Peach Pies and Alibis (38 page)

Laurel grinned. “It’s a good thing you’re an heiress. You could buy every last piece
of candy in here if it took your fancy.”

Olivia bristled. “Hey, I work as hard as the next person.”

“You do. You spend all those hours between two restaurants and yet you stay so thin.”
Laurel shook her head in disbelief. “How can you be around such exquisite food all
day long and not weigh a million pounds? If I weren’t your friend, I’d really hate
you. I still haven’t worked off the rest of my baby weight and the twins are almost
four! Oh well, now’s not the time to count calories.” She popped a truffle
into her mouth. “Look at Shelley. She’s sweet, beautiful, and clearly isn’t shy about
sampling her wares. A woman with Shirley Temple dimples and Marilyn Monroe curves.
No wonder Michel fell for her. Ah, here he comes now.”

Michel was glowing. Olivia barely recognized him out of his white chef’s coat, but
he cut a nice figure in his rented tux. “Can you get over my Shelley?” he asked, sitting
next to Olivia and giving her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “If I weren’t madly in
love with her, I’d be desperately jealous. She’s got everyone under her spell. I told
you she was an enchantress.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Spare me, Michel. I’ve overindulged on tarts and cakes and
bonbons and I can’t stand another ounce of sugary sweetness.”

“Then you should try the spicy chile chocolate,” Michel suggested. “Or the bacon flavored.”
Olivia gave him a dark look, but he was too jovial to notice. He and Laurel began
to compare notes on their favorite treats, going into endless detail about the perfect
balance between sea salt and bittersweet chocolate.

“I’m going outside for some air.” Olivia took her water glass and headed for the kitchen.
Without asking permission, she breezed through the swing doors into the narrow space,
surprised to find it empty of both wait and cooking staff. Shelley had hired servers
from a local catering company for her grand opening and they were all busy in the
main room, but where was the dishwasher? An assistant pastry chef or sous chef?

The kitchen was a mess. The sink was full of stainless steel bowls coated in dried
caramel, jam, buttercream, and chocolate in every shade of brown. The remnants of
crushed nuts, chopped fruit, and mint sprigs were strewn across the cutting board
and every burner on the commercial stove was obscured by a dirty pot or sauté pan.

“Shelley’s going to be up very late tonight,” she said, unable to stop herself from
picking up a bag of flour that
had toppled from the counter onto the floor. “She’s got to hire some full-time help.”

Like many of the stores lining the streets of downtown Oyster Bay, Decadence had a
small concrete patio out back where the merchants and their employees would take smoke
or lunch breaks. Shelley had placed a pair of Adirondack chairs, a picnic table, and
a potted fern on hers. The fern didn’t look like it had long to live, but Olivia decided
to prolong its existence by dumping the contents of her water glass into its bone-dry
soil.

She went into the kitchen, refilled the glass, and repeated the process three times
before the soil was moist to the touch.

“I think it’s a hopeless cause,” a voice said from the alleyway behind the shop.

Olivia jumped.

“Damn it, Flynn.” She scowled at the handsome, middle-aged owner of Oyster Bay’s only
bookstore. “Is this how you spend your evenings? Creeping among the town’s garbage
bins?”

“Only when beautiful women are nearby,” he replied nonchalantly and sat down at the
picnic table. “Is this how you spend yours? Dressing to the nines and watering half-dead
plants?”

Olivia studied the man who’d once been her lover. He was as carefree and confident
as usual. His mouth was always on the verge of curving into a smile, and there was
an ever-present gleam of mischief in his gull-gray eyes. A textbook extrovert, Flynn
loved to swap gossip with his customers and play with their children in the bookstore’s
puppet theater. He was lively and friendly and fun. Everyone liked him. He was everything
Olivia was not and that’s what had initially drawn her to him. However, their strong
physical attraction hadn’t been enough to hold them together and
they’d both moved on to form more meaningful relationships with other partners.

“What are you thinking about right now?” Flynn asked. “You’ve got this look on your
face. Like you’ve gone back in time and want to linger there a moment. Perhaps you
are reminiscing about us?” He raised his brows and smiled a little. “We had some electric
moments, didn’t we?”

Trying not to let him see the accuracy of his guess, Olivia joined him at the picnic
table. “Where’s Diane? It’s a Saturday night in June. The stars are shining, the ocean
breeze is blowing, and the town is stuffed to the gills with tourists. So why aren’t
you out wining and dining your girlfriend?”

“Because we had a big fight,” he said without the slightest trace of emotion. “And
because I wanted the chance to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Olivia’s tone was guarded. “In the middle of Shelley’s event? How did you know
I’d be here?”

Flynn shrugged. “It was a sure bet that she’d invite you. Any small business owner
with half a brain would. Do you know how many new customers I’ve gotten because you
recommended me?”

“I love Through the Wardrobe.” Olivia was careful to praise the store, not its proprietor.
“I’d do anything to see it flourish. A town without a bookstore is an empty shell
of a place.”

Beaming, Flynn leaned toward her. “I’m so glad you said that. It makes it easier to
ask you for a big favor.”

Olivia gestured for him to continue.

“
The Gazette
and I are partnering to sponsor a storyteller’s retreat next month. It’s for people
all over the region who make their living performing folktales. I’m going to schedule
some children’s programs at the shop, and the paper will arrange for adult performances
at the library. If there’s enough interest, we’ll use the high school’s auditorium.”

“That sounds wonderful, Flynn,” she said sincerely. “But where do I come in?”

Olivia had to give her former lover credit. He didn’t dance around the point or try
to soften her up with compliments. He simply opened his hands so that his palms formed
a bowl and said, “I need help funding the event. The expenses were supposed be covered
by the
Gazette
, a grant, and me. Well, the grant’s fallen through. But we have to go on. Things
have been set in motion. Hotel rooms have been booked. Ads placed. Invitations sent
and accepted. But we don’t have enough money to pay for it all. We need a philanthropist,
Olivia. The storytellers need you.”

“Don’t lay it on too thick,” she warned. “How much are we talking about?”

Eyes flashing in premature triumph, Flynn reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew
a slip of paper. “I’ve itemized all the costs for you. This way, you’ll have proof
that I’m not heading out on a Caribbean cruise at your expense.”

Olivia didn’t unfold the paper. She tucked it into her Chanel evening bag and promised
to look it over in the morning. “I never make decisions when my belly is stuffed with
chocolate.”

Flynn laughed. “An excellent motto. After all, chocolate stimulates the mind’s opioid
production, creating feelings of pleasure that will eventually wear off. But if you’d
like to prolong the sensation of euphoria, I’d be glad to assist with that.” He stood
and held out his hand to her. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He
studied her pale, silvery blond hair, which was swept off her brow in a modern wave,
and then lowered his eyes to her necklace of moonstones and black pearls. His gaze
drifted down the curves of her body, taking in the formfitting, vintage-style cocktail
dress made of black lace with satin trim and Olivia’s long, tan legs.

“I’d try to kiss you, but your police chief boyfriend would probably hit me with his
baton.”

Olivia pulled her hand away. “I don’t need him to defend my honor. I can clout you
all by myself, thank you very much.” She smiled to take the sting from the words and
wished Flynn a pleasant rest of the evening.

Once Flynn had gone, she hesitated for a moment at the kitchen door and then decided
not to return to the party. She walked down the alley and stepped onto the main sidewalk,
heading for the public lot where her Range Rover was parked.

In order to reach her car, she had to pass by Fish Nets, the bar where her writer
friend, Millay, worked. It was not an establishment Olivia regularly frequented, as
it reeked of tobacco, body odor, and stale beer. The music was too loud; the entertainment
was limited to a stained pool table and decrepit dartboard; and the floor was covered
in spilled liquor, discarded chewing gum, and chewing tobacco spittle. And yet, Olivia
had grown up among its clientele. Her father had been a fisherman, and most of the
old timers within had known her since she was a skinny, towheaded girl with the shy,
sea-blue eyes.

Pausing at the door, she considered how ridiculous she’d look drinking whiskey with
a group of work-worn men and women. She’d walk in wearing her cocktail dress and heels
while Millay’s patrons would be dressed in soiled and tattered jeans, frayed denim
shorts or skirts, and T-shirts that had been washed so often than their logos and
designs were no longer decipherable. Their skin would be bronzed by the sun and weathered
by wind and worry. Their hands were scarred and dirty and their language coarse, but
they knew her. They knew her story. They knew her mother had died in a tragic accident,
that her drunkard of a father had abandoned her when she was only ten, and that she’d
come back
to Oyster Bay after a long absence in order to reconnect with the past and strive
for a new and better future.

They’ve accepted me all along
, she thought with a rush of gratitude and entered the bar.
These are my people.

For a moment, her appearance stunned the crowd into silence, but it only lasted a
heartbeat. Men and women warmly greeted her with catcalls and raucous shouts. Millay
waved her over to the bar and polished a tumbler with a dish towel.

“Don’t give me the stink eye. This one’s clean,” Millay said before pouring a finger’s
worth of her best whiskey into the glass. “It’s the only thing in here that is, besides
you. Aren’t you supposed to be down the street with the rest of the snobs?”

“Why would I want to sip champagne and devour plates of sumptuous desserts with Oyster
Bay’s elite when I could be here, sitting on a wobbly stool and breathing in toxic
air?” Olivia gestured at the taps. “Buy you a beer?”

Millay grinned. “Absolutely. But I prefer the King of Beers.”

She reached into the refrigerator behind her and pulled out a bottle of Budweiser.
Popping the cap off with a neat flourish, she clinked the neck against Olivia’s tumbler.
“In the immortal words of Minna Antrim, ‘To be loved is to be fortunate, but to be
hated is to achieve distinction.’”

Olivia laughed. “Despite your best efforts, I believe you are genuinely adored.”

“In this place, yeah. Beyond these walls, I’m that girl the old biddies point and
frown at in disapproval. I use too much makeup, my skirts are way too short, and I
wear black boots all year long. I’m the scourge of the Junior Leaguers and I take
pride in knowing they’re afraid to look me in the eye.” She pretended to claw at the
air with her left hand, causing the feathers hanging from her black hair to swing
back and forth. Millay’s blend of several races had lent her an exotic
beauty, but she preferred to celebrate her artistic nature by piercing her eyebrows,
wearing rows of hoops in her ears, and dying the tips of her jet strands neon pink,
orange, or green. Lately, she’d taken to adding accessories to her textured bob. Tonight,
she wore crimson feathers, but at the last meeting of the Bayside Book Writers, the
twentysomething barkeep celebrated the final round of edits on her young adult fantasy
novel by decorating her hair with glittery Hello Kitty clips.

“That’s why you’re such a talented writer,” Olivia said. “You’re fearless in life
and on paper. You have the courage to be you, but you’re also willing to be vulnerable.
That’s hard when you’re used to wearing armor. Believe me, I know.”

Millay shook her head in disgust. “What kind of crack was in that chocolate you ate?
Don’t go all fortune cookie philosopher on me, damn it. Hurry up and finish that whiskey.
You need to wash that sugar out of your system.”

Olivia complied. Millay immediately refilled her glass while a man sat down on the
vacant stool to Olivia’s right.

He lifted the faded John Deere cap from his head and said, “Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Good evening, Captain Fergusson.” She gestured at her tumbler. “Would you join me?”

“Reckon I will. Thank you, kindly.”

When Millay had poured two fingers of whiskey, he turned to Olivia and she raised
her glass. “‘May the holes in your net be no bigger than the fish in it,’” she said,
reciting one of the fishermen’s traditional toasts.

He nodded and replied with one of his own. “May your troubles be as few as my granny’s
teeth.”

Sipping their whiskey, they fell into easy conversation about the commercial fishing
industry. Captain Fergusson supplied both of Olivia’s restaurants with shrimp and
had recently expanded his operation. He was now her primary
source for blue crab and flounder as well, and she often met his trawlers at the dock
when they returned with full cargo holds. Olivia would chat with the captain and his
crew as she made selections for the restaurants. She liked Fergusson and, more important,
she trusted him.

Fergusson had cast off from the dock while it was still dark to fish the waters off
the North Carolina coast for the past forty years. And it showed. He was grizzled,
his pewter-colored beard was wiry, and his eyes were sharp from decades of gazing
into the horizon. He was gruff, blunt, hardworking, and fair, and Olivia had grown
quite fond of him.