“Maybe he died of a broken heart because he couldn’t be with the love of his life,” Jazz said, always the romantic.

“So very, very tragic,” Mrs. Weaton finished with a watery smile at Jazz’s words. “Anyway, I have something that may work. I wore it to that party in New York, actually. It was my mother’s from the twenties. Come help me.”

Jazz and I helped Mrs. Weaton pull open the large cedar trunk at the foot of her bed. “I should have hung these all up, but I’d rather they stay in the trunk and not be moth eaten.”

We took turns pulling out layer after layer of tissue paper and plastic wrap and laying them on the bed, their contents indiscernible but for a hint of color here and there. Barely disturbing the packaging, Mrs. Weaton peeked in each one. Finally, I gingerly lifted a heavier feeling package out, and she nodded.

We unwrapped it to find a gorgeous sheer flapper dress, completely see-through, made of thin tabard netting with hundreds of thousands of tiny jet beads intricately embroidered all over it down to a beaded fringe. “It was hand beaded. Everything was in those days,” Mrs. Weaton said. “You can wear any color slip underneath. I wore a skin color one. I might still have it or something similar.” She winked. “That sure did turn a few heads.”

Jazz cackled. “You hussy!”

“It’s perfect,” I said, in awe.

Mrs. Weaton went to a drawer and pulled out a champagne colored slip. I took my shorts and tank off and tried the slip and then the dress on, with Jazz carefully lowering it over my head. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Wow!” said Jazz.

“Honey, I hope it brings you all the love and glamour in the world. I couldn’t imagine it going to a better home. This dress was meant for you.”

I hugged her sweet-smelling, bony frame as hard as I dared, my chest filling with emotion. “Now, I just have to get over my fear of having Jack there as well as feeling like an imposter who tricked people into thinking I have a talent.”

“Yes, you do have to get over that, honey,” said Mrs. Weaton into my hair, patting me fondly. “You are extremely talented.”

Jazz pursed her lips and raised her eyes at me. Told ya her expression said.

After getting changed again, we said our goodbyes and carefully carried the beautiful dress over to my place. I was relieved to have one less thing to worry about before the event the next evening.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jack just as we got into my house. A lump formed in my throat.

Late Night Visitor: Hope you got back safe.

God, we hadn’t spoken all day. He’d barely looked at me and hadn’t once touched me since we found out about the article. Now his short emotionless text left me swinging out in the cold.

Me: We did. How did it go?

There was a long pause before my phone beeped again.

Late Night Visitor: I was mostly unsuccessful talking him out of it. But he may keep your name out for now …

Me: That’s great. Wait, for now?

Late Night Visitor: Yes … if he gets an exclusive on our relationship … I’m sorry.

Dammit. Panic flooded my system again. Part of me wanted to end things with Jack. It was too hard. But that felt about as possible as carving my heart out of my own chest with a blunt object. However, people had been known to hack their own arms off to save themselves.

Me: We should talk. In person.

Late Night Visitor: Dev and I are staying in Savannah for now, won’t be back til late tonight.

I watched as a new bubble emerged on the screen, showing me Jack was writing something else. Then it disappeared and no text came.

My chest squeezed. I wanted to tell him I missed him. I wanted him to say something—anything to help ease this ache, this feeling that we were eons apart from each other emotionally. I wanted to say something funny and sweet, but all inspiration was gone. I was panicking and I knew it. I’d spent an amazing night with Jack, and suddenly the reality of today had made it all seem like an impossible dream. How could we possibly have a future together that I would be able to handle?

Having had to blow off my lunchtime shift once again today, I headed into work for my evening one. I’d told Brenda about the reporter over the phone and apologized profusely. The possibility I wouldn’t be able to work at the Grill much longer without feeling like a curiosity at a county fair weighed heavily. As soon as it was common knowledge I was with Jack, I’d need to reassess, but I needed the money. Now more than ever.

Brenda was there, and a girl named Lisa, who worked most summers, and had been in sporadically over the winter months. She’d had to cover for me the last few days. Normally off-season, one waitress could handle lunch but business had picked as it got closer to the season. The excitement of Jack and Devon hadn’t quite calmed down yet, either. It didn’t help that a couple of the local newspapers had picked up the story.

“Uh, Keri Ann.” Brenda nabbed me as I headed to the kitchen just after nine. It had been a busy evening and was only now starting to clear out. She nodded at the bar where a middle-aged gentleman with a long sleeved black crew tee and black rimmed glasses sat staring at me, his finger running absently up and down the side of a frosty water glass. His dark hair was thinning, his face bland.

“I think that’s the reporter,” Brenda murmured. “He was the one in here the other day asking about Jack.”

A wave of nerves broke violently inside me. There was no point running from this guy. He clearly knew who I was.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” I took the dirty items I was carrying through to the kitchen. Hector had his back to me and steam was billowing out of the huge industrial dishwasher. I joined him, and we worked quickly together as I helped him put in another load.

I knew Hector felt like he was personally responsible for Jack and me, having had a front row seat since the first night we met. “I need luck tonight, Hector,” I said. “There’s a guy out there waiting to talk to me and make me look like a …” I searched around for an egregious word that he’d understand. “a puta.”

There. The Spanish word for whore should suffice, considering how serious the situation was.

Hector hissed through his teeth and turned to me, crossing himself. “No. Miss Keri Ann.” His wrinkled gaze was serious. “You have angels fly over you. Todo estarà bien.”

Except he said “Un-Hells”, instead of angels, which totally made me smile despite the gravity of my mood.

He smiled back and pulled me in for a hug.

“Ok.” I blew out a breath. “Here I go.”

Standing on the dock at Broad Landing in the grey early morning light, I waited for Jack.

I’d sent him a text after work last night and told him I’d met Tom Price, the reporter. Tom seemed like a nice enough guy at first. I’d introduced myself to him promptly after exiting the kitchen, which seemed to surprise him.

“I guess you were expecting me to run?” I’d asked him.

“Maybe,” Tom Price replied. “They either run or they want the publicity or money for the story. So that tells me a lot about you, though I didn’t expect that.”

I shrugged. “I don’t want that either.”

“Somehow, I believe you. So why are you talking to me?”