Before Marie Antoinette could respond, Mrs. Brodie appeared, her turquoise earrings jingling as she carried a pitcher of sangria. She had a knack for showing up at just the right time. Or at least when you needed sangria. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You need a place to stay?
I hesitated. “Uh, yeah. But don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Brodie said with a wave of her hand. “Topher’s got a little cottage on the back of his vacation property right here in the Garden District. His last tenant moved out last year, and it’s been sitting empty ever since.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
She dismissed that with another wave. “It’s no intrusion at all. In fact, you’d be doingusa favor, keeping it from falling into disuse. It’s small, but charming. Needs a little fresh air and someone to open the curtains. You can stay as long as you need.”
“Really?” I asked, a flicker of hope warming my chest. “I mean, if you’re sure.”
Mrs. Brodie beamed. “Topher’s friend is staying at the big house, but I doubt you two will even cross paths. And don’t worry about rent for the cottage. It’s not like anybody’s using it.”
She gave me a wink, then added, “I’m heading out as soon as I deliver this sangria, but I’ll get you the keys tomorrow.”
As she floated off, I let myself smile. A cottage. In the Garden District. A little cottage on Mrs. Brodie’s son’s property was a far cry from crashing on someone’s couch or dodging my aunt and uncle’s “helpful” lectures. For the first time in a long time, something had gone right.
Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Sure, my latest story had been rejected, and I was dangerously close to giving up on writing altogether. But I still had one more try in me. And wouldn’t it be something if my one-hundredth attempt at getting published wasthe one?
The story practically wrote itself:“After 99 rejections, award-winning writer Anna Amato finally broke through and published the Great American Novel.”I could already imagine the headlines, the late-night interviews, and the Pulitzer acceptance speech, where I would charm the crowd with my tale of perseverance.
One more shot. One more story. And then I’d see what the universe had to say.
I was wiping down glasses when Marie Antoinette’s sudden intake of breath caught my attention. She was staring at her phone, her expression a mix of dread and panic.
“What’s that face?” I asked.
She pushed the phone into her apron. “Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
“You’re a terrible liar. Show me.”
She sighed dramatically and handed over her phone. “Fine, but don’t freak out, okay?”
My stomach dropped as soon as I read the headline:Mardi Gras royalty to tie the knot: A love story for the ages.And there he was—Theodore Beauregard IV. Better known as Beau, my ex. Grinning in a tuxedo, arm around the picture-perfect woman he’d left me for.
“Oh, come on.” I shoved the phone back. “Couldn’t they just headline it‘Local jerk to marry rich lady’and be done with it?”
She frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “It’s ancient history.”
Except it wasn’t. My chest tightened, an ache I tried to ignore. I’d spent five years pretending I didn’t care, convincing myself I was over Beau. But seeing their perfectly staged engagement photo, complete with a glowing caption about love and destiny, made me feel small.
A love story for the ages.At least someone was writing a good story. Too bad it wasn’t me.
I was wiping down a sticky part of the bar when the door swung open, and the atmosphere shifted. The hum of conversation softened, and a few heads turned.
I didn’t look up at first, but I felt the energy change.
A tall figure stepped inside, hunched over as if he didn’t want to be noticed. Marie Antoinette nudged me. “That’s a look,” she whispered.
He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses—even though it was well past sunset. His face was mostly obscured. He was clearly trying not to draw attention, which, ironically, only made him more conspicuous.
“Sketchy,” she murmured.
I rolled my eyes. “Probably just a tourist trying too hard.”
He approached the bar, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected someone to jump out at him. His blue eyes darted toward me. “Is Josephine Brodie here?” he asked, his accent crisp and undeniably English.
