Page 5 of Meet Me at the Christmas Cottage
“Martha’s on Main is that way.” Bronte’s companion lifted her hand and pointed up the street. “I’m headed this way to catch a ride to my grandma’s.”
Bronte looked around, expecting to spot a car or Uber. She didn’t see any.
“Thanks.”
“Hope you have a great time while you’re here. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.”
They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.
The wheels on her suitcase complained as they rattled over the cobblestones, catching on the uneven walkway and threatening to spill. That’s all Bronte needed—for her suitcase to spill open on Main Street.
Bronte’s suitcase jerked her back as it got stuck on a divot in the street. She shivered as a gust of cold air blew. The sun was deceiving. It looked like it should be a nice day with no frigid air cutting through her coat to slice her bones. Deceiving or not, Bronte couldn’t see how there were snowstorms predicted for later. Not even cotton-ball clouds dotted the sky.
With one more jerk, the street gave the suitcase back, sans a wheel.
Bronte groaned. “Are you kidding me?” At least it wasn’t a busted zipper. Pocketing the rogue wheel, Bronte half dragged, half carried her suitcase the remaining three shops to Martha’s on Main.
Warmth of the restaurant enveloped her as she pushed in from the cold, suitcase dragging behind her. The door clambered shut as all the eyes of the patrons swung in her direction, and there were many. For a random Monday a week and a half before Christmas, the place seemed packed. Two older gentlemen played what looked to be an intense game of checkers, and there was another group of five, who looked to be deep in some kind of meeting, and she recognized a few people from the ferry.
“Just find an open seat, and we’ll be with you in a moment,” someone from behind the bar directed.
“I just need to meet up with Mia Franklin? She has the keys and directions to my rental.”
“Rental? There aren’t any rentals on the island.” A larger woman with gray streaking through her dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a too-gruff voice handed a plate to a waitress, who turned on her heel to deliver it to a nearby table.
“I, uh, am renting from Holland White?” Bronte rifled through her messenger bag, looking for the rental agreement she knew she’d printed out.
“Yes, yes, Martha, you remember. Holland is renting out her place while they’re in the Bahamas.” A dark-haired woman, no more than twenty-five, dressed in jeans and a white sweater, came up beside Bronte. “Hi, I’m Mia Franklin. You must be Bronte.”
Bronte took Mia’s proffered hand.
Martha huffed. “I still don’t know why the Whites had to go off to the Bahamas for Christmas. Who has heard of such a thing?”
“Sunshine, sand, and warmer than twenty degrees, Martha. Anyone could see the appeal,” Mia shot back.
Martha harrumphed, turned, and pushed through swinging doors disappearing to, Bronte assumed, the kitchen.
“Don’t mind her. I hope your trip here was good,” Mia said, leading Bronte back over to the dark wood booth where she had papers spread over the entire surface of the table. Putting one knee on the booth seat, Mia leaned over to dig through her briefcase. “Give me one second, and I’ll get you the keys. Sorry about the mess. I’m working from here today since my kids are sick and at home with my mom. Honestly, my office was just too quiet. I’d rather be where there’s people. You know?”
Bronte didn’t know.
Mia continued muttering to herself as she pulled her bag closer. It must be like a Mary Poppins bag with all the digging Mia was doing. Bronte shifted on her feet, not sure if she should offer to help or find a seat to sit down and wait, maybe get something to eat before heading out.
“Ah-ha!” Mia held up a set of keys on a dark-blue plastic keychain, like one you’d find at a vintage hotel. “Found them.” She held them out toward Bronte. “I went over there earlier today to make sure the heat had been turned up. The Whites have been gone for a few days already and aren’t scheduled to be back until after you leave. If you need groceries or anything while you’re here, Doug’s Market is right down that way.” Mia thumbed the direction toward the grocery store. “Of course, you’ll also find Good Day Coffee, Island Pizzeria, and Kelley’s Bar & Grill, which, if you need something to do in the evenings, is the place to go. They generally have line dancing or trivia night or something. Always a good time. And of course, there’s Martha’s.” Mia swept her arms out.
“Great.” Bronte flashed what she hoped was a thankful smile. After talking with Lexi and confessing exactly how much she had to get done out loud, it’d started sinking in.
What had she been thinking, waiting until the very last minute? And maybe she did have twenty-seven words down, but what she hadn’t told Lexi was that she’d written those months ago. She didn’t even know if they were going to stay.
What was her first line again? It didn’t matter. She was here now, and this book would get written.
“Is there an Uber I can call or…” Bronte trailed off at the amusement in Mia’s eyes.
“There are no cars on Jonathon Island.”
“Oh. Right.” Bronte knew that from watching the show, but hadn’t that been more of a reality TV stunt? “How do you get around, then?”
“Depends on the season. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, we walk or bike. The Quinns are working on getting horses back on island next season, and Asher Quinn—yes,thatAsher Quinn—has started up a carriage tour business with the few horses still here.”
