Page 14 of Bluebell Promises

“I was so worried about you,” Ivy said finally. “And then I convinced myself that I didn’t need to be worried, that you were all right out there by yourself. And now, I’m hating myself for whatever’s happened to you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Wren shot back. “I’m fine. Really. I’m just…”

“Resting. I know. You keep saying that.” Ivy turned around and went back behind the flower shop counter, where she continued to fix up a bouquet of lilies and roses. For a moment, Wren thought Ivy looked remarkably like their mother, or like the version of their mother that Wren had gotten to know in photographs. She’d spent her life missing a woman she didn’t know.

“I’ll leave next week,” Wren told Ivy.

“You can stay as long as you want,” Ivy said darkly. “You know that.”

But it was difficult to know what lay beneath her words. Wren felt as though she had laid a trap.

Finally, as there was nothing else to say, Wren turned on her heel and left the flower shop, waiting for Ivy to call her back. The door closed, dividing them again, and Wren charged down the road, through a heavier rain. Eventually, she found herself in front of a new coffee shop, one she didn’t recognize, where she entered and ordered herself a decaf coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. She needed the sustenance. She needed the comfort.

Once she was settled into a chair in the corner, Wren searched on her phone for photography jobs—anything from freelance to full-time. It was true that she had a great deal of experience. But it was also true that since that night in Antiparos, Max had spread rumors about Wren to other magazine editors, besmirching her good name. Sometimes that was all it took in a field as unsteady as travel photography.

Wren hadn’t made a single dime with her pictures since Max had ended their contract. It made her head spin, especially when she considered how hard and how far she’d traveled for him. She now understood that her instincts had been right. She shouldn’t have brought Max and Angelos together like that. They’d immediately begun to compete. But why should she be blamed for the difficult emotions of men? Why was she struggling now, while Max was just fine, maybe even flirting with another of his photography clients and putting her in a difficult position?

Plenty of poorly paid photography gigs could be found online, mostly in New York City. She had a few friends in the city, but the truth was, she couldn’t afford any kind of living arrangement there, not till after she got paid. Even then, it was probably a ridiculous idea. Some people she knew paid two-and-a-half grand for a single-bedroom apartment. Some paid that for just a studio, depending on where they lived. It was criminal.

Eventually, in some back corner of the internet, she found a listing that called out for photographs of coastal towns in Maine. The pay per photograph was decent, and she just happened to be in the right place. She sent along her portfolio, imagining that she’d take a few pictures here in Bluebell, get paid, and be on her way again. Maybe.

Of course, she knew not to get her hopes up.

When the rain cut out, Wren took the opportunity to leave the coffee shop and head back to Ivy’s. When she arrived, she found that she had, in fact, locked the door—and she thanked her lucky stars that she could rely on herself for something so trivial. Upstairs, she found her camera case, but when she dropped down to unzip it, she was overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness so profound that she had to lie down for a while.

By the time she finished napping, it was early evening, and she felt groggy and weak. She needed food. But as she hauled herself out of bed, she reached for her phone to find an email from the coastal Maine project.

Hey, Wren! We love your photographs and would love to hire you for a trial run. The pay is five hundred per photo for the ones we accept (we’re looking for anywhere between three and six). Could you send us a hundred or so photos by the end of the week? Thanks a lot, Randi.

Wren sat up straight with surprise. She hadn’t expected a response so quickly, and she certainly hadn’t expected it to be a positive one. She wrote a confirmation right away, then got to work making lists of where she wanted to photograph and under which weather conditions. Nobody knew Bluebell Cove better than the Harper sisters. Nobody knew how the light played over the turquoise waters, or made the rocks shine, or highlighted the vintage beauty of downtown, like someone who’d grown up there and knew it like the back of her hand. Wren was excited. When she heard Ivy, Elliott, Lily, and Tyler downstairs, getting ready for dinner, she considered running down and announcing her new assignment to Ivy. She imagined saying, “See? I’m not going to run off as quickly as you thought. I’m going to help Bluebell’s tourism!”

But just as she turned the doorknob, another feeling of reticence passed through her. Bragging about some inane photography project felt silly and childish. Maybe it was better to keep it to herself.

The following morning, Wren got up early, made a cup of tea to avoid irritating her stomach further, packed her camera and all her lenses, and headed out into the world to take photographs. This was the most delicious feeling she knew, and the mission at hand brought a spring to her step. For hours, she took photographs, walking along the coast, raising her face to the Atlantic winds. It was still August, but the temperatures had been dropping all week, and by the end of her walk, she was wrapped in a sweater and dreaming about where to get a hot bowl of soup.

It was then she heard a bark. Turning, she traced a line along the rocks to find a little Frenchie dog, adorable and light gray, its head poking out from behind a rock. “Hello?” she called to the dog. But when the dog tried to leap over the rock, it whimpered terribly and hung back. Wondering if it was caught on something, Wren did her best to maneuver over to it. Once there, she saw that its paw was somehow tucked under a boulder, and there was a terrible gash along the right side of its body. The dog’s eyes were earnest and loving, and Wren had the overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around it and take care of it. It wasn’t wearing a collar, so where was its owner?

“It’s going to be okay,” Wren breathed, tears springing to her eyes. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

8

Ben was in the midst of one of the more chaotic days of his career. It was a testament, maybe, to how quickly he’d gotten a reputation in Bluebell Cove as “the vet to take your pets to.” But that didn’t mean he wasn’t running himself ragged.

That morning at the vet clinic, he’d had a cat surgery, a dog bone break, a lizard skin cancer removal surgery, and a call with a horse owner who was panicking about something not to worry about. By the time three thirty rolled around, he hadn’t had time to eat anything, and he was famished. He asked his secretary, Sammy, if there was time coming up, a space for a break, maybe. She searched the calendar, frowning, and said, “Maybe around now, actually?” But even as she said it, another customer came in, worry etched across her face. There was a dog in her arms, a Frenchie. It was bleeding, and its paw hung limply through the air. Ben’s heart went out immediately to the dog. It took a minute for him to realize that the woman holding him was Wren Harper, who’d fainted at the Eco-Lodge.

“What have we got here?” Ben asked, reaching over to take the dog from Wren.

“I was out on the coast near the woods,” Wren said, her eyes urgent. “He was sort of trapped under a rock? It took all my strength to get him out of there and carry him here.”

“Ah! You found him?” Ben asked, guiding her into the all-white room at the end of the hallway.

“Yes.” Wren sounded petrified. “I didn’t know what to do. I googled vets in the area, and yours was the closest. I’ve, um, never had a pet before. I hope I did the right thing?”

“You did. Don’t worry! Let’s see what we can do for the little guy.”

Ben set the Frenchie down gently on the table and raised his chin to look at Wren. He wondered if she recognized him at all. He wondered if he should say something, maybe that his brother was Landon Brooks, Celia’s boyfriend. But the task at hand was this little dog on the table, who was so tender and meek but also very sleek and well taken care of, minus whatever had happened to him. It was clear that he had an owner somewhere. Ben checked him out, then set the paw in a cast and disinfected the gash on his back. By the end of it, the little dog was panting happily and smiling at both of them.

All the while, Wren had remained quiet and watchful. But now, she said, “That was like magic,” clasping her hands.