Page 18 of The Hampton Beach Café 5
Alex stepped away from her, the chilly air suddenly bitingly cold on the spots warmed by his hands.
“What are you talking about? He doesn't buy or sell in town… he promised Kennedy.”
Tears pricked at her eyes. “That's why he said we needed to keep it between us because he promised. He's pushing me to sell... and I do––”
“Are you serious? You were planning on selling the shop this whole time? To who!?” he said, his voice rising with every word. “Do you know how much this community means to me? My parents lost their livelihood by selling their candy shop to some investment banker who only cared about making a profit. And now you're doing the same thing?”
Frances tried to explain herself again, but Alex wouldn't listen––and she couldn't blame him. He was hurt and angry, and she could feel the weight of his disappointment crushing her. She did her best not to cry. She couldn't cry. He'd think she was doing it to manipulate him––and that was the absolute last thing she wanted him to think.
“Alex, I'm sorry! I didn't think it through––any of it! I just panicked when I made a split-second decision and spent my entire safety net in one go! I'd just been divorced via bike messenger, on holiday, and angry! I thought I'd just bankrupted myself!”
“I'm sorry,” he said, seeming to intentionally calm his tone down a bit. “I didn't mean to get so mad. But this ... just hits too close to home for me. I just need some space to process this.”
Frances felt terrible. She never meant to hurt Alex, but she knew she had. He backed away from her even further, turning his back and walking back the way they'd come. Even if they cleared this up, she knew she'd broken something, and she was pretty certain she wouldn't be able to fix it any time soon.
She watched his figure walk down the street and turn the corner, and realizing that she looked ridiculous and probably a little suspicious just standing there on a dark street staring into space, she turned and headed back towards Café Bruno.
ELEVEN
Frances was nearly finished cleaning the tables in the new outdoor seating area of the café when she spied movement through the door. It was too early for customers. They didn't open for an hour.
She peered around the door frame and saw an older woman taping a note to her front door. She hesitated to approach her––what if this was the brick thrower? She had planned on asking Alex to go around to the Cozy Beach Inn where they believed the English woman and her son had been staying, but since the other night, they hadn't said a word to each other. He hadn't even been into bake in the mornings, and she'd had to break out a few old cake recipes that were in no way up to his standards.
“Excuse me, ma'am. Can I help you with something?” Frances called out politely, just to test the waters.
The woman startled, turned, and started off down the street.
So it was her!
Frances felt her reaction kick into overdrive. She darted out of the side gate, narrowly getting out just in front of the woman.
It was the same woman who they'd had a confrontation with several months before––the woman Clarkson had said was his stalker.
“It's you!” she exclaimed, getting ready to launch into a tirade but paused as the woman’s eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, dear, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for your shop to be vandalized––or to scare you at all! I was just trying to get your attention. You have to know who he really is––what he's done!” she said, her voice trembling.
Frances was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“I'm the one who left that note on your door. I also tried to send you an email, but you ignored me! My grandson threw that brick, but I swear I didn't know he would do it! He's been so angry lately, and I just wanted someone to listen to me,” the woman explained, her voice barely above a whisper.
Frances was shocked. “Your grandson threw the brick? Why would he do that? Why did the lady in the trinket shop say he was your son?”
The woman began to sob. “It's a long story, dear. He's been very upset with me ever since I lost my house. I trusted a man who promised to help me, but he took advantage of me. I lost everything we had, and even though he says he doesn't, my grandson blames me for it.”
Frances could suddenly see the scene from the neighbors’ point of view and realized that it wasn't a great look to have this woman crying on the street outside the café––hopefully, it was early enough that no one had seen.
“Here, come and sit down. Let me get you some water,” she said, gesturing to the garden. “Or, um, tea?”
“Tea please, yes, thank you,” she said tearfully as she followed Frances into the garden and sat close to the door.
Frances went inside and flagged Lucinda down, explaining what was going on.
“Make a pot of tea, and get down whatever she stuck to the door,” she hissed. “I'm going back out there.”
“I'm calling the police. She admitted it was her!” Lucinda said, reaching for her phone.
“Don't,” Frances said, “I want to talk to her.”
