I’d dropped Theo at the office after a lunch meeting that ended without a decision. Then raced home to ditch my manure-stained clothes. After a closet meltdown involving three outfit changes, I settled on my black wool pencil skirt, matching blazer, teal paisley blouse, and black pumps. My “I’m totally confident” suit.
Because today I needed it.
I grabbed my purse, briefcase, and skim-milk latte, muttered a Hail Mary, and stepped out, into the rain.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I chanted, doing a carefultiptoe across the puddled sidewalk. Hot coffee spurted from the lid like a volcano.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I escalated.
“Good day, dear. You really ought to wear a raincoat,” croaked a gravelly voice behind me.
Chester Jenkins. Cartoon bullfrog voice, flat cap, and a moth-eaten tweed jacket two sizes too small. The former proctologist turned baker was a Berry Springs legend—chain-smoking, whiskey-sipping, and four divorces deep. He knew everyone, their neighbors, and their dogs by name.
I glanced back. He stood with grocery bags in both hands, more in his trunk.
“Need some help, Mr. Jenkins?”
“I’ll manage,” he said, stepping onto the slick sidewalk and wobbling like a seesaw.
I rushed forward, purse and briefcase slipping, just as my heel caught the edge of the curb. My coffee launched skyward. I hit the sidewalk. Cold, wet, muddy.
Second fall of the day.
By the time I stopped flailing, my skirt had migrated to my waist. I yanked it down and looked over. Chester, on the other hand, was still upright.
I followed his gaze to Louis—my brand-new bag—lying in a puddle beside the truck. A fresh wad of tobacco stuck to the side.
“Dammit,” I whispered, gripping his hand as he helped me up.
Behind the bakery window, the cowboys laughed.
I gathered my things, plus a grocery bag, and tried to salvage my dignity. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes. Damn heart meds got me a little wobbly. But listen—your three-thirty? Been waiting at your clinic forforty-five minutes. Was there before I even went to the store.”
“Forty-five minutes?”
He nodded.
I glanced at the office, dark against the gloomy afternoon. If luck was on my side, my new patient had witnessed that entire mess.
Kline and Associates sat at the bottom of a steep hill off Main Street, nestled among quaint tourist shops. On either side, a bakery and a cigar lounge. Nothing like flanking a mental health clinic with addictive vices.
I followed Jenkins (with his grocery sacks) intoMulberry Maverick, our town’s unofficial gossip headquarters. The air smelled like croissants and secrets.
Every morning, the man had a ham and cheese croissant and donut holes waiting for me. He’d turned the place into a clubhouse for retired cowboys and military vets, with Willie and Waylon crooning from the jukebox and political debates echoing from the booths.
In the afternoon, the smell of fresh bread tangled with cigar smoke from next door, luring my emotionally fragile patients with the promise of comfort and caffeine. Confidentiality didn’t stand a chance.
Berry Springs had a rhythm all its own. Nestled in the Ozarks, it was the kind of place where you called peoplesirandma’am, where jeans were church clothes and Sundays ended with sweet tea on a porch swing. Spring brought tourists—campers, hikers, hunters, and wine-tasters—preferably not together.
It was charming. For some. Me? It made me itch.
I didn’t fit here. I hadn’t married my high school sweetheart or popped out two towheaded boys by twenty. While the local women wore bleached curls and spray tans, Isported pale skin, black hair, and designer clothes that screamedcity-slicker.
And I was fine with that.
I’d earned every pair of heels and every high-end bag—gripped onto them like lifelines. When you grow up with nothing, you tend to cling to the things that make you feel like something.
