Her lips tipped downward while she chewed. The artist had now become the critic. The peppermint was nice. The ratio of cream to salted butter, pleasant. But something was off. Something wasn’t as deep and rich and unique as it should be. What?
She wasn’t certain. She’d need to reflect on it then refine the recipe repeatedly across a period of days.
She wasn’t content with this truffle, but, all in all, she was content with her life. She had Sweet Art, her family, friends, her cottage, a world to explore, and Zander—
Pang.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pang away. Carefully, she opened her lids, as if scared that another wayward pang might jump out from behind the stove and ambush her. She popped the rest of the truffle into her mouth.
If she fell in love with a man one day who didn’t bore her, whodidn’t try to change or control her, who made the sacrifice of her freedom worthwhile—then fine. Great.
But if she never met a man like that, then fine.
Great.
Text message from Britt to Zander:
Britt
You’re still planning to come to Willow and Corbin’s on Sunday for Easter lunch, right? Pretty please?
Zander
I’ll be there.
Britt
Whew. I won’t have to force you there with a cattle prod. Did you finish going through Frank’s computers and phone?
Zander
I did. Even if Frank had tried to cover his digital tracks, I have confidence that I would have found something if there was anything to find.
Britt
You didn’t find anything?
Zander
Not a thing. My uncle’s devices held exactly what you’d expect from a man who loved his family and worked hard and followed the letter of the law.
Chapter
seven
Zander glanced in his rearview mirror, eyes narrowed.
He’d decided to write at the Merryweather Coffee House for the next few hours. A new black Expedition had been behind him most of the way from the inn to town. Not close to his bumper. Far back. But consistently there.
The Expedition’s presence hadn’t registered as noteworthy until it had taken the same turn off the road that Zander had. Then the next turn, too, toward Merryweather’s downtown.
Zander took a left, drove a block, then pulled into a parking spot on the street. Two cars moved through the intersection behind him before the Expedition turned left, as he had, driving toward his position.
Zander scrambled to get the camera on his cell phone ready.
He caught a glimpse of the driver—a man wearing a baseball cap—as the Expedition rolled past. Zander snapped a photo of the rear license plate, then watched the SUV disappear into the underground parking structure favored by tourists.
He tapped his thumb against his steering wheel, waiting for the SUV to reappear. It didn’t. Which probably meant that the man had parked and exited via the stairway that emerged on Main. Most likely it had been a coincidence that the Expedition’s destinationwas located so near his own. Merryweather’s Main Street served as a hub for the whole community.
