One Night with Frankie, page 2
And then she spotted it—Camden’s Ice Cream Shop.
It had been years since she’d been, but her tongue remembered the taste of sweetness and happiness their treats had always provided. A smile stretched from ear to ear. It was the one place where she could drown all her worries with a nice cold dessert and she crossed the street, not even bothering to look both ways. Besides, there was no need to. In Oakwhite, cars slowed down for pedestrians and not the other way around.
The choices of what she might indulge in overwhelmed her, and she didn’t notice the time. It had just passed six. She watched someone flip the Closed sign on the door, the white letters against a bright red background yelling at her. The realization that she was too late for the one thing that had brought her an ounce of joy struck her like thunder, and she collapsed onto a nearby bench, dropping her head into her hands.
It wasn’t the lack of ice cream that made her feel this way, even so, the tears spilt from her eyes. She tried to stop them, worried someone might see, but there wasn’t a soul around. Most tourists, if there were still any lingering this late in summer, were on their way to the restaurants on Main Street, and not the small shops along the water. And so, she tucked her feet up on the bench, resting her forehead against her bent knees, and cried for the life she hated, and even for the life she wished for.
The weight of a strong yet gentle hand pressed against her shoulder, startling her. She looked up into the most striking blue eyes she’d ever seen. Crinkled with concern, she noticed a few fine lines that ran across the man’s forehead. His hair was brown and the sun’s fading light hit his head to reveal subtle streaks of amber.
“Sorry if I scared you. Are you alright?” His deep, raspy voice pleased her ears and sounded more mature than the man looked.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” she replied, noting the perfect shape of his lips, surrounded by short stubble that matched his hair except for a few white whiskers.
She assumed he was at least her father’s age, maybe younger. It wasn’t his physical appearance that made her think this, but the general aura he projected. The faint bags under his eyes and his somewhat drawn cheeks told her he’d lived; he’d been through things.
He pulled away and stood in front of her while her wet eyes adjusted. Then he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a paper napkin. “Here, it isn’t much, but…”
She took the napkin, which was rough and made a scratchy noise when she held it.
As if reading her thoughts, he breathed out a small laugh. “It’s recycled paper. Better for the planet, shit for everything else.”
She laughed despite the sadness within and wiped her face. The scent of sweetness floated in the air. “Thank you. Again.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?” He glanced around. “Is there anyone I can call or something?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
His knitted brow made it clear he didn’t believe her. The way he considered and bit his lower lip told her he wouldn’t leave her alone, either. He took a seat beside her, but stared ahead, toward the sea. He crossed his arms against his chest, revealing tanned, freckled forearms and a dusting of light-brown hair. Weather-worn skin meant he spent a lot of time outdoors, maybe on the water and sun-kissed in a way that brought back memories of her mistake and the reason she’d returned.
four
Henry
When he sat with her, he assumed her tears might stop and be replaced by shallow breathing, maybe even a conversation. He didn’t think her crying would turn into sobs that overwhelmed the space between them.
“Hey, come on now,” he offered, unsure of what to do.
Most of his employees were teenagers, wrecked with hormones and uncontrollable emotions, so he was used to them breaking down in front of him because their boyfriend had left them, or the girl they liked didn’t like them back. The usual. And he’d listen, maybe offer an affectionate tap on the shoulder, and wait until the crying subsided. He’d learned a while back not to do more because it could backfire. Badly.
This young woman didn’t look older than her early twenties and wasn’t one of his employees. He wasn’t sure what to do. Henry glanced around, certain there was someone nearby who would come to find her. The street was vacant. The summer rush had been dwindling with each passing August day.
She took in a shaky breath and wiped her face with the napkin. But the tears didn’t stop. So, he sat by her, waiting for an eventual break in her sadness or some other sort of interruption.
“Are you sure there isn’t something I can do?”
She shook her head briskly, her jaw clenched, and rubbed the tears from her eyes. “No, really, thank you. I’m just being stupid.”
She lifted her head, brushing her hair back from her face, and smiled. With a breath, she turned into a different person, and though sadness still permeated her eyes, a composed, almost stoic mask slipped over her face. He had to blink a few times to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“I only wanted a milkshake, like I used to get when I was a kid and then…” She glanced behind them at the shop.
That was it, a milkshake? And with the shop being closed, she had broken down? He frowned and rubbed his thighs. Camden’s milkshakes were famous around here, but he’d never seen someone so distraught over not being able to have one.
With a few furtive glances around, he worried someone might see them and misconstrue the situation. He didn’t enjoy stressing about the town’s rumor mill, or about his reputation, but he knew what the townspeople assumed about his past. Despite that, he couldn’t help it. His kindness knew no bounds, and he refused to just let the poor girl cry over something as simple as ice cream.
“Ah, well, you’re in luck.” He stood and pulled out his keys. “I’m the owner. Why don’t you come in and I’ll make you that milkshake?”
The way her smile stretched across her face made him feel good. “You own the shop?”
Now able to see her entire face, he realized how stunning she was. She was naturally beautiful, with blue eyes that verged on hazel or green, framed by long lashes. And her hair, streaked blond and brown, fell in loose waves down past her shoulders and stopped just before a well-shaped but understated chest. If he was being honest, she reminded him of her, the one he’d met years before. The one he’d tried to help but who had messed everything up.
“I’m Henry.” Extending his hand, he grinned. “Henry Camden.”
She hesitated, her eyes shooting from his face to his hand and back again. Then she took it. “Fran…,” she stopped. “Frankie.”
“Nice to meet you, Frankie. Is that short for something?”
She tucked her plump pink lips into her mouth. “Frances.”
“Well, Frankie, the offer stands.”
She crossed her arms, her baggy cream-colored crocheted sweater hanging off her left shoulder, revealing pale skin and a delicate collarbone. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother at all.” He took a step back, assuming she’d refuse and be on her way. As strange as it was, and though she was a complete stranger, he hoped she’d accept and stay.
She bit her lip again, considering with a glance toward the shop. He understood her hesitation. Here he was, some strange, older man, asking her to go inside—alone.
“Thank you, but I think I should just get back to my hotel. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, his chest swelling with disappointment. “No apologies needed.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Why don’t I go make you that milkshake to go, then?” He frowned, unsure why he was pushing this, but something about her made him want to make her happy. This need of his had gotten him into trouble in the past.
“You would do that?” She looked up at him, her sad eyes filling with joy.
“Absolutely. What flavor?”
“Chocolate, please.”
The shop still smelt of sugar and milk, and he prepared the ingredients in the kitchen. While the drink whirled in the blender, he glanced out the door and saw her take a seat at one of the picnic tables out back. She wiped her face a few more times and then pulled out a small compact mirror from her purse. Henry watched her clean her face as best she could and then apply a soft shade of gloss to her lips. He hadn’t thought she was wearing any makeup and wished she realized she didn’t need any, either. He’d always preferred women in their natural state.
He cringed and snapped his eyes shut. Why was he even thinking of this? She was a woman in need of a milkshake. That was all. He flipped the switch, and after tidying up again, locked up.
“Thank you so much,” she said as he handed her the ice-cold drink. “You’re the sweetest.”
She took a sip, sucking hard through the white and red plastic straw, her cheeks sinking in. He saw the way her eyes lit up once the sweet, creamy flavor hit her tongue like gold in her mouth and her resulting moan made him tense up. He ran a hand against the back of his neck, sitting down opposite her, aroused and ashamed, fighting the guilt her sounds had resurrected.
“This is perfect,” she said with the softest smile. “You really didn’t have to do this for me, though.”
His cheeks burned. “You looked like you needed it.” Someone had carved their name in the table’s wood, and he ran a finger along the groove of each letter. “After all, you can’t buy happiness, but you can buy ice cream, and those are pretty much the same thing.”
A heartfelt laugh exploded from her mouth and revealed flawless straight and white teeth.
“I love that saying,” she said in a way that made Henry blush.
“I wish I could take credit. It’s on a sign in the shop.”
“Oh.” She grinned and stared back into her milkshake. “Still, it’s clever.”
They grew silent as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Overhead, seagulls flew out toward the sea, and Henry watched them.
“Do you want to go for a drink?” she asked.
He frowned, returning his attention to her, and found her serious. She shook her cup, now empty.
“You mean another one?”
“Yes, another one.” Her cheeks dimpled in the cutest way. There wasn’t any shyness in her offer.
“Um, well…” he began, clearing the nerves from his throat.
With a soft, breathy chuckle, she looked away. “Or food. I am kind of hungry.”
Say no, say no. You’ve been here before. Say no!
“Sure. That sounds, um, great.”
A light pink covered her face. “Great.”
five
Frankie
A heavy sigh left her body as relief filled her; one she couldn’t hide. She noticed how his eyes never stayed on her for very long, or how his cheeks darkened when she looked straight at him, and the way his fingers constantly moved on the table’s surface. It wasn’t quite fidgeting, but as if they needed to move and had to keep busy. Either way, he didn’t seem to recognize her, or had any idea what she’d done, and that thrilled her.
It was far from what she’d known all her life, with her face plastered all over social media and gossip rags. Henry didn’t seem like someone who read those things, and she got the impression he spent little time on social media, if any at all. He seemed like a quiet type, one who liked to read or go sailing. He was the embodiment of the small town she cherished so much.
When they reached Joe’s Pizzeria, Henry opened the door for her, which took her by surprise, but she found it incredibly charming. The restaurant wasn’t too busy, and none of the Saturday night patrons looked up, other than an older lady with thick glasses. Frankie’s stomach lurched when the lady’s jaw dropped, but the woman’s sight seemed stuck on Henry. Still, Frankie lowered her head, fearing recognition, and turned away. Toward the left was a small counter with a sign above that read Pick Up.
“How about we get it to go and eat it down at the beach?” she suggested. He ran a hand against his arm. “You know, because it’s such a nice evening?”
Henry seemed nervous, and she reached out to touch his arm. His bicep was firm as he tensed beneath her palm. “Sure, that sounds like a great idea.”
A young lady greeted them. “Hi, Mr. Camden. The usual?”
Her eyes drifted over to Frankie, then back. Frankie read her mind and moved away, focusing on the bulletin board on the wall covered with town advertisements.
“Let’s make it a large tonight, Sophie.”
“One large veggie to go,” she yelled over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, Frankie noticed Sophie’s tight grin as she hit a few keys on the cash register. “That’ll be twelve-fifty.”
Henry paid with cash, handing her an even fifteen. They waited a few minutes, standing in the small alcove, surrounded only by the dinner time din. Soon, the pizza was ready, steaming hot in a large, white cardboard box releasing a mouth-watering scent.
“Have a good night, Mr. Camden,” Sophie said, her judging eyes shooting across to Frankie.
They walked down the street toward the beach, but just before, Frankie stopped at the corner.
“Let me pop in here for a second,” she said, motioning to the corner store. Frankie went in and soon remerged with a six pack of beer. “I hope you don’t mind craft?”
Henry smiled. “Love it, actually. That’s a good one.”
They crossed the street and walked along the wooden-plank boardwalk that snuck through the grassy outer banks. Before stepping onto the cool, dry sand, they both removed their shoes. The water had already retreated for the night, and save for a few people strolling further down the beach, they were alone.
Picking a flat spot, Henry kicked a few stray stones out of the way and they sat down. He didn’t seem bothered by the unexpectedness of their dinner, and she didn’t mind how comfortable she now was around him. He didn’t seem concerned with the way she kept glancing at him, unlike before, and she felt a growing, inexplicable attraction to him. But she believed it was mutual. More than once she caught him throwing glances her way, nervous, quick ones, as if he was hoping to catch her unaware, hoping to watch her without being caught.
six
Henry
“Ladies first,” he said, offering her the first slice of pizza.
The smell of onions and olives drifted to his nose, and his stomach growled. She took her time choosing which slice, almost as if one was worthier than the other. Scooping one up, she pinched the stretchy cheese between two fingers, bringing it to her mouth, and he couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized by how delectably she ate it. In slow-motion, just like in a commercial, her mouth wrapped around the point and his thoughts turned dirty.
Pull it together, Henry, he commanded himself.
“Oh, my, god,” she said, elongating each word. “I think this is the best pizza I’ve ever had. And where I’m from, that’s saying something.”
“And where’s that, exactly?”
She finished her bite. “New York City…”
“New York?” He did a poor job at hiding his surprise. Nothing about her screamed city, let alone New York. He thought Connecticut or Rhode Island. New rich but not New York. “Were you born there?”
She nodded and smiled around her bite. Only then did he realize he hadn’t even touched his food yet. “Why do you seem so surprised?”
He shrugged, picking some olives off the pizza and dropping them back into the box. “I spent some time there a while back.” Make that twenty years ago, he thought. “You don’t seem like a New Yorker.”
“I guess I should say thank you for that,” she said, watching him pick his olives. “Most people see us as hard asses.”
“No, that’s not it,” he hurried to say, worried he’d insulted her.
She giggled. “It’s fine. Trust me, I know I can be one in the right circumstances.” Another laugh, this one stronger than the previous. “Did you use to live there?”
His deep frown returned. “Yes… I went to Julliard.”
Her face lit up with surprise, which was the usual effect when people found out he used to attend the prestigious performing arts school. “You did? That’s amazing. What did you study?”
“Classical music. I’m a pianist.” He blushed, looking down. Pianist implied he performed for others and he hadn’t done that in years. “Well, I play the piano.”
“That’s so great. I can’t play anything. I can’t even sing.” He caught the way her fingers moved against her leg as if she was keying a piano, and it made him smile. “Do you still play?”
“I have a baby grand at home. I compose every once in a while, but it’s… well, it’s not what it used to be.”
He reached for a beer and twisted the cap off, handing her one, then took one for himself. How could he explain the way he’d fallen out of love with his deepest passion and had never returned to it?
“And what do you do?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation.
Her mouth opened, but then shut just as swiftly. “I’m in fashion.”
“A model?” he asked, and considered her slender frame and stunning features.
She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “God no. I’m not a model.”
“Sorry, you’re just so…” He stopped and regarded his beer. “You’re stunning, that’s why I assumed…” He felt like an idiot around her and didn’t understand why.
“Thank you.” She reached out and touched his knee. He stared at her long fingers, her short, squared nails—they looked like they’d never seen a hard day’s work. “I’m a designer.”
It wasn’t much of an answer. But her hand and how it still lingered on his leg distracted him too much to be bothered by her lack of elaboration. He noticed how she guarded her words as if she was keeping a secret, refraining from revealing too much. That was fine with him, too. He had his own secrets and understood more than anyone how some things were better left unsaid.
