Until it wasn’t.
“Please, Rose? It would make Mommy so happy.”
“No!” Rose lifted the candlestick up and slammed it down, only missing taking out a crystal vase by Hope’s swift handiwork. With one hand gripping the candlestick base, she pried Rose’s determined fingers from their grip, until the object was free. Sticky, but free. Now she would have to buy it. Even if it was about twenty percent overpriced in her opinion. She may not know children very well, but she knew home décor.
She smiled serenely as Rose wailed, pushed the stroller back to the counter and pulled out the credit card. She managed to continue smiling until she was at the door, and by then, people on the street had stopped to stare at the commotion. It was Sunday afternoon; the tourists were flocking from the ferries that were crossing back and forth to Blue Harbor. Every eye, it seemed, was on her. The woman with the oversized stroller, and a child clutching a lollipop, turning purple in her rage.
She glanced across the street, saw the sign for Main Street Sweets, and whispered in Rose’s ear: “Stop screaming right now and I will buy you an ice cream cone.”
Oh, she was ashamed. So, so, so ashamed. But it worked. Rose stopped her screaming as quickly as if a light had been switched off, and across the street they went, Hope’s pride hanging on by a thread. Through another door they struggled, and then to the counter they went. “Two vanilla scoops,” she began, but Victoria shouted, “Chocolate!”
Hope glanced down at her child, and for a moment, she felt herself start to shake. They were wearing precious white, eyelet dresses, coordinating, not matching. Victoria’s was edged in a pink ribbon, while Rose’s was edged in blue.
“I want chocolate too,” Rose said. Then, spotting an older child with a cone dipped in sprinkles, she pointed her lollipop at the girl and said, “I want that!”
The college-aged girl behind the counter was watching, waiting, and a line was forming. “Two of the chocolate sprinkle cones,” Hope said, pulling out her wallet.
She handed the treats to her girls, who set their lollies down in their laps, marking an immediate stain, and then wearily moved to the back of the parlor. She’d sit here for a minute, collect herself, and—
An ear-piercing, shrill sound that for a moment, in her fatigue, she almost thought was a siren’s wail, cut through the carnival music that played on repeat in this store—no doubt the same soundtrack that had played when she was a child herself. Then, it had delighted her; now, it irritated her. She saw Victoria, red as a beet, holding her empty cone, and there, in her lap, the perfect scoop of chocolate ice cream, already starting to melt.
From beside her a stack of napkins was thrust, and she took them, blindly, silently cursing to herself for attempting this ridiculous trip at all. She should have stayed home, back at the cottage, let the girls play in the sand or wander on the freshly mowed grass, and at the very least, she should not have caved to their demands and purchased chocolate ice cream. They were only four years old and they were walking all over her. She had failed. She was a terrible mother.
There was a chuckling sound, and with surprise, Hope realized that someone was laughing. They thought this was funny? It was so far from funny that she could cry. And she wanted to. She wanted to pitch a fit just like Victoria was doing; she wanted to cry until no more tears flowed.
She turned, about to snap at someone, even if she would probably later come to regret it (more crazy behavior!) when she saw him. The man from the boat.
“Hello,” she said. She was surprised to see him here. In an ice cream parlor. Still in town. Few people stayed for a week, and certainly not this early into the season. This time of year, you either had the weekenders or the summer people. That made this interesting.
“We have a strange way of meeting like this,” he said, smiling warmly.
“You mean, meeting while my children are making a huge mess and a public scene?” She gave him a weary smile, but there was only kindness in his eyes. They were hazel grey and deep set and something in her stomach fluttered.
“I’m John Bowden, by the way,” he said, extending a hand.
She took it. Felt the warmth of his palm, the strength of his grip. She was used to shaking hands with men, even greeting the familiar husbands of her friends (more like acquaintances, really) with hugs at neighborhood and school events. But this was different. This was…personal.
“Hope Morgan,” she said, letting her hand drop. Technically, she was Hope Morgan-Lange, but she didn’t feel like complicating this conversation, and to most people, she was either Hope Morgan or Hope Lange. Here on the island, she felt almost like her old self.
She eyed him, wondering if he was married. A man as good looking as he was couldn’t be single. And he was good with children. He probably had a few of his own.
She decided to test this theory. “You’re good with kids. I take it you have experience?”
“I’m what you might call the fun uncle,” he said, grinning wider, as if proud of this role.
Fun uncle? So no kids. She glanced at his hand. No ring either.
She pushed back the flutter in her chest. This man may not be married, but she was. For now, at least.
“So what brings you to Evening Island?” she asked.
He reached across to a nearby table and grabbed a cup of ice cream. His grin was sheepish and, she had to admit, completely charming. “Stress eating, sorry.”
She laughed. “Stress eating? Here?” Although, she could probably be accused of it herself. The island used to be a place to relax and unwind. Now it was something different. Their real-world problems were encroaching, maybe even taking over. Last night on the porch with Ellie had been nice, casual, but short-lived. Ellie wasn’t in a talking mood, and from the dreamy look in her eyes, she had only one thing on her mind. Or rather, one person.
Hope tried to summon up the feeling of infatuation, the flutter and excitement that new feelings could bring, and failed. Once upon a time, she supposed she had felt that way about Evan, but so much had changed since then.
“I’m here on business,” John explained. “I’m an investor.”
She frowned. “You mean, like…real estate?”
He nodded. “I’m not at liberty to give specifics, but there’s a property of interest.”
Hope nodded. As a resort island, there were dozens of inns and larger hotels, too. “Well, the island is great for tourism, as you can see. Where’s home then?”
“Chicago,” he said, and now her hand began to shake as she scooped the ice cream from Victoria’s lap back onto the cone. She’d deal with the dress later.
She glanced at John, to see if he was giving her a weird look like she assumed he would, but he seemed oblivious to the fact that she was salvaging the melting ice cream. She supposed it wasn’t as if it had fallen on the floor…
“I’m from Chicago too,” she said carefully, and his eyebrows shot up.
“No kidding! Although, I think this island mostly pulls from the Midwest.”
She agreed with that. “I’m in the northern suburbs. Originally from the Cleveland area.”
“And you’re here on a vacation?”
“We have a family house here, actually,” she said. “On the west side of the island. It was my grandmother’s and she left it to me and my sisters. We used to summer here, and we thought—I thought—well, we’re here for the summer. I’m the oldest, and the only one with kids. And my youngest sister lives here year-round—she’s an artist here in town. My middle-sister lives near me. She’s a writer, and…” She was babbling, because she didn’t really know what she was doing here anymore, or how long she planned to stay. As of yesterday, she was still seriously considering leaving, never to return again, but now she had no desire to return home to the big empty house in the suburbs. Now she wanted to stay right where she was.