Page 4 of The Hampton Beach Café 4
“Do you remember what I said to you?” she asked. “To make you chase me down and throw us into the sea like that?”
Alex sighed softly, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Honestly, no. But it wouldn't have taken much. I loved making you laugh.”
There was something almost sad in his voice, and Frances wanted to turn and look him in the face, but she couldn't make herself do it. He shifted behind her slightly and placed the photo album back down on the large stack of boxes and books in front of them. The movement seemed to signal an end to this conversation, and she knew she should move away, but—suddenly, his arms were crossed over her stomach, and his hands gripped each side of her waist.
“I still do,” he said, squeezing her.
A ragged breath barely drew enough air in.
What is he doing?
Her mind raced, unable to form a complete thought. Then, a split second later, his fingers pressed rhythmically on her ribs, and she shrieked with laughter.
“Alex!” she yelped through her laughter. “You stop that!”
Slapping at his hands as she laughed, he spun her around and stopped tickling her. She sucked in a hard breath and leaned against the boxes. Little clouds of dust were swirling in the light between them.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Definitely still do.”
“What?” she breathed, her mind totally blank at this point.
He leaned down and moved his hands from her waist to rest on the boxes on either side of her.
“Love making you laugh,” he said seriously.
The quiet stillness in the attic settled for a moment as Frances scrambled for something to say, then was broken by her mom's voice echoing up the stairs.
“Are you alright, you two?”
Alex laughed, straightening and stepping back.
“Yes, Mom, are we going to head to lunch now?”
Glad her voice had managed not to skip, Frances turned and collected the stack of albums to take downstairs with her.
“If you kids are,” her mom replied.
They caught each other's eye. Her mom calling them kids had been a bone of contention when they were sixteen, but now, it felt endearing in a way she couldn't quite place.
“We are,” Frances said, hefting the weight of the albums on her hip and heading down the stairs.
THREE
Frances sat nervously in the bustling dining room of Le Pêcheur as she waited for Kennedy Pine. Why the infernal woman had chosen the most expensive French restaurant in town for this meeting was entirely beyond Frances as she tried to stop fiddling with the corner of the menu—the things looked like they cost a hundred bucks a piece to print. This lunch was out of their usual pattern, there were no inspections on the café due, and Kennedy had told her not to bring any of the books, so it wasn't just one of her excuses to be nosy and intrusive.
“Hi,” Kennedy said. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
Frances turned to face the woman. It still boggled her mind to think that the neatly put-together woman in front of her had been publicly yelling at her just a week ago. Even in high school, Kennedy had never been a shouting and intimidating bully. She was fond of sneaking in sarcastic and nasty looks and comments—but that had not been Frances’ experience the last time they saw each other.
Today she was dressed in a tight pair of jeans and a flowing silk blouse, her hair was down, and she was wearing makeup.
“Hi,” Frances said. “Yeah, of course. I'm not sure why here, though, to be honest.”
Kennedy flashed a tight smile.
“I have walked out on more than one bill during our business dealings, and I recognize that last time was…volatile. I feel the need to make up for the monetary position I put you in with those actions and…apologize.”
“Apologize?” Frances repeated. “For…accusing my father of repeatedly having affairs with your mom, hating and punishing me for it, etcetera?”
