“Capacity?” Michelle asks.
“We can do a hundred comfortably. More if we extend into the garden.”
Jessica is looking at her notes, not at me. “We don’t know what to expect. It could be huge.”
She’s saying that because she knows I would draw a crowd. If anyone were to find out in advance that I’m planning to reveal my identity there. But I haven’t decided whether I’m going to do that yet. I need to ask my agent. I never asked Jessica to keep my secret for me, and I don’t know who she’s told. But since she hasn’t said anything here and none of her friends seem to know who I really am, I’m assuming she’s kept my identity private.
“How would you know?”
Jessica’s coffee cup pauses halfway to her mouth. Just for a second. Then she takes a sip like nothing happened. “Just a guess.”
I keep my face blank and study the venue diagram like it contains the secrets of the universe.
I feel Jessica’s gaze flick to me, just for an instant. I don’t look up.
“So,” Michelle says carefully. “Scott, you’re in business. Do you read romance?”
The question is a grenade with the pin pulled.
I look up. Meet Michelle’s eyes. Does she know? Did Jessica tell her? This could be her giving me a chance to say something. Or to keep hiding.
“More than people might think,” I say.
Jessica sets down her cup and starts shuffling papers.
Mrs. Sanders is watching us like a hawk. “You know what Mr. Sanders always says—when two people won’t look each other in the eye, it’s either a scrap or a love affair. Usually both.”
Dead silence.
“So!” Hazel says brightly. “The catering. Let’s discuss.”
We spend the next twenty minutes on logistics. Catering from Amber’s restaurant. Coffee service from Michelle’s shop. A book signing table. A photo backdrop.
Jessica addresses me as “Mr. Avery” and directs her comments to the space just past my left ear.
I answer when spoken to. Don’t push. Don’t try to catch her eye.
Mrs. Sanders, meanwhile, has moved on to embarrassing other people.
“Hazel, honey, you remember when my Jack rode his bike past your mama’s house six times a day the summer he was fifteen? Thought nobody noticed.” She chuckles. “Everybody noticed. I told him, ‘Son, you’re gonna wear out those tires,’ and he about died of embarrassment.”
Hazel goes pink. “Mrs. Sanders?—”
“That boy had it bad. Still does. His daddy saw him at the grocery store last week buying one of them fancy candles and a bottle of wine. Asked what the occasion was, and Jack turned red as a tomato. Mumbled something about ‘just because.’” She shakes her head fondly. “Runs a whole pirate campground, talks to tourists all day long, but can’t admit to his own father he’s planning a romantic evening for his wife.”
“He’s very sweet,” Hazel manages, clearly wishing the floor would swallow her.
“He’s a mess is what he is. But a good mess.” Mrs. Sanders turns her attention back to me. “What about you, Scott? You ever buy a woman flowers ‘just because’?”
I think about the manuscript on my laptop. Eighty thousand words of “just because.” A love letter disguised as a novel.
“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m working on it.”
Mrs. Sanders studies me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression. Like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“Hmm,” she says. And for once, doesn’t elaborate.
The meeting wraps up around eight. People start gathering their things, making plans to follow up via email, grabbing last slices of fig cake.
