Noelle smoothed her palms over her outfit. It wasn’t overly formal at all—a cotton floral maxi sundress. But it was strapless and hugged her breasts, even if it was flared out from there, just grazing her ankles. “You know it’s the turtle-hatching watch party tonight—”
“Yes, I’m well aware of the social events scheduled at Sweetgrass,” she said, turning her chair and leaning toward a large gold filigree mirror on the wall and smoothing a platinum-blonde hair back into place. She turned, eyeing Noelle again, her gaze moving quickly over Noelle’s hair—blow dried and curled in loose waves—to the makeup she’d spent fifteen minutes applying. Which meant thirteen minutes more than she usually spent on her face. She felt herself blushing under the older woman’s knowing perusal. “What’s unexpected is you.” A twinkle came into her sea-green eyes. “And I’m wondering if it has anything to do with a certain guest who checked in to Atlantic Moon last night.”
Noelle sank down onto the red velvet settee by the door. “You don’t miss a beat, do you?”
“Not around here I don’t,” she said, the soft whir of her chair sounding as she moved toward Noelle and parked herself next to the settee. “Who is he?”
Noelle traced a button in the tufting. “He’s Callie’s father,” she said softly, not meeting Chantilly’s eyes.
“Oh my,” Chantilly said, and in her peripheral vision, Noelle saw her bring her hand to the base of her throat in surprise. “Well, I didn’t expect that.” She felt the older woman’s considering gaze on her. “And you’re all gussied up for him, are you?”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but Chantilly had seen her almost every day for the past seven years, on regular workdays and on special occasions. She knew very well when Noelle was gussied up and when she wasn’t. “I needed some confidence,” she admitted.
“Well, getting gussied up will do that for a girl,” she said, patting the underside of her swept-up hair. “Why is he here, and how did he take the news about Callie?”
“He was angry. And hurt. Mostly hurt, I think.”
“I see.”
“As far as why he’s here, I don’t know yet. He has something to discuss with me, apparently. I think it has to do with our past.” Despite the warmth of the room, she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and running her hands over her bare arms.
“Your past . . . ,” Chantilly said.
Noelle nodded, swallowing. “I know I haven’t told you all about that, Chantilly—”
“I looked it up,” she said.
Noelle’s head pivoted her way, her mouth falling open.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised. You know very well I’m a nosy nelly.” When Noelle only blinked at her, she went on. “You’ve grown into a poised, confident woman since you first arrived, so young and so timid, wearing a tiny baby bump. At first I wondered if you’d been abused,” she said. “There was such a haunted look in your eyes. I thought it must be your daughter’s father who’d hurt you so terribly. But then each time I mentioned him, though you were evasive and only told me he didn’t know he had a child, your eyes filled with . . . what I thought might be love. And so I wondered . . .” She examined her perfectly manicured nails for a moment. “I went online. I read about the terrible crime committed against you so many years ago. I’d feared the child might belong to . . .” She waved her hand around as though the words were too terrible to utter aloud and should instead be brushed away. One of the men who raped you. “But the timing wasn’t quite right. And so then I figured Callie’s father was a man you met shortly afterward, when you were still recovering from what happened to you, too traumatized to settle down with anyone. Too afraid to love. Am I close?”
Too afraid to love. Maybe. But she thought the more apt description was that she’d really been incapable of love. Or a healthy form anyway. And more than that, she’d been especially incapable with Evan. She suddenly wanted to talk about all this with Tilly. She wanted to let her in on her fears, and regrets, and she wanted to hear her words of wisdom. They’d been close for many years, but she realized suddenly that she’d also kept her at a certain arm’s distance, believing that Tilly would view her differently if she knew what she’d survived. “Oh, Tilly.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. At first, I couldn’t. And then . . . it became so easy to pretend I was only this new version of myself. I wanted you to know her, not that traumatized victim who’d been running away.”