Page 35 of Enchanted to Meet You

“Yeah.” Billy shoved his hands in the pockets of his Dockers and rocked back on his heels, still smiling. “It’s nice to see you taking life seriously for a change. You know Rosalie says that a woman’s fertility begins to decline dramatically after age—”

“Okay, then,” I interrupted briskly. “What was it, exactly, that brought you by, Billy?”

“Oh.” He quit smiling, apparently remembering that the reason for his visit wasn’t only to remind me that I hadn’t had kids yet. “Right. Your car. I saw it in the parking lot just now outside the school. You’re still driving that blue Mini Cooper, right?”

Bluebell! “Yes.” It physically pained me to think what kind ofdamage Rosalie might have inflicted on my beloved vintage Mini. “Why? How bad is it?”

He winced, pulling his phone from one of his pockets. “Bad, Jess. Really bad. Much worse than that Fiat out there in the driveway.”

Derrick muttered, seemingly to no one in particular, “It’s a rental.”

I felt a pang. Poor Bluebell. She and I had been through a lot together, including alternate side of the street parking rules in New York City during the years I’d lived there. “Won’t insurance cover the damage?”

“Sure, if you carry comprehensive.” Billy scrolled through some photos on his phone, then turned the screen toward me. “But I think it might be a total loss.”

I stared down in horror at the photo. Bluebell was barely recognizable. Was this another one of Derrick’s signs of impending doom for West Harbor? Or only another example of Rosalie’s ongoing vendetta against me? How could she have been so cruel? It was one thing to have gone after me, but my poor innocent car?

“But I wanted to let you know that I’m taking care of it,” Billy said quickly, apparently seeing the heartache on my face. “I’m having your car towed over to Hopkins Motors, and I’m putting our best guys on it. If they can’t fix it, no one can.”

I could barely look at the photos, they were so awful. I handed his phone back to him. “Thanks, Billy.”

“And while your car is in the shop,” he went on, shoving his cell back into his pocket, “you can borrow any other vehicle on the lot, free of charge. And if it turns out we can’t repair it, I’ll get you the best deal possible on a new one. Friends and family discount. Whatever you need.”

“That’s so nice of you, Billy.” I didn’t want a new car. I wanted Bluebell. “Thanks.”

“Hopkins Motors?” Derrick, slouching back against the fireplace mantel, straightened.

“Yeah.” Billy beamed at him. “My father-in-law owns it.”

“Your father-in-law.” Derrick’s silver gaze laser-focused onto me. “You’re married to Rosalie Hopkins.”

Billy beamed. “That’s right. Do you know her?”

“Only by reputation.” Derrick’s gaze on me narrowed. “Weird that no one mentioned to me that the two of you were married.”

By “no one,” I knew that Derrick meant me, and that I was going to have some explaining to do.

But how could I explain something that, even today, still caused me so much grief?

Jessica

Journal Entry from 2008

To attract good health and sweeten thy dreams, place a sprig of thyme beneath thy pillow.

Goody Fletcher,Book of Useful Household Tips

It turned out Mark’s uncle Richie had been right: there weren’t any lofts left in Manhattan for college girls to rent cheap and fix up.

But there were plenty of unair-conditioned walk-ups in Washington Heights.

That’s how I found myself dragging my heavy art portfolio up and down the five flights of stairs to the one-bedroom apartment Dina and I were sharing.

Not that I was complaining. My life in New York City was everything I’d dreamed it would be, and more. I didn’t even mind cramming myself and my giant portfolio onto the subway every morning for my hour-long commute downtown to school. I was living in the most exciting place in the world. What could be better?

As I undid the many locks to our place and opened the door that day, I saw that the mail had already arrived. Dina usually got home before I did, grabbed the mail and brought it upstairs, then changed and left for her volunteer job at the neighborhood animal shelter. No dogs were allowed in our building, and Dina, a dog lover, couldn’t stand being without one. I could hear the shower in our single bathroom running, so I knew she was already home from her puppy-loving.

The mail that day consisted of the usual pile of bills, junk, and multiple magazines to which I subscribed for inspiration (Vogue,Allure,Harper’s Bazaar, all of which always seemed to arrive on the same day), along with one mysteriously large cream-colored envelope addressed to me “and guest.” It had a West Harbor, Connecticut, return address. The sender was Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Hopkins, Rosalie’s parents.