“Rounding up all the people in the resort over the age of seventy-five and ensuring they’re having a good time?” Brontë’s smile was knowing.
Shyly, Marjorie sealed an envelope. Should she mention anything to Brontë? But the excitement of a budding relationship—after such a long, long dry spell—poured out of her. “I had a date.”
Brontë gasped and clutched at Marjorie’s arm. “Shut up. You did, Marj? No way! Who?”
“Just a guy,” she said. “I don’t want to say too much and jinx it. But I really like him.” She bit her lip, thinking of last night and how it had gone from a nightmare to an almost magical sort of quality. Rob had been so sweet, so forthright. Blunt, but she liked that . . . and she liked him.
She even had a phone full of silly little texts from him, reminding her about their date later tonight. As if she’d forget! She’d been receiving them hourly, as if he paused during his day to think about her. That was a great feeling.
Her friends—Edna, Agnes and Dewey—hadn’t been too thrilled to hear that she was going out with him again. They’d seen her tear-filled escape from the bingo hall and it had taken a lot of soothing over breakfast to calm her friends down.
It was sweet that they were worried, but they hadn’t been there when the evening had changed from nightmarish to magical. They didn’t know how Marjorie had been pretending to be someone she wasn’t . . . and Rob had been doing the same.
“A date? Really?” Brontë squealed, her hands fluttering in girlish enthusiasm for her friend. “I’m so happy for you! You’ll have to give me all the details when you’re comfortable. Do you think you’ll see him when you go home, too? Or is this just an island fling? That’s how Logan and I met, you know. Right here at this resort.”
“I don’t know if we’ll see each other afterward,” Marjorie said, running her fingers along the thick edges of an envelope. “We’re taking it a day at a time.”
“That’s the best way to do things,” Brontë proclaimed. “Epicurus said, ‘Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not.’”
Marj grinned. Brontë had an incredible brain for memorization, and always had a few words of wisdom from a philosopher at the ready. “I’ve missed your quotes.”
“Logan wanted to get my favorites engraved on charms for the guests, but I couldn’t pick just one quote, so we decided to go with something more traditional instead.” She rolled her eyes.
“How is Logan?” Marjorie asked as Brontë slid a stack of cards toward her. She’d met Brontë’s soon-to-be husband a few times, and he rarely smiled at anyone. He intimidated Marjorie, but the way he looked at Brontë—possessive and hungry—made her yearn for someone to look at her like that. Then she thought of Rob again, and the blush returned. Rob had looked at her like that. Like she was covered in his favorite ice cream and he wanted to lick it off of her. Which was a mental image that made her blush all over again.
“Logan’s stressed, like me. Or rather, he’s stressed because I’m stressed. If it were up to him, we’d get in a helicopter and fly to the nearest justice of the peace and get married there, but there’s too many people involved at this point.” She grimaced as she scribbled a note on another thank-you card. “And there’s some jerk here at the resort that’s driving him crazy.”
“Oh?”
She shook her head absently, not looking up from the card she was working on. “Something about some shady business guy wanting to get Logan’s attention so he’s lurking around at the hotel. It’s pissing Logan off because he wants everything to be perfect for me this week, and that guy’s like a burr under his skin.”
“He showed up here just to get Logan’s attention? That seems crazy.” Marjorie shook her head. “Crashing a wedding is pretty rude.”
“Yeah, Logan’s kicking the guy out before the tabloids get here. Apparently he’s major fodder. One of those party-boy types that never met a hooker or a drug he didn’t like.”
Marjorie blanched. “That sounds awful.”
“Doesn’t it?” She shuddered and handed another card to Marj. “But enough about that. Tell me how things are back at the restaurant. Is Sharon still being a diva?”
“And then some.” She shook her head, stamping the seal on the back of the newest envelope. The pile was moving quickly, and the stack of completed envelopes was starting to take form. With help, Brontë would be able to get through these faster, and Marjorie was glad to be of assistance. “We’ve had to redo the schedule over and over again because Sharon either calls in sick, comes in late, or wants a particular day off because she’s ‘busy.’”
Brontë made an irritated noise in her throat. “God, she’s so awful. Want me to have Logan fire her?”
“Oh, no,” Marj said hastily. “She needs the job. And she’s really not that bad. She’s just . . . high maintenance. But let me tell you about the new guy Angie is dating—he rides a Harley! With the handlebars so tall that they’re over his head.”
Brontë’s eyes widened. “What? No! Another guy? What happened to Bob?”
“Bob was last month.” Marj began to tell Brontë all the gossip of the job and the people they’d both worked with. She tried to pick out funny tidbits that would amuse Brontë without calling too much attention to anyone—the mention of Sharon was a reminder that Brontë was marrying the boss, and Marjorie didn’t want to cost anyone their job.
By the time they finished discussing the personal lives of coworkers and favorite customers, the stacks of envelopes were down to almost nothing, and they’d forgotten lunch entirely.
Brontë picked up the last envelope in her stack and signed it with a flourish. “Last one! I can’t believe how quickly this went. You’re so good to help me, Marj. You have no idea how much time this has saved me.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Marjorie said with a smile. “It’s the least I can do.”
“You know,” Brontë said, tapping the card thoughtfully on the table. “I’ve been thinking. How tied to Kansas City are you?”
That was an odd question. Marjorie shrugged. “It’s always been home because that’s where family was. And now that it’s just me, there hasn’t been a reason to move.” Her throat knotted at the thought of her beloved Grandma and Grandpa. She still missed them daily. And she was lonely, if she admitted things to herself. Brontë had been her closest friend at the restaurant, and now that she was gone, she felt like more of an outcast than ever. She spent most nights at the nursing home, reading and playing games with the tenants there, trying to make a difference in someone’s life. Trying to feel wanted.
“Would you ever consider relocating to New York?”
“New York?” Marjorie’s eyes went wide. She’d never considered it. She’d always thought if she relocated, she’d move south to Dallas or Oklahoma City. Never something at the level of New York City. “Really?”
“I’ve started up a foundation,” Brontë said, enthusiasm in her tired face. “We’re sharing classics of literature with those that want to read. Some of our groups are schools, but a lot of them are the elderly. We have discussion groups weekly and organize outside events and get-togethers. It’s really wonderful and I’m so excited to do it. Logan helped me set it up.” She beamed with pride.
“That sounds wonderful, Brontë. And it sounds perfect for you.”
“The problem is that I’m doing that in between getting married.” She grimaced. “So I’m running on empty. Logan told me to hire an assistant, but I just haven’t had time. And you’re so good with people. Especially the elderly. I really need someone like you.”
“You want me to be your assistant?” Oh, wow. “But I’m just a waitress.”
“So am I,” Brontë said, grinning. “But you’re smart and dedicated and we work well together.” She gestured at the stacks of now-finished envelopes. “And I’d pay you well. It’d be a big change, but we’d get to hang out more, and, well, it’s New York. There’s always something going on there.”