“You too, Jane. How did the fair treat you?”
“Well. I sold out of everything. I was up most of the night baking enough to be able to open the shop”—she yawns—“this morning.”
“By yourself?”
She nods.
“Ask me for help next time that happens. I’m not half bad in a kitchen.”
Jane’s head tips sideways, her eyes curious. “Speaking of the fair. I saw you with someone.”
I nod slowly. “She’s my ex-wife.”
Jane’s eyes widen, but she quickly gets control of her reaction. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
Jane knows about Avery. Jane knows about everything. “Why is that?” I ask.
Jane stacks the AA booklets on a nearby table. They are there in case someone new comes to the meeting, but that rarely happens. The last time someone here was new, it was me almost five months ago. Jane straightens. “It looked like you were on a date. Judging by your body language, because that’s all I could see from under my tent.”
Was it obvious I had to glue my hand to my thigh to keep it from straying to Avery’s lower back? I try to imagine me and Avery, walking side by side, but I fail. I can only see her from my viewpoint. Brown hair loosely curling over her collarbone, eyelashes dark and thick. “She’s in town for another week, working on her book.”
“She’s a writer?” Jane sounds impressed.
“She is.” I nod, pride flowing through me. “She’s halfway finished with her first book, and she already has an agent. I’ve read it,” I say, excitement hastening my words. “I’ve read what she’s written so far, and it’s good.”
Jane gives me a knowing smile. “What’s it about?”
“Uh…” I stall, suddenly not sure if I’m supposed to be saying what it’s about. “It’s a love story.”
Kind of. Maybe.
Jane’s knowing grin ratchets up to full on know-it-all. “Is that right?”
I see where she’s going with this, and I nod.
Another person stops by to say hello to Jane, and I excuse myself. On my way out the door, Jane calls my name.
“People tend to write what they know,” she says, with a wink.
CHAPTER 9
AVERY
I’m stuck.
My manuscript is going nose-down, on its way to a fiery explosion. The right words elude me. Just like real life, I hadn’t planned on Gabriel’s character returning. Not including it feels untrue, even if this story isn’t supposed to be entirely factual. I’d planned on taking the skeleton of our real story and filling it in with fiction. Right now, what I’ve written is pretty damn close to fact.
Even Jill admitted how good it would be to use this development in the story.
I’ve recounted seeing Gabriel again, the dog running into my cabin, and the fair yesterday. It’s almost as if, by writing about it in this semi-removed way, I get a different view of it all. I control the circumstances, the happenings, and the outcome. Considering I know nothing about what might happen in real life, that control feels good right now.
I get it all down on the page, then sit back, stretching my arms above my head. I need a break. After a few hours of writing these tense, emotional scenes, I’m left with a pulsing buzz zipping through my veins. I need to move.
I think it’s time to explore Sugar Creek.
Luck must beon my side today, because I’ve found a parking spot at the end of the busiest street in town. I slip my phone and wallet into my back pockets and tuck my purse and laptop under the passenger seat out of big-city habit, likely an unnecessary precaution here.
I browse boutique after boutique, buying a pair of turquoise earrings and a braided leather belt. I thread the earrings through my ears and cinch the belt around my waist, then continue on down the street.
