I have to think of Wilder. And like a bucket of iced water over the head, I find the resolve I need. Straightening from the door, I realise I’m still hugging the trash can. Dammit, I’ve forgotten to empty it. It was my excuse for being out there in the first place. Not that it was much of an excuse because who takes the whole can when they can just lift out the bag, as Jenner had pointed out.
I guess I just wasn’t thinking straight.
“She won’t be happy.” Betty’s strident tone carries down the hallway as I exit the kitchen.
“It was a mistake.” I hear the note of panic in Annie’s response. “I didn’t know that was him. I don’t usually work the counter—I was just delivering baked goods. I didn’t mean to.”
“What’s going on?” The beaded curtain shimmies and clanks as I push my way through. Annie looks stricken, her gaze darting from mine to Betty on the other side of the counter.
“Jenner took the boys to Freddy’s, and . . .” And I don’t hear the rest of Annie’s explanation for the roar that fills not just my ears but also my veins as my gaze slips over Betty’s shoulder to the man sitting in a prime spot by the window.
“Oh no, he didn’t.” Swinging on my heel, I round the counter and storm in the direction of the man who jilted my lovely sister.
“Hey, Kennedy,” he says nervously. “I didn’t know you were at work today.”
“Doesn’t matter if I am or if I’m not. Your money isn’t welcome here at any point of the day, the week, or the year.” I point my thumb over my shoulder. “So you know what’s coming. Go on. Get! Out, be gone!”
“But I’ve just ordered my coffee,” he offers with a weak smile. “And Starbucks is closed for renovation.”
I almost turn at the sharp intake of Betty’s breath, imagining her genuflecting against the corporate beast we all despise. High Grounds has been part of this town for two generations, in one form or another. Only ingrates and tourists—plus those who are unwelcome—patronise that place. To say I am angry is an understatement. I’m angry with myself and with Roman, and I’m angry with the universe. I am also raging to find this asshole sitting in one of my chairs trying to reason with me.
Well, not today, Satan.
My eyes dip to a Delphware tea plate in the middle of the two-person table, and I stare at the generous slice from the layer cake Annie delivered yesterday. Delicately striped with lavender marionberry jam wrapped in lashings of German butter frosting, the thing has been whispering my name from the cake cabinet since it arrived. Two napkin-wrapped cake forks lie on either side of the plate.
A slice for sharing.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” I trill. “Don’t tell me you’re expecting company, Ed.”
“Well, Emily isn’t here yet, but—”
Ignoring him, I turn my head to the counter to where Betty, Annie, and now Ursula stand. “Isn’t Ed the school principal?”
“One of them,” Annie offers with a nervous smile, no doubt glad he works at the other elementary school.
“So he’s supposed to be pretty bright, right? Educated?” Annie nods again, and I turn back. “So tell me, Ed, why are we having this conversation again? Do I have to hang your photo in the window with a big sign that says persona non grata, barred forever?” I streak my hand through the air in demonstration of very shouty capitals.
“You might need to make it a little more obvious,” Betty heckles. “Seems to me that man couldn’t pour water out of a boot if it had instructions on the heel.” Note to self: Betty gets her next drink on the house for her excellent heckling. “Because if he had an ounce of smarts, he wouldn’t have left a girl as sweet as Holland for that walking coat hanger he’s living in sin with.”
“Now, Betty,” Ursula begins in placating tones. “You can’t skinny shame a woman. Not when she’s living with a fat head like him. Opposites attract, sissy.”
“Kennedy, please,” Ed murmurs over the backdrop of the Kowalski sisters’ continued conversation. “You know that Holland and I wouldn’t—”
“Do not speak her name, Ed Martin.” Okay, that was a little dramatic. I mean, it’s not like she’s dead. But he is the sole reason she no longer lives in Mookatill—the reason she won’t even visit. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get up, tip your server, and you will leave.”
“Before the harlot arrives,” Betty calls over.
“I’m sorry I hurt her, truly I am, but—”
“Leave it, Ed.” I don’t want to hear it, not from his mouth. Even if I know that, on some level, he’s right. He wasn’t the man for Holland, but it would’ve been a whole lot kinder to her if it hadn’t taken sex with another woman for him to determine that. Better still, if he hadn’t told her just a few days before their wedding. He not only betrayed the woman he professed to love but left her with a wedding to cancel and a whole lot of shame. Shame because of our name.