Page 12 of The Hampton Beach Café 3
"I bet," Lucinda responded as she took Lauren's hand in a visibly firm handshake.
Lauren continued, "This piece, though, I'll finalize now––this one is for me."
Frances felt her heart rate quicken and her hands started to tingle. She glanced down at them with a small frown. This was the rush she was used to when making multi-million dollar deals or delivering a completed project to her clients––not selling an apparently underpriced artwork.
While the thrill of excitement was kind of strange in these comparatively modest circumstances, it was incredible to feel it again. The last few months, though exciting in their own right, had been hard to compare to her fast-paced life in LA. Frances smiled and shook hands, leaving Vincent to deal with the paperwork and Lucinda to hover intimidatingly.
She turned her gaze to the party going on. It certainly was not a party by LA standards––there was no DJ, entertainers in the crowd, hired security, or throbbing music that wouldn't abate until the early hours of the morning. There were, however, about fifty people milling around, talking, admiring the art, and celebrating. The subtle decorations Alex had organized were nice. They added to the theme without being overwhelming or tacky––and for fifty bucks, Frances was incredibly impressed with him.
It was the perfect balance of jovial and chill––something to fill the space between a quiet dinner with friends and a raging dance party on the beach. Frances felt something coming together. This was potentially the perfect gap for her to fill in Hampton Beach. There was plenty of choice for young partygoers and concerts as well as for the Stay-at-Home crowd––but that in-between space was interesting...
"You..."
Frances turned at the familiar voice, her heart sinking.
"Kennedy?" she asked. "What's wrong?"
Kennedy Pine stood in the doorway. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"You're dating Clarkson now?" she said. "You come back here, to my town, and you weasel your way in and now you're dating him? You were always too good for him in high school––even though he was too good for you. But now? What's changed?"
What?? The words hit her like a series of slaps––dating Clarkson? Too good for him? Too good for HER? A number of things were starting to make sense, though. Kennedy's overt dislike for her, the simpering way she agreed with everything Clarkson said, even bending the rules for him.
"Your town?"
"Yes, my town," Kennedy said. "It's all your fault, the least you could do was stay away."
"Kennedy, I don't know what you're talking about. We aren't even dating, not really. We've been out less than five times! That gossip rag just wants to stir up headlines."
The crease between Kennedy's eyebrows deepened.
"So this is fake?" she said, jabbing a rolled-up magazine at Frances.
"What's going on? Why are you crying, Ken?" Clarkson said, sounding worried as he approached.
Looking down, Frances saw a snap of her and Clarkson on the roof of the house where the influencer dinner party had taken place. It was taken from below and showed him leaning in towards her––she had to admit that it really looked a lot like he was going in for a kiss.
"Fake? No, but not true either! We were just talking! He's just helping me with this place––that's it. We're working––"
"…like I would help any old friend," he said quickly. "Advice and support––that sort of thing. You know I don't get involved in local business, Ken, come on."
Frances looked at him in disbelief. As a friend? Advice only? Had she hallucinated all the business talk, arrangement, favors he'd called in, and not to mention his agreement to help her sell the place at the end of the season? No, she hadn't. He lied to Kennedy to play into her ridiculous vendetta against anything that might cater to tourists.
Kennedy's expression softened. "And you're not dating?"
Her voice was so small. Frances suddenly felt a wave of pity for her.
"No, we're friends," Clarkson said. "We have gone out a few times, but it's nothing serious, right, Frances?"
His casual dismissal of their dates riled her more than it should have. She hadn't exactly been enamored with him. But something in his tone suggested that dating her would be absurd, which hurt a little. Keeping Kennedy happy, though, was more important than a bruised ego.
"Right…" Frances said, "…three dates and an overeager paparazzi, that's all."
She wanted to smile reassuringly but knew that Kennedy would probably take it as a smirk.
"Good…" Kennedy said, forcing some cool detachment into her tone as if she could never have cared in the first place, "…because I'd hate to have to consider a conflict of interest that arises when a famous and successful real estate agent shows interest in what is supposed to be a local business for local people––especially if he was dating the owner."
And there it was, the veiled threat Frances knew was coming.
