There are things I miss about California. I miss the great outdoors and the mountains. The Pacific Ocean and the glow of Los Angeles at night, like a million fallen stars below the hills. I miss my home nestled in a grove of giant incense cedars and Douglas firs, those magnificent trees dwarfing my house away from the city. They were mighty and stood watch over me.
Over everything that was important to me.
I loved hiking through the woods and taking in the breathtaking beauty. The air filled with the sweet aroma of pine and earth. I liked losing myself in the woods. But now, after two yearsdrifting across the country, I think I miss being known. I miss having a routine. I miss having a place where I feel like I fit in.
I admit, I’ve grown fond of Heartsboro in the last few days I’ve spent here. It feels good when people like Miss Jenny remember how I like my biscuits with extra butter and honey, and an outdoor table for Molly and me. Traveling on country roads that go on for miles and miles without passing another vehicle. Friendly shop owners and tourists who strike up easy conversations. Nothing intense, just laid-back and relaxed chats about the weather and the latest goings-on in town.
But my favorite part is undoubtedly this unexpected interest I have concerning a pretty blonde with fire in her belly. A woman who doesn’t realize she needs my help with her marketing photo.
I’ve come to a crossroads where I’m finally brave enough to admit I’m still trying to figure things out. The journey back to myself is the longest trip I’ve ever taken, but I know I’m getting closer. I’ve learned that self-acceptance isn’t something you achieve once and forever. It’s something I have to choose again and again, especially when I’m brave enough to look back on my life—at who I used to be and what the past means to me.
But I also know that my life has changed drastically.Ihave changed.
I look over at Molly in the passenger seat, her muzzle resting on the open window ledge. I’ve often thought how wonderful it must be to be a dog without a care in the world. But Molly does care. She cares about me. She’s been by my side since theday I left California. Across every stretch of highway. Traversing every dirt road and dangerous mountain curve. I wouldn’t have survived without my Molly.
I reach across the van’s interior and run my fingers through her golden fur, a melancholy smile on my face. “I’m craving a burger tonight. What about you, girl? You want a hamburger tonight from the Tipsy Daisy?”
She turns her head and barks in response. I laugh out loud, the joy from this simple life I’ve created on this highway to happiness slowly pulsing through my veins again. I’ll spoil my best girl with a burger instead of her regular dog food. And tomorrow, I’ll find Keri at the Lavender Festival and apologize. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get her to agree to a complimentary photo session. I want her to see what I see: her natural beauty and kind eyes. Her gumption and that little bit of tease in her rare smile.
I’m pretty sure I can charm my way into a “yes.”
Chapter Four
Keri
I spend the rest of the evening sulking from behind my desk while staring at market analysis spreadsheets and scrolling through MLS listings from neighboring towns on my desktop computer. I’m not proud of the way I stormed off after Adam boldly told me my photo wasn’t any good. Truth be told, he’d hurt my feelings. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I know I’m a good-looking woman. Heads turn when I confidently pass by. I stay in shape by eating right and exercising. I hardly drink, and I never go to bed with my makeup on. For crying out loud, my nickname in high school was “Angel Face,” and a few locals who’ve known me forever still call me by that name to this day.
When I was a teenager, my grandmother somehow talked me into joining the local beauty pageant scene. I hesitated at first, but then I kept winning. Soon, I had first-place trophies and glittering crowns on full display in my childhood bedroom.Grandma Clayton hand-sewed my unique gowns. She taught me to walk in high heels and apply lipstick. She convinced my dad to splurge on expensive dance lessons in nearby Newnan, Georgia, so I’d have a talent for the competition. With their support, I received a scholarship after winning Miss Georgia Peach. The prize money helped me pay for college. I’ve always been indebted to my father and to sweet Grandma Clayton, who gave me a reason to shoot for the stars.
Too bad those stars fizzled out when I took over the family business after my father died. Aside from selling the Milton property to Hollywood celebrity Ridge Wilson last year, I haven’t had a decent sale in months. I’d give anything to feel that deep satisfaction of winning again. Nothing compares to the intense euphoria I’ve felt winning pageants or scoring the top bid on a property. It’s a kind of self-belief that has always reinforced my drive for the future. But since the Milton sale, my future feels uncertain. Pretty face aside, I’m just an average woman trying to make an impact in a tiny country town in the middle of nowhere with no prospects. No hope. And with no idea what’s next for me.
And don’t get me started on the deplorable dating scene in Heartsboro. It’s been nonexistent ever since the fallout with my on-again, off-again boyfriend, Kip Johnson. He turned out to be a bona fide arsonist when he deliberately burned down the Jamison barn after elderly Ralph Jamison died and left the farm to his grandson, George. Kip always wanted the property for himself, bullying his way into the family as lead farm foreman. Thank God I dodged a bullet with that man. After his brief stint in jail, he packed up and moved out of state. The wasted years I spent with him are nothing but shadows in my rearview mirror.
I lean my head back against my office chair and close my eyes. The exhaustion settles around me, loneliness threading through my thoughts. When was the last time I enjoyed a night out or went on a date? That hollow feeling deepens, settling into my bones.
Most of my girlfriends left Heartsboro in a cloud of dust after graduation, and I don’t blame them. Fortunately, we still see each other once or twice a year at our high school reunions, or when I deliberately take time off to pay them a visit. My besties, Candace and April, both live in Atlanta. Candace has a house in the burbs with her lawyer husband and two kids. April is dating a data scientist specializing in AI while she focuses on her mission-driven work as a Program Coordinator at an Atlanta animal shelter. I often wonder what they’d think of their Angel Face now if they walked in and saw me sitting alone in the dark, feeling sorry for myself. The only thing I have to look forward to is the to-go box of Miss Jenny’s cold brisket and sides sitting in the office mini-fridge. I’m pathetic.
I growl and hoist myself up from the chair, intent on finding something,anythingto do on this Friday night that doesn’t involve work or leftovers. Twisting the tilt wand on the large window blind to shut out the lamplight from Main Street, I pause when I notice Adam’s camper van parked on the corner near the Tipsy Daisy. My eyebrows arch with an immediate thought.
Or maybe…?
Maybe I could head over to Miss Janie’s bar and formally apologize to him for my earlier behavior? Maybe I could take ita step further and offer to buy him a drink? Yes. I’ll buy Adam a drink. After all, it is a Friday night. I know for a fact that since the weather has turned warmer, Janie has live music at The Tipsy Daisy on the weekends. When was the last time I enjoyed live music?
My high heels click with purpose, and I’m energized by my spur-of-the-moment idea as I rush upstairs to my apartment and change clothes. I ditch the professional garb for jeans and a pretty, pink short-sleeved sweater. I take it a step further and slip on my palomino-colored cowboy boots with intricate flower embroidery stitched on the sides, a gift to myself after the Milton property closing. I pull my hair into a high pony and dab my lips with shiny gloss. Eyeing myself in the mirror, there’s a certain gleam in my eyes. I remember that look. I smile at my reflection, knowing I have an ulterior motive with my casual clothes and sudden interest in live music at my neighbor’s bar.
I want to slow dance with a California man.
***
“Keri!” Janie hollers from across the bar.
I wave at her as she points to an open stool near the end. The place is packed with folks sitting at every single booth and table. Several more couples are dancing in front of a small stage where an acoustic trio is playing a classic two-step. The Friday night happy-hour vibe in the air is electric.
I sit next to a younger couple deep in conversation and notice right away the man rubbing his strong palm back and forth across her denim thigh. I swallow hard and flick my ponytail as I pan the room, looking for Adam.
“Welcome back,” Janie says, dropping a coaster in front of me. “I haven’t seen you here in ages. How are you, girl?”
I offer her a heartfelt smile. “I’m… good. Felt like coming out tonight.”
