The next morning, the crisp air of Main Street did little to ease Emma’s embarrassment.
She hadn’t slept much. An unfamiliar bed and the events of the day had ensured that dreams eluded her, so she’d spent a good portion of her night staring at the ceiling, replaying those two kisses over in her mind.
She’d said the exact wrong thing at the worst possible time; there was no getting around that. Like a tongue probing at a sore tooth, she couldn’t stop the scene from playing again and again in her head.
Still, his reaction had been extreme. There had been something more there, but what, she couldn’t guess.
By the time seven in the morning had rolled around, she’d needed some fresh air. Her cabin, one of five set back in a wooded area, was actually just a short walk from downtown, so she’d tested her ankle on a few laps around the small living space. It was still a bit sore, but as long as she didn’t put too much weight on it, she’d be fine.
To both her delight and her dismay, the small coffee shop she’d found first thing had served massive gingerbread men. She’d devoured one with a cup of tea, and was now just waiting for the stores on Main Street to open for the day, offering her distraction from her own thoughts.
Thoughts about home—if she wasn’t just Rosemary’s daughter or Matthew’s fiancée, then who was she? Would she find some kind of identity as Michael’s child?
And then there were the thoughts about Nick. The ones she’d walked to Main Street to distract herself from.
She glanced at her watch; it was still a few minutes shy of nine. The shops would be opening any minute; she’d just wander until then.
The town had clearly earmarked a large chunk of their yearly budget for holiday decorations; the sheer volume was impressive. Emma noted the wreaths that hung on nearly every shop door, each customized to reflect the business within—tiny espresso cups and coffee beans strung on wire for the café where she’d inhaled the gingerbread, knitting needles and yarn for a wool shop, small measuring spoons and spatulas for a store that sold kitchenware.
Evergreen boughs traced thick lines along roofs and doors, making the buildings look as though they’d sprung from the forest. Multicolored lights nestled among the furry green, and Emma knew she would have to come back at night to get the full effect.
It wasn’t like she had anything better to do at the moment, at any rate. Not until Michael came home.
Her spirits dipped. Would Nick even keep his promise to pass along the news that she was in town? There was an undeniable something between them, but she didn’t know him well enough to gauge his level of trustworthiness.
Embarrassment surged anew. Her behavior the day before was so very unlike her.
Movement to her right caught her eye; someone was turning their window sign around to read OPEN. She hesitated; she hated being the person outside tapping her toes, pushing her way in the second the door was unlocked.
There was a flash of bronze hair, and a wide smile beamed through the glass. A glass door decorated with hand-painted bees swung open, and the woman behind it gestured emphatically for Emma to enter.
“Come on in! Running late this morning; I just have to count out the till, but you’re welcome to come in and look around while I do.”
“Are you sure?” Emma was startled; she couldn’t imagine that it was very safe to handle an entire till’s worth of cash with a stranger in the shop. The woman’s cheer was inviting, and Emma found herself following her inside a small store, where the air was heavy with the scent of honey. Emma inhaled deeply, reflexively, drawing the sweetness into her lungs.
“It smells so good!” Spinning slowly, she took in shelves crammed full of jars and bottles and tins, more of the intricate artwork that was on the front door, and, above the cash register where the woman was now busily at work, a large sign that read HIPPIE HIVE.
“I can’t smell it anymore.” The woman looked up and grinned. “And you’ve traveled a hell of a long way. Where are you visiting from?”
“Dead giveaway, right?” Emma smiled ruefully, crossing to the counter. Something about the woman’s friendliness drew her in despite her natural tendency toward keeping her distance.
“Let me guess.” The woman tapped a finger with a glossy sky-blue nail on full lips as she considered. “Florida?”
“Close. Georgia.” Emma couldn’t help but smile as she ran a hand over a display of candles. The gold of wheat, they carried the sweet honey scent and were shaped like beehives. “Do you make these things?”
“Most of them.” The woman dropped a final handful of coins in the till and slammed it shut, then offered her hand. “I’m Charlie. Beekeeper, surfer, and purveyor of all things beeswax.”
“Beekeeper?” Emma blinked down at the smaller woman, wondering if everyone here was gorgeous. Charlie had straight copper hair that brushed her shoulders, rum-colored eyes, and skin far more sun-kissed than was fair in the dead of winter. Slender but toned, she was wearing tight ripped blue jeans and a baggy T-shirt knotted at the waist. Bright pink in color, it advised Emma to “Save the bees, plant these!” above an illustration of flowers in full bloom. “You’re not serious.”
“Why not?” Charlie smiled cheerfully before bending and hauling a sealed cardboard box up onto the counter.
“How does one get into something like that?” Emma started to circle the shop, running her fingers over a shelf filled with jars of honey. This woman, this stranger, had already exuded such enthusiasm over her chosen career path that Emma felt a little hollow inside.
She’d never had a passion like that—she definitely didn’t have one for her job. She worked in accounts payable at a car dealership. It met with Rosemary’s approval, but it certainly didn’t put the same light in her eyes that was in Charlie’s right now.
“I spend most of my spare time surfing,” Charlie said as she pulled out a box cutter and slit open the tape on the box. “I couldn’t find a board wax that I liked, so I started making my own from beeswax. Then I got interested in where the wax came from, toured the operations of some beekeepers, and here I am.”
“Wow.” Drawn to a display of pretty metal tins, she selected one marked Lavender. “What is this?”
“A lotion bar.” Opening her box, Charlie pulled out a stack of books. “Beeswax, shea butter, coconut oil, and some essential oil. All natural and wonderful for your skin. Handy to toss in your purse. Nice bit of pampering on the go.”
“I’ll take one.” Sniffing the open testers, Emma found herself drawn back to the lavender scent. “I could use some pampering.”
“Couldn’t we all?” Charlie took the tin that Emma held out to her, pulling a paper bag stamped with a honeycomb printout from under the counter. “So what brings you to town? Romantic weekend away?”
“Definitely not.” Emma’s thoughts flashed to Nick, to their kisses, and her cheeks heated. “No, I…I recently discovered I have family in the area. I’m here to…to meet them.”
She didn’t elaborate; Charlie didn’t ask. “The lotion comes to seven dollars and forty-seven cents. We don’t have pennies in Canada, so if you’re paying cash, seven-forty-five is fine.”
“You don’t have pennies?” Emma stopped as she was reaching for her purse. “What?”
“Costs more to make them than they’re worth, so we don’t have them anymore.” Charlie didn’t seem to think that this was at all strange. “We just round up or down, depending. You get used to it.”
“I suppose so.” Since she worked in accounting, the notion of balancing books where every transaction was rounded up or down made her head hurt. Snow and ice, sexy welders, no pennies, and something called a toque—what on earth had she wandered into?
The stack of books that Charlie had just unpacked caught her eye as she handed over a twenty-dollar bill. The cover was bright and glossy: 101 Ways to Use Beeswax: An Introductory Guide.
She couldn’t fathom when she would ever do anything with beeswax, but something about the pretty cover pulled at her. Impulsively, she grabbed the copy on top of the pile and handed it over.
“I’ll take this as well, please.”
Charlie took her cash and gave her a handful of strange-looking coins in return. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay on our little island! If you have any questions while you’re here, feel free to poke your head back in!”
“Thank you,” Emma said, lacing her fingers through the handles of the bag. Lifting her purchases from the counter, she paused. “I actually have one odd question. Do you know Nick…I don’t know his last name. He…welds.”
She’d kissed someone and she didn’t know his last name. How unlike her. Or maybe…maybe this was like her, and she was just finding out. Maybe the real Emma, the one buried beneath being Rosemary’s daughter and Matthew’s fiancée, kissed whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
The notion was strangely liberating.
“Oh, you mean Nick Shepherd.” Charlie pulled out a pricing gun, whistling slowly through her teeth as she did. “I don’t think there’s a woman on this island under eighty who doesn’t know Nick, or at least of him.”
“Oh?” Emma tried not to let the single syllable show just how deeply interested she was in what Charlie was saying.
“Well, he’s not hard on the eyes, is he?” Charlie fanned herself with an exaggerated grin. “Of course, he does like to make sure every available lady gets a chance to appreciate him fully.”
“Ah.” Emma’s heart sank like a stone.
Don’t be ridiculous, Emma. You’ve only just met the man. You shouldn’t care.
Fingers clutched tightly around the handles of her bag, she thanked Charlie and left the shop, exiting from the sweetly scented air into the cold outside. She sucked in a huge breath, trying to clear her mind of the cloud of the other woman’s words.
She couldn’t, and she knew why. It was ridiculous, and it was impossible, but she couldn’t deny what she knew was true.
She already did care. And she had no one to blame but herself.