“No,” Skye and I said at the same time.
“Matching scarves then,” Rosie said, untroubled. “Tasteful. Coordinated.”
“Rosie,” Harper warned.
“Fine.” Rosie sighed. “But I’m buying cinnamon sticks for the cocoa and nobody can stop me.”
The bell at the front rang. Rosie jumped up, the Book Bitches flowed after her in a tide of wool and cheer, already dictating who would stand where and whether there would be glitter.
Skye stayed seated. Harper squeezed her hand and patted my shoulder as she passed me. When it was just the two of us, the room shrank to the size of a heart.
“You don’t owe them anything,” she said, eyes on the paper, voice tight. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”
“I owe a lot of things,” I said. “Maybe not this. But it feels like a start.”
She looked at me then. Not through me.Atme. I had to resist the impulse to put my hands in my pockets like a teenager.
“You’re not allowed to be charming,” she said.
“I’m terrible at being charming,” I said. “Ask anyone. I’m surly for sport.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. “You always were better onstage.”
“Thanks?” I raised an eyebrow.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” she said, but her voice had softened a shade.
“Right.” I blew out a breath. “Look, I’ll keep my head down. I’ll play the fundraiser and work on not being a walking PR disaster. I’ll … just stay out of your way.”
She frowned. “You don’t have to stayoutof my way. You live down the hall.”
On the table, the donation tin gleamed. I took my wallet out and slid notes through the slot.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Buy extra cinnamon sticks,” I said.
Her laugh was quick and surprised. God, I’d missed that sound.
“Go on then,” she said, shooing me with two fingers. “Before Esther recruits you to dress as a shepherd for the nativity.”
“I’d be a terrible shepherd,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’m emotionally unreliable.”
“True,” she said solemnly. “And sheep can tell.”
Banter.For the first time in years, there had been banter between Skye and me. How crazy that my heart felt somewhat lighter from something so simple.
I spent the afternoon being useful in ways that didn’t require my name. Gregory had me carry boxes of donations for the families in need to be packed and wrapped at the bookshop. I fixed a string of fairy lights with electrical tape and a prayer. Cherise made me fold raffle tickets while she told me stories about how the village used to be when she was a girl. Meredith handed me a biscuit and said, “Eat, you look like you’re about to waste away.”
I’d lost a little weight after the last tour and due torecent stress, but I was by no means thin. The women just seemed to like to feed me at all times. It was comforting, reminding me of my own mum, who was currently enjoying three months in Australia ever since she and my dad had retired and decided to chase the sun. I happily funded their travels, and nothing gave me more joy than the random pictures I’d get from places all over the world, usually of my dad showing me a fancy new toilet feature he’d just discovered in far-flung places like Japan.
Everywhere I went, people gave me a look that said they recognized me but had been briefed on the rules. Nobody asked for a photo. Nobody saidSkye. Nobody made me into a headline.
And … I realized that I liked helping out with random tasks.
It was the most useful I’d felt in a while.
When you become famous, you stop doing things for yourself. Not that I minded handing off some chores, like cleaning and laundry, to a maid service. But it was the little things, like driving my own car, getting myself a cup of coffee, that kind of thing … that I’d missed out on. Once Kingsbarns got the word to leave me alone—the Book Bitches gossip network moved faster than lightning—I was free to move about in relative ease.
