But they pretended not to hear me.
And then it was Bobby and me.
“You okay?”Bobby asked.
I nodded.
“That was a lot,” he said, still rubbing my back.
I shook my head.The worst of the anxiety had eased; I was breathing more or less normally now, and that claustrophobic tightness was gone.My brain even seemed to be coming back online.
“Sweetheart?”Bobby asked.
I cleared my throat.“I’m fine.Thanks.”
Several seconds passed before Bobby said, “I know he likes your book, Dash, but—”
“He’s a nutjob, and don’t let him get too close, and definitely don’t go with him to a second location?”
Bobby tilted a look at me that suggested I wasn’t as funny as I thought I was.But all he said was “Be careful.”
That was all I needed—I wrote one book, and heck, I self-published it, and somehow I’d gotten myself into aMisery-style situation.What would happen when Spenser found out that I was completely stalled on book two, and that I had no ideas for a sequel (let alone a series), and for all intents and purposes, Will Gower had lived his one, brief fictional life, and my writing career was over?
(Also, is it weird that I remember the lady fromMiserymaking good ice cream sundaes?That’s the kind of detail I fixate on, apparently.)
Since that didn’t seem like a helpful line of thought, I grabbed the headrest in front of me and got to my feet.“Let’s see if we can catch Graeme.”
The day was still bright and clear, the sky a pale blue, fluffy clouds patterned along the horizon.A stiff breeze made me shiver inside my jacket; it snapped the windsocks that lined the sidewalk, and it carried the smell of good coffee and warm, delicious carbs.
The writers from the bus had already spread out and were slowly making their way through the market—one of them stopping to talk to Mr.Irving about his huckleberries, another stopping to browse the McGimpsey twins’ soaps and candles.Bliss and Althea Wilson, who owned Ancient Mariner Antiques, had even brought out some of their easier-to-move items—a couple of bentwood chairs, music boxes, a large black velvet Elvis (in this one, he was holding what appeared to be an astronaut cat).The coffee smell was coming from a stand with a sign that said CHIPPER.Our local coffeeshop didn’t have a stall at the farmers market year-round, but on chilly days, they made a killing.Tessa was currently working on the chalkboard menu.(Apple crumble lattewas one of the options, and yes, I was determined to make Bobby buy me one.)
And, of course, Fox and Indira were there—Indira’s baked goods were one of the highlights of the farmers market.Fox was lounging in a folding chair, dressed in a coat made entirely of feathers, a fluttering silk scarf, and an extremely—prejudicially—ruffled shirt.They were gesticulating wildly with a bubble pipe while Indira checked something on her phone.When Indira finished whatever she was doing, she said something and pointed, and Fox stood and began rearranging the individually packaged cookies.
To put it politely: I goggled.
Listen, there aren’t a lot of times thatanybodytells Fox what to do—much less that Fox actually does it.
“Did you see that?”I asked Bobby.
“Head in the game,” he said and squeezed the back of my neck.And let me tell you: if we’d been at home, that casual sports lingo and physical contact would have ended in Bobby getting himself dragged upstairs andseriouslytaken advantage of.
Graeme hadn’t made it far; he stood near the entrance to the market, examining his clipboard.
“Hey, Graeme,” I said as I approached.“Great idea with the outing.”
“We try to do this wherever we go,” he said.“We choosedestinations.People want a chance to see more than the conference center.I need to mention that thereisa twenty-dollar fee.For the bus, you understand.”
“Right, sure.”
As I got out my wallet, Graeme said, “Did you need help finding something?”
“Hmm?”
“You were looking at your conference schedule.”
“No, thanks.”I took out a pair of twenties and handed them over.“I haven’t had a chance to say this yet, but I’m so sorry about Vivienne.”
Graeme bared his teeth in that weird not-smile.“We weren’t close.”
