Page 18 of Captiva Café

"You know what I mean," Chelsea huffed. "She's wearing perfume. Something light and floral. Not doused in it like Janet at the gift shop, but definitely noticeable when she leans in to make one of her pointed comments about proper journalistic standards."

Maggie set down her scissors, now fully invested in the conversation. Linda St. James had been a fixture on Captiva for as long as either of them could remember—a woman so dedicated to her newspaper and her position as self-appointed island conscience that personal vanity had never seemed to factor into her existence.

"You think she's seeing someone," Maggie concluded.

"Elementary, my dear Moretti." Chelsea grinned. "And after careful investigation?—"

"Careful investigation?" Maggie interjected. "Please tell me you didn't start following her around the island."

Chelsea looked mildly offended. "I would never. I simply happened to be at the right places at the right times. Like the farmers' market last Saturday, where Linda spent forty-five minutes at Byron Jameson's honey stand, ostensibly discussing the merits of different flower nectars but really just twirling her hair and laughing at his jokes about bees."

"Byron Jameson?" Maggie's eyes widened. "Santa Claus Byron?"

Byron had played Santa at the island's Christmas parade and community events for the past fifteen years, his naturally white beard and ample figure making him perfect for the role. A retired widower who now kept bees and sold honey at local markets, he was as much a Captiva institution as Linda herself.

"The very same," Chelsea confirmed. "And before you ask, yes, I'm certain. I've seen them 'accidentally' running into each other several times in the past two weeks. She brings him coffee from that shop he likes on Sanibel. He's suddenly very interested in the journalistic process and has twice been spotted entering the Chronicle office with pastry boxes."

Maggie sat back, absorbing this information. "Gee, Chelsea, I’m glad you haven’t been keeping tabs on the situation.”

Chelsea ignored Maggie’s sarcasm and rambled on before Maggie interrupted her.

“Wait. Byron's been adamant about not dating since Louise passed. He told Paolo directly at the Fisherman's Potluck last year that he'd had his one great love."

"Exactly." Chelsea nodded. "Which is what makes this so fascinating. Linda is definitely making the moves, but Byron seems...conflicted. Like he's enjoying the attention but isn't quite ready to admit it, even to himself."

"Poor Linda," Maggie said sympathetically. "Falling for the one island widower who's sworn off romance."

"Well, that's the thing." Chelsea leaned closer, lowering her voice though they were alone in the parlor. "I don't think Byron is as immune as he claims to be. Yesterday, I saw him at Islands Florist, deliberating over a bouquet like a man facing a life-or-death decision."

"Maybe he was getting flowers for Louise's grave?" Maggie suggested. Byron was known to maintain his late wife's final resting place with devoted care.

Chelsea shook her head. "Louise's anniversary was last month. Besides, he always gets the same arrangement for that—white lilies and forget-me-nots. These were bright summer flowers. Gerbera daisies and sunflowers."

"Linda's favorites," Maggie breathed, remembering the cheerful arrangements that always appeared in the Chronicle office windows during summer months.

"Precisely." Chelsea sat back, looking satisfied. "So, what do you think? Island romance brewing between our resident newshound and Santa Claus himself?"

Maggie considered the possibilities. Linda had been alone as long as anyone could remember, her dedication to the Chronicle seemingly her only passion. Byron had been deeply devoted toLouise during their forty-year marriage and devastated by her loss three years ago.

"I think," she said carefully, "that it's none of our business and we should let them navigate this themselves without the island gossip mill getting involved."

Chelsea looked momentarily crestfallen, then brightened. "You're absolutely right. Completely none of our business."

She took another bite of scone, then added, "Although, I did notice that the community center is hosting a summer dance next Friday. Might be interesting to see if either of them attends."

"Chelsea..." Maggie's tone held warning.

"What?" Chelsea's expression was the picture of innocence. "I'm simply making conversation about upcoming island events. The fact that it might provide further evidence for my theory is purely coincidental."

Maggie shook her head but couldn't suppress her smile. "You're incorrigible."

"That's why you love me," Chelsea replied cheerfully. "Now, on a completely unrelated note, do you think Linda would look better in the blue dress she wore to last year's Fourth of July picnic, or should she try something new if she were hypothetically attending a community dance where a certain beekeeper might be present?"

Before Maggie could formulate a suitably discouraging response, the front door opened and Merritt entered, looking windswept and slightly sunburned across her nose and cheeks.

"Oh!" she said, noticing them in the parlor. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all," Maggie said, relieved by the timely interruption. "Chelsea was just leaving."

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