A stylish blonde swept through the front door, immediately brightening the room with her wide, winsome smile. “Sorry I’m late. I had to finish uploading a video to my YouTube channel, and the Wi-Fi was spotty. I keep telling my landlord he needs to get an extender out at the cabin. I might as well be living in the 1800s out there.”
“Considering you don’t pay rent, I’d say it’s a fair arrangement,” Jack teased.
“See, and I thought that was a special rate since I have to live next door to you,” the girl fired back with a laugh.
She must be Jack’s little sister, Lucy. Cassie mentioned she was some kind of social media influencer—a newfangled career Donna still didn’t understand. And wasn’t she dating—
Donna’s heart ricocheted into her throat when a stoic, broad-chested man with tattoos and piercing gray eyes appeared by the girl’s side.
“I don’t know how you put up with her.” Jack tossed him a good-natured grin.
“I think what youmeanto say is, you don’t know how I got so lucky.” He slung his arm around the girl’s shoulders, his expression bathed in a blissful glow. The kind of proud, doting glow of a man in love. The kind of glow she’d never inspired in anyone before. And likely, never would.
His smile instantly faded when their eyes met, replaced by a flicker of surprise. Similar to the startled expression she’d glimpsed last night when he’d arrived at Rhett’s to return a book he’d borrowed. And the way he’d held her gaze—like a soldier assessing a potential threat—felt eerily familiar.
Vick’s jaw flexed, and he looked poised to say something, but the bell above the front door jingled, drawing his attention.
Frank and Beverly Barrie ambled inside, Frank aided by his walking stick and his wife’s arm. He took one glance at the odd assortment of food and decor and blurted, “Someone’s got a bun in the oven?”
Gasps, squeals, and cheers of excitement exploded around the room, creating a celebratory cacophony of unrestrained delight as Luke and Cassie confirmed Frank’s suspicion. The beaming couple disappeared in a sea of congratulatory hugs and tearful embraces, and Donna suddenly felt miles away, as if observing the scene from a great distance.
Taking advantage of the distraction, she removed her apron and slipped outside into the still night air. The street lamps had turned on, casting a soft blanket of light around the silent, sleepy town.
Glancing over her shoulder, she stole one final glimpse of the happy vignette of smiling, loving faces framed by large backlit windows.
Her daughter had built a life here, a family. And as she stood there on the quiet cobbled street, on the outside looking in, an overwhelming sense of loneliness settled around her like a heavy yoke she couldn’t escape.
CHAPTER16
DONNA
Donna briskly crossed the town square, hugging herself against a sudden nip in the air. With all the shops closed and the streets empty, she should have felt alone. And yet, she couldn’t shake the unsettling premonition of being followed, of being watched.
She quickened her pace, nearly breaking into a run by the time she reached the meeting hall. The ancient steps groaned beneath her weight as she mounted them two at a time, hastening toward the door, a barrier to whatever—or whomever—lurked just beyond her sight.
A rush of warmth and light greeted her inside, along with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. For a fleeting instant, she felt safe. Until a familiar voice sent her pulse racing again.
“Hey. Glad you could make it.” Rhett filled a paper cup with dark, velvety coffee from a silver urn and handed it to her like a peace offering, his expression both apologetic yet reserved. Something had definitely shifted since last night, as if he’d spent the moonlit hours erecting a wall around his heart instead of sleeping.
“Thanks.” She gave a slight smile, accepting the coffee along with the new status quo.
“We were just about to get started.” He gestured toward the modest gathering of members already seated. The circle consisted of a woman in a wheelchair she didn’t recognize, Mac Houston, owner of the local market, and— Donna did a double take. Frida Connelly? What on earth was she doing here?
Frida sipped from her water bottle, her placid gaze fixed on a glossy show bill advertising Sylvia Carter’s one-woman performance ofMacbeth in Mimeas if Donna didn’t exist.
Stunned, Donna sank into the vacant seat beside the woman in the wheelchair while Rhett took the one between Frida and Mac.
“I want to thank you all for coming tonight,” he said, glancing around the circle. “When I posted the flyer on Mac’s bulletin board at the market this morning, I had no idea if anyone would show up, especially on such short notice. But I’m grateful you all took the time to be here and give this meeting a chance. While we aren’t officially affiliated with any particular recovery group, I would like to follow a similar format. Specifically, the anonymity. Whatever you share in this room will stay in this room, including your attendance and your reason for being here. This is a safe space for support and accountability. And while how much you decide to share is up to you, I’d like to encourage all of us to be as open as possible so we can get the most out of the experience. Sound good?”
They all nodded and voiced their agreement. Except for Frida. She took another sip of water and continued to stare blankly. Under other circumstances, Donna would’ve assumed Frida attended simply to gather ammunition she could later spread in gossip circles. But there was something about her tense posture and the guarded glint in her eyes that hinted at a more personal motivation. Was it possible Frida Connelly—with all her self-proclaimed perfection—had a secret vice?
“Who would like to share first?” Rhett asked.
After a long pause—during which everyone shifted in their seats and suddenly had a keen interest in the weathered floorboards—the woman in the wheelchair raised her hand. “I will.” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m Irene and I’m addicted to sugar. I have been for as long as I can remember. When I was little, my mom would reward me with a Ho Ho or Oatmeal Cream Pie. And when I had a bad day, out came the Twinkies and Swiss Rolls. If I was really sad, I got ice cream with fudge sauce. Whipped cream and sprinkles were reserved for special occasions like birthdays and solid report cards. Basically, sweets became the norm for all of life’s ups and downs, a way to celebrate as well as cope. Before I even knew how to verbally express my feelings, I had become an emotional eater.”
Irene twisted the paper cup in her hand, her nervous energy vibrating across the cluster of chairs. Donna’s heart went out to the woman as she relived all the angst and discomfort from her first AA meeting. It took guts to spill your soul for all to see.
After gathering a breath, Irene continued. “I didn’t realize I had a problem until I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I knew I needed to stop eating sweets for the sake of my health, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t break the habit. I’d abstain for a little while, but I’d inevitably slip, resulting in a mortifying sugar binge. In those moments, I felt outside my own body, as if I’d literally lost control. As if I lacked the ability to save myself. To be honest, it terrified me.”
