Page 6 of A Heart On A Sleeve

four

Sam

A Tourist in Town

Olive slides delicately onto the chair, and it takes me a minute to get my bearings.

Her strawberry scent tickles my nose and I can’t help myself, leaning in to give her a hard time.

She doesn’t acknowledge my statement; instead, the woman who’s driving me close to crazy pretends to take notes on the lined paper in front of her.

“There will be a large number of tourists in town starting this afternoon. As the town’s event coordinator, I’d like to have a list of which businesses will remain open,” Tony states, looking around the room.

A few people raise their hands, Howie nods, and Olive folds her arms across her lap, not saying a word.

I clear my throat. “I’m open but by appointment only.

” Tony nods and looks to Beatrice Bushnell, who owns the flower shop and has for nearly thirty years.

Beatrice isn’t my biggest fan, but she did me a solid when she moved her bag onto the open chair next to her, forcing Olive in my direction.

“We already have extra bouquets put together and will be selling mums by the pair for porches.” She shoots a pointed look at Olive.

“If you didn’t preorder, don’t come asking for any favors.

” It seems like Beatrice doesn’t appreciate the new girl’s lack of porch decorations, or maybe it’s just that she also can’t understand what the new beauty is doing here.

Olive stares at her notepad, picking her fingernails nervously.

I elbow her gently, and she glances at me from the side.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s always moody,” I whisper.

She doesn’t respond, instead writing a list of things I’ve never heard of like museum wax , heavy-duty awl , and the scariest of all, bone scorers .

Tony captures the attention of the room again, adjourning the meeting with a reminder to treat the tourists like guests and to have a good time at the festival.

Chairs scrape the wood floor as business owners shuffle out.

Olive tears her list off and, clutching the single sheet in her hand, carefully places the notepad back in her bag.

“What’s a bone scorer?” I ask as she stands.

I want to learn more about her, to get her talking.

“Oh, uh, just a tool I use for work.” She pushes her chair in—essentially shoving me off both physically and with that answer—and slinks around me toward the door.

Her dress sways with each step she takes, and I pause for a beat, admiring her before moving to follow.

Thankfully, Tony stops her short of leaving.

Instead of standing next to her and blatantly listening, I eavesdrop from beside the door.

“Are you getting settled in okay?” he asks her.

She smiles and nods, answering politely, “The cottage is beautiful. Thank you so much for setting it up.”

“It was nothing. You know, Cath had that green couch just waiting to be used. She was excited you were coming, we all were.” Tony puts a hand on her shoulder and looks at her like she’s one of his daughters. Are they related?

Olive laughs lightly. “Cath is a doll. She just knew I was admiring that velvet from afar. Honestly, I appreciate your support so much. I’ve been meaning to make it over to thank you both, and to drop off a bottle of wine.”

“It’s our pleasure.” He pulls her into a hug, releasing her quickly. “Call me if you need anything, and remember to kick the trash bin before you open it in case there’s a critter inside. Take care.”

Olive bristles a little and then, smiling once again, turns toward me and the door I’m blocking. “Sam.” She looks between my body and the door. “Have a good day.” Her voice is like honey, the sound rolling out and over me.

“Actually”—I open the door for her and gesture for her to exit—“I was going to walk with you back to Black Kettle. I need to, uh, ask Beau . . . something.”

Smooth, Sam.

“Oh, okay.”

We step down to the cobbled sidewalk and walk side by side in silence as we pass not one, not two, but three buildings. It takes me a minute to get the nerve to say something. For some reason I think no matter what I say, it’ll be wrong. “How do you know Tony?”

Olive looks at me from under her lashes before returning her gaze to the ground. “He’s my best friend’s father.” She shifts her bag from one shoulder to the other, bringing her hand down to her side. “Tony and Cath are amazing.”

I step just slightly closer to her as we walk, my hand nearly brushing hers. There’s probably a centimeter between our pinkies, and I notice a flush race up her neck as the proximity must become obvious to her too. “Why did you come to Mage?” I ask.

She looks at me tentatively before replying, “For the job. To work with Beau. I went to school for historic preservation, and I guess that’s not as popular of a career as I anticipated.

” Olive looks from me to the ground and then back to me.

“But I really love it, being able to take something that is all but ruined and give it life again.” The way her voice picks up, I can tell she’s sincere and smart.

I wouldn’t even begin to know what goes into her work.

Before Mom started cleaning out the attic and making us help Beau, I didn’t even know book restoration was a thing.

“It must take some practice to do something so tedious. You said you studied that in school?”

“Yep. Got the master’s degree to prove it.

But it’s not as delicate or glamorous as you might think.

Most of the time it’s pretty messy actually.

” She smiles at me softly, and I feel like I won the lottery.

This girl is smarter than she lets on, six years of studying anything makes her brilliant as hell in my book.

“I know a little something about meticulous work that’s messier than one would think.” Jesus, Sam. That didn’t sound thirsty at all— get it together . “You should come by—”

“Oh, no offense, but I could never get a tattoo.” Her statement stings a little. I don’t care if she doesn’t have them but does she dislike them? I was trying to suggest she stop in, not let me give her one. Clearly it was a failed attempt at finding a way to talk to her, again.

“That’s cool, but back to why you chose Mage.” I have to change the subject before she says anything else that could confirm my suspicions (the completely made-up ones) about her hatred for my life’s work. “Is there somewhere else you could do it? I mean, you don’t seem like the type to live here.”

I don’t mean for my words to come off rude, but it’s honest, and I'm trying to investigate my assumptions unlike her. Sure, our town is eclectic and interesting at times, but we aren’t fancy.

She seems too country club for a place this grounded, too beautiful and put together.

It’s like that movie Overboard , where the heiress learns to live amongst the regular working people.

A breath escapes her pouty lips. “You don’t know anything about me,” she retorts before pushing into Black Kettle Bindery and all but running to the back of the store.

Shit!

I just wanted to start a conversation, but apparently with this one, I can’t do anything but say the wrong words at the right time. Instead of following her, I turn on my heel and head back toward Eerie Ink.