Page 3 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer (Summers in Seaside)

three

. . .

Elle

I don’t even make it out of the parking lot before my hands are shaking.

I pull onto Main, dig my phone out of my purse, and hit Amy’s contact like it’s 911.

“Amy, I have an emergency!” I cry when she finally answers on the second ring.

“If you’re calling to bail on hosting the coffee thing, too late. I already told people you’d have gluten-free muffins,” she says.

“This is a different emergency.” My voice is high and breathy, like I just outran a serial killer instead of crouched by cilantro. “I saw Noah.”

Silence.

Then,“Like— Noah Noah?”

“Do we know another Noah who makes my ovaries regret all their life choices?”

Amy makes a strangled noise that’s part gasp, part groan. “Where? What did he say? What did you say? Did you look hot?”

“Bakery section. He rescued a toddler from pickle jar doom. And no, I did not look hot unless your definition includes dirty hair, leggings, and his old Nirvana T-shirt. Which, yes, he noticed.”

Amy’s laugh bursts through the speaker. “Oh my God, this is the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

“Amy! I have twenty minutes to get home, unload groceries—including the world’s most conspicuous box of condoms—scrub my kitchen, and set up for the stupid small business coffee meeting. Meanwhile, my brain is stuck replaying him saying my name like a dirty secret.”

“I bet you’re going to combust.”

“Probably. The SLSBA members will have to drink their coffee around my smoldering corpse.”

“Relax. I’m grabbing an extra tray of pastries and heading over now. We’ll caffeinate you through the crisis and make sure you don’t accidentally moan ‘Noah’ during opening remarks.”

“God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She hangs up, leaving me alone with my racing pulse, a bag of brie, and the distinct sense my mother’s psychic smugness just doubled in strength.

By the time I pull into my driveway, my heart’s still doing drum solos.

Seventeen minutes until the SLSBA descends with their reusable mugs, passive-aggressive networking, and zoning questions I’ll never understand.

I juggle grocery bags like a sad suburban Cirque du Soleil act—keys in my teeth, brie in my armpit, and a wine bottle threatening mutiny.

Inside, the kitchen looks like a crime scene where the victim was “a clean counter” from the twins’ breakfast earlier. I dump the bags and start triaging: sweep crumbs into the sink, wipe down counters, hide condoms like they’re contraband.

Hosting these meetings is psychological warfare. Since I was, once again, volun-told to host, I’m elbow-deep in fruit skewers muttering curses when the doorbell rings.

Six minutes early. I hate people who think early equals punctual. On time is punctual. Five minutes late is punctual. Six minutes early is just rude.

I spear a square of pineapple, whisper, “You’re my only friend here,” and pop it in my mouth before heading for the door.

The living room smells like lemon cleaner and false cheer. But at least already had everything staged like a Pinterest board—pillows, candles, and now a few fruit plates.

I peek through the curtain. Linda from the yoga studio, holding a covered loaf pan and the expression of a woman ready to “casually” drop her bespoke expansion plans on the group like a bomb.

I paste on my smile and launch into hostess autopilot. “Linda! You’re early!”

She beams like it’s a compliment. “Oh, Elle, it’s so lovely to see you.” Her gaze sweeps me head to toe. “Oh, dear, don’t you look tired! You know, under-eye circles are the first sign of adrenal fatigue.”

“Really?” I feign interest but make a mental note to buy better concealer.

She circles the living room like a gossip shark, sniffing for weakness. Her nose twitches. “You’ve been baking?”

“Uh… sure,” I lie, nudging a grocery bag under the counter with my foot.

Before I can escape, Tom the landscaper and Carly from the coffee shop arrive, both armed with more carbs than ten people could finish. Soon the kitchen hums with small talk and clinking mugs while my deodorant waves the white flag.

And through it all, Noah’s voice—low, warm, far too familiar—threads through my head.

Amy still isn’t here.

Which means if I don’t get a grip soon, I’ll be explaining to a room of small business owners why their hostess is flushed, sweaty, and distracted like she just rolled off a stranger’s mattress.

Linda drops her suspiciously healthy looking loaf on the counter. “Kale and chia. Gluten-free, dairy-free?—”

“And joy-free?” I mutter, already planning its burial in the trash.

“You kid, but this is good for you.” She pauses. “Might help offset all that meat on your platters.”

“Charcuterie,” I remind her. Because it’s literally my business. Just Around the Board pays for these overpriced candles, thank you very much.

Wait? What does she mean, “ offset all that meat? ”

I have a good body. Maybe even great, for forty-two. Pilates, kickboxing, a little Krav Maga. Okay, not complete Krav Maga, but enough to elbow a creep in the throat and work up a sweat.

The kitchen hums with polite small talk. I smile, nod, pour coffee. Perfect hostess outside. Inside? I’m still crouched behind mangoes watching Noah rescue a toddler.

Two years without him. Now he’s in my head like a song I never wanted to remember the lyrics to.

I’m refilling the French press when the back door clicks open—Amy. No knock, no hello, just sliding in like she owns the place. Sunglasses, oversized t-shirt, iced coffee, giving me the look. Not “hi friend.” Not “how’s it going?” The “we’re talking about Noah whether you like it or not,” look.

She sets her drink down, scans the room, and chirps, “Mornin’, everyone.

” As though she has every right to be here.

If you ask me, she does. But she’s not an official member because she doesn’t have a store front downtown.

But she does run her own business. Amy is a young adult cozy mystery author.

And anyone who thinks being an author is not a business is just foolish.

Amy is all things to her business in the same way the rest of us are with ours: marketing, product development, management, financial, administrative, labor… you get the idea.

The rest of the SLSBA members trickle in. Soon we’re knee-deep in passive-aggressive debates over garbage can placement and someone’s cardboard marketing cutout “violating community harmony” where it sits on Main Street.

I nod. I sip. I smile. Repeat.

Finally, the meeting adjourns. I’m halfway through a lavender scone when Linda pounces.

“So, Elle,” she says, syrupy sweet. “How are things?”

I freeze, fork in midair.

What’s she fishing for?

Play it cool. Be breezy. I look to my scone. Like... lavender… in the wind.

“Oh, you know. Nothing new. Work, kids, heat stroke.” I cram more scone in my mouth.

“I heard your ex-husband is back in town.”

I choke. Coffee saves me. “How could you possibly know that already?”

“Martha’s a good friend. She works at Green Grocer. Said she saw the two of you getting cozy in produce this morning.”

“Wow. News travels fast,” I say flatly.

“Not much else to do here but talk,” she says, sharpening her conversational knife under the table.

God, I hate her.

Lavender in the wind, Elle.

I lean in. “Then you’ll love this—he also rescued a toddler from pickle-related death.”

Her brows jump. “Really?”

“Hero stuff. Very public. Lots of witnesses. I’m sure Martha can give you the play-by-play next time you’re buying bread without souls.”

Linda blinks, caught between intrigue and irritation. I sip my coffee like my pulse isn’t still sprinting.

Across the room, Amy raises her brows in a we’re debriefing the second this is through.

The last guest finally drifts out after over staying their over stay. My hostess smile collapses like it’s been stapled on too long.

Amy drops into Noah’s chair, the one the kids dubbed the daddy throne. The one I cuddle in late at night when I can’t sleep and silently cry because it no longer smells like him. I’m not sure it ever really did outside my imagination.

“Alright,” she says. “Start from the beginning.”