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I edge closer to him. “Why would a reporter want to talk to you? Who are you?”
The muscles in his jaw work under his skin. “It’s not important.”
“Come on. I’m all by myself in this place with you. Are you a sex offender? A reformed murderer? Should I be worried? Am I in danger?”
“No.” His eyes widen. “Charly, I would never hurt you. Please believe that.”
“That’s exactly what a psychopathic murderer would say.”
“I’m not a psychopathic murderer. Ask Nana.”
“Maybe she’s in on it.”
“If anything, she’s ready to kill me after the way I spoke to you last night.” He frowns. “I really am sorry. That won’t happen again.”
He’s big enough to take responsibility for his actions, so I drop it. Whatever got him so upset is obviously a sore subject. Maybe this will be a reset for us. I don’t want to spend the rest of the summer tiptoeing around each other here.
“Apology accepted.” I step inside the bathroom, and pause. “And for the record, you might be able to tear a phonebook in half with your bare hands, but you don’t scare me.”
He arches an eyebrow. “How can you say that when you don’t even know me?”
“I’m a New Yorker. Nothing scares us. Plus, I know three ways to bring you to your knees that don’t require muscle or strength.”
His lips twitch. “Maybe I’m the one who should be afraid of you.”
“Sleep with one eye open.” I wink, and close the bathroom door.
“Something smells good in here.”
Beatrice shoots me a quick smile over her shoulder as she stirs a pot over the stove. “Look at you, you bronzed beauty. I take it you enjoyed the pool this afternoon?”
“It was wonderful. I feel so relaxed.”
“Good for you. A little fun in the sun.” She sets the ladle down on the counter. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Look, I know you’re going to tell me you don’t need my help, but I truly want to, and it’ll give me something to do. I like to feel useful, and I miss being at the diner. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do while I’m here.”
Her blue eyes bounce between mine, and I can see the fight reflecting in them. But then she jerks her head to the island behind her. “Grab that recipe over there, would you?”
I hand her the white slip of paper. “What are you making?”
“Bryce’s famous lobster bisque.” She closes her eyes as she inhales through her nose. “He mentioned you liked seafood.”
“I do.”
Beatrice turns to face me. “He’s been through a lot, and he’s rough around the edges, but that boy has the biggest heart. If he knows you like something, he’ll go out of his way to make sure you get it.” She waves her arm around the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have this inn if it weren’t for my grandson. I told him what I wanted to do with this place, and he helped make it happen. He puts the ones he loves before himself. Which can be a downfall at times. He’s been burned in the past, and now he doesn’t trust easily.”
Hence him accusing me about lying last night. A few of the dots connect, and some of Bryce’s picture makes more sense.
I nod, reading between the lines of what she’s saying. “I’m the same way with the people I care about. I can relate.”
Beatrice hums. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up with a sick mother.”
I lift the ladle and stir the soup, needing something to do with my hands. “I just wanted her to get better. Many times, she’d be in remission, and I’d do everything I could to keep her healthy. I made sure we ate plant-based, healthy meals. I made fresh juices for her with organic fruits and vegetables. We exercised together. I thought if I kept her on the right track, her cancer wouldn’t come back. I thought I had it under control.”
Beatrice rubs her palm along my back. “Sometimes, you can’t control the things that happen. They just do, and we have to accept it, and move on.”
“Since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to control things. It calms me, knowing everything is in order.”
