, which was two hundred years old and had weathered a lot of history itself.
Pride might be a sin, but he was especially proud of the way the board had come together in the face of a lot of political pull and tug. When they opened their doors, the museum would present a fair and balanced picture of the island’s history.
A lot of the space would be devoted to presenting the story of the formerly enslaved people who had settled this island in the nineteenth century. Those people, known as the Gullah, had left the rice plantations, migrated to this island, which was remote at the time, and purchased their own land, making them distinct from the sharecroppers of the post–Civil War era in most parts of the South.
These first settlers preserved some of the culture they’d brought with them from the west coast of Africa. To this day, a visitor to the island could still hear people speaking the Gullah language, derived from hundreds of African dialects. The new museum would present the history of the Gullah culture and have special events including storytellers and sweetgrass basketmaking demonstrations. A foundation had also been created to study the language and try to preserve it in written form for future generations.
And a special gallery would be reserved for the story of Rose Howland, who, with Henri St. Pierre, planted the daffodils that had given Jonquil Island its name.
Micah took a seat at one of the tables. He was early. His meeting with one of the architectural consultants hired to provide advice on church repairs had ended early. So he had a moment alone before Harry Bauman and Dylan Killough came through the door talking about the Frigid Digit regatta coming up this Saturday.
“Ah, Micah, I’m glad you’re here early,” Harry said. The older man took the seat to Micah’s left. “I need a word with you.”
“Oh? What’s up?”
Harry swiveled on the fancy new chairs and leaned in close. He spoke in a near whisper. “On the QT, you should know that my wife is lining up potential prospects for you like some dowager in one of those Masterpiece Theater shows.”
“What?”
“You know. Those period pieces set in England where the women are obsessed with getting their sons and daughters married off.”
“Oh.” Micah’s stomach clutched.
“She’s decided that you can’t manage on your own.”
Great. Just what he needed. He wanted to tell Harry to ask his wife to back off, but before he could open his mouth, Ashley Scott sailed into the room, her cheeks rosy from the cold outside. She pulled off a knit hat, and a few strands of dark hair, charged with electricity, lifted from her scalp.
A different kind of electricity jolted Micah at the sight of her. She’d lost her perfect-ponytail, buttoned-up, do-not-ever-approach vibe. But he wasn’t supposed to notice that. Sometimes Adam Scott’s ghost had been a welcome barrier between Micah and his straying thoughts.
“Anyway,” Harry continued, oblivious to Micah’s wandering eye, “forewarned is forearmed.”
“Thanks for the advice, Harry,” he said, pretending to study his meeting notes.
“What advice?” Ashley asked as she found the chair to his right.
Micah braced himself, his mind going blank.
Harry muttered, “Nothing,” under his breath. “Just church stuff. You know the endless talk about the roof and the ancient plumbing.”
Ashley squinted her eyes at Harry as if she wasn’t buying that line, although lord only knew the church’s roof needed to be replaced and the plumbing was a mess. “What are you two up to?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Micah said, echoing Harry. “Truly. We just got another architectural report this afternoon. Filled with gigantic cost estimates.”
Ashley’s gaze moved between them a couple of times, but she bought the little white lie.
A few minutes remained before seven, when the meeting was scheduled to start. He prayed for time to get a move on, but this was one of those prayers God was never going to answer. Instead, time seemed to slow down while Ashley shuffled papers. Harry turned to talk to Annie Robinson on his other side. Cousin Charlotte came over just to whisper a few unwanted condolences in Micah’s ear.
He breathed in and out and looked down at his agenda. That way he wouldn’t have to notice any pitying looks. He was sure he’d gotten a few. His breakup with Brooklyn was topic number one on the gossip hit parade.
And then the worst happened. Ashley leaned a little closer, her left arm touching his right.
The world seemed to narrow down to that tiny bit of pressure.
“Do you have some time after the meeting?” The space between them filled with her flowery scent.
“Time?” he asked, momentarily confused.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“About what?” For a moment, he worried that she might be about to change her mind about Rose Howland’s diary. It had taken some convincing for Ashley to agree to donate the diary. Some white folk didn’t want history to be fully and accurately told. Ashley wasn’t one of those people, but she was worried about potential backlash. Micah wished he could assure her that her worries were unfounded. But he couldn’t. There would be some people who didn’t want to know the truth.
He studied her for a moment. The groove in her forehead seemed unusually deep tonight. “Is something troubling you?” he asked in a quiet voice when she didn’t answer his earlier question.
She shook her head, biting her lip. “No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I need a minute, okay?”
Oh. Maybe this was not about the museum or the diary or the church’s roof. Maybe she needed a minute with her minister. How easy it was these days, with all the distractions, to forget his true calling.
“Of course. After the meeting.” He glanced at the clock on the wall.
She cocked her head like an adorable, sad-eyed puppy. “That would be good. I’ll buy you a coffee at the new Starbucks across the street.”
He nodded and then checked the wall clock again. Finally, it was time to start the meeting.
* * *
A tiny pang of remorse nudged Ashley. She’d misled The Rev when he’d asked if something was troubling her. Patsy’s matchmaking plans for him were troubling her, but she doubted that’s what he’d meant. Micah had a way of focusing on a person when they needed his help. He was an exceptionally good listener, and he probably thought she was in need of guidance or some such thing.
