A jolt went through her. The faint click echoed like a threat only she could hear.
No. Not again.
She gripped Izzy’s sleeve. “Iz—he took a photo of me.”
Izzy glanced, then laughed under her breath. “That’s Evan. I told you—he’s a photographer. If he wanted a picture, he’d use that expensive camera, not his phone. Maybe he snapped me. I think he’s into me—we keep bumping into each other. Trust me, Cate—I can read men. I’d know if he was trouble.”
The camera strap dangled from his shoulder, lens cap still on. Maybe he liked the phone for candids—but it still made her skin crawl.
Darcy tried to smile, but the unease rooted deeper. Izzy called out brightly, drifting toward him.
“Evan! There you are.” She touched his arm, smiling warmly. “Isn’t it funny how small this town feels?”
Evan slid his phone into his pocket, all smooth charm and easy smiles. His cologne—sharp, metallic—cut through the warm air of the gallery, and something in her recoiled.
“Guess fate’s got a sense of humor,” he said.
Izzy laughed, looping her arm through Darcy’s. “See? Harmless. Darcy, you’re too jumpy. Everyone feels like they’re watching you.”
Something like that.
Evan leaned toward a display. “Remarkable pieces,” he said quietly, voice meant for her. “Makes you wonder what stories they’d tell—if they could speak.”
She couldn’t speak for a beat.Yes… it does.
His eyes lingered, cataloguing her. She turned away, pretending to study the beadwork, but the back of her neck prickled.
Then, mercifully, the book-club ladies arrived—hats, handbags, laughter filling the gallery. One slipped an arm through Darcy’s before she could glance back, tugging her toward the tearoom like a favorite niece.
“Darcy!” one called brightly. “We love what you’ve done here. This place feels alive again. And that book-club room? Perfect for our teas.”
Another laughed. “We argue as hard over pie as we do over books!”
A third leaned in. “Though I have to say, Darcy, our little club has been livelier since a certain sheriff started dropping by. You wouldn’t know why, would you?”
A ripple of laughter circled them. Darcy flushed. “The sheriff has been very supportive of the museum,” she managed.
One winked. “Supportive—that’s what they’re calling it these days?”
More laughter.
“Darcy, honey,” another added warmly, “you’ve got a knack for making people feel welcome. Even my Harold noticed, and he never notices anything.”
Darcy ducked her head, cheeks burning, as she steered them toward the tearoom. The air carried lemon and Earl Grey.
She busied herself with plates and napkins, grateful for chatter about novels and grandchildren.
For a little while, she let herself settle.
Chapter 32
Standoff
Izzy
The patio at Lucy’s in the Rye was alive with clatter and conversation. Izzy basked in the crisp fall sunshine, the courthouse rising on the hill across the street, its white columns framed by a blaze of autumn. A glass of sweet tea caught the light, her plate of fried green tomatoes still steaming. She’d ordered them on the waitress’s recommendation; anything with a tomato appealed to her Italian roots. She cut into one, decided it was delicious, and let the tang linger on her tongue.
Life felt good again.
