Page 90 of Hopeless Romantic
Beckett felt like Gumby, pulled in every direction. But one responsibility stood out above all others, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, it wasn’t her responsibility to her family. It wasn’t to Levi, either. Not exactly. It was to herself. She’d made a promise she would grow her business, and if she didn’t put herself first for a change, nothing would ever get better.
Thingshadto change. In the end, it would benefit everyone.
“Dad?” The word came out as a reprimand. She caught herself and checked her frustration. Honestly, it sometimes felt as if her father were harder to reason with than Tommy. “Move your fingers so they don’t get caught in the door. I made a promise to a client. This is my business. This is important to me. I have to go.”
He let go, but his gaze remained locked helplessly on hers. She shut the door and hit the lock. Sure enough, her father grabbed the door handle.
Beckett felt awful, but for the first time, it wasn’t because she’d failed her family. It was because she knew exactly how her dad felt right now, and she wouldn’t wish that stress on anyone. But tonight, he had to figure it out for himself, or ten years from now, she’d still be figuring it out for him.
Stomach in knots, she eased onto the road, making sure her father’s feet were clear of the tires before pressing on the gas. She gave him a reassuring wave as she backed out of the drive.
Once she was on the street, she exhaled a long breath, but that didn’t make the sight of her father, still standing in the road behind her, any easier to process.
In truth, she was a little sick over how good it felt to hand off all the responsibilities that really shouldn’t have been hers in the first place. She felt guilty over this tiny sensation of freedom.
Beckett positioned her phone in the holder attached to the dash and said, “Okay, Siri. Call Captain Cool.”
Her call went directly to voice mail, and Beckett’s shoulders slid a little lower. This time, she decided to leave a message. When the voice mail prompted with a beep, Beckett forced her voice into that not-a-care-in-the-world octave.
“Hey, it’s me. Uh, Beck.” She rolled her eyes. “I just wanted to touch base and see if you had any other backup numbers for Gus. I got a call that he came down with food poisoning”—she pushed an unconvincing laugh from her throat—“ironic, right? Anyway, I’m on it. You don’t have to worry. I guess you don’t have cell service out on the ocean, huh? Well, if you get this and happen to think of someone I could call to fill in, let me know. If not, no biggie. I’ll handle it.”
At the stop sign, she squeezed her eyes against the burn of tears, cleared her throat, and said, “Hope you’re having fun. I hear Nantucket is cold enough to freeze your nuts this time of year.”
She disconnected, then continued toward the bar while speed-dialing Gus to get the numbers of anyone she might have forgotten. When he didn’t answer, she thought about what her father had said and dialed the restaurant.
Eleven rings later, she slammed her finger against the disconnect button. “Is today some freaking holiday I don’t know about? Where is everyone?”
Panic perked in her belly like one of those old-fashioned coffee machines. “I’m fine.” She wrung the steering wheel with her hands. “I’ve got this, because that’s the kind of person I am. The kind who can handle anything. No matter what.”
She down-shifted, and the fortune inside the Magic 8-Ball spun and spun before landing on DON’T COUNT ON IT.
Beckett did what any grown woman would do—she used her last lifeline.
“Okay, Siri, phone a friend,” she said, and nearly wept when Annie answered on the first ring.
“Did you butt-dial me?” Annie teased, the warm giggle in her tone pricking at Beckett’s eyes. “Because my butt misses you, too.”
“Gus has food poisoning, one of the waitresses is a no-show, apparently everyone in Rome decided to dine at the Crow’s Nest, and the situation must be so dire that they called me,” Beckett rushed out in a single breath. “Oh, and Levi’s at sea, and I swore on my business that I’d take care of his restaurant. Only no one’s answering to tell me what the fuck is going on!”
The desperation in her voice sounded an awful lot like her father’s a moment ago.
“Okay, take a breath. Let’s think this through,” Annie said, her bedside manner as a physician’s assistant kicking in. “What do we know? You’re down a cook, server, hostess, and the owner. No need to freak out.”
“Your saying that makes me freak out.” Beckett paused. “I never said I was down a hostess.”
“Whoever’s job it is to answer the phone, they either are completely inept or a no-show,” Annie reasoned.
“You’re not making me feel better,” Beckett said.
“Symptoms, prognosis, treatment,” she replied. “And as a medical practitioner, I can promise you that you will survive this. In fact, you’re going to rock this. You’ve been training for this moment for weeks. It’s no different from planning a wedding.”
“I would argue it is completely different,” she said. “And planning weddings isn’t a task we’ve proved I excel at.”
Annie ignored this. “Creating menus, seating charts, organizing a staff, partaking in a happy-hour cocktail when the occasion arises. You specialize in getting shit done. You got this.”
Beckett didn’t share her confidence, and that was before she turned the corner and saw the massive structure flickering in the distance. Twinkle lights outlined the four-thousand-square-foot open-concept eatery, and the two floor-to-ceiling glassed-in decks, which spanned the entire length of the curved sea wall, connecting the marina and harbor.
Cars circled the parking lot. People stood huddled in their coats on the outside terrace, waiting to be seated. Inside, a tide pool of activity surged, as people mingled in the bar area and around the fire pits on the upper lounge.
