3. Could be part of the death threats my father received. Plausible.
4. Could be the Amazon order I placed two weeks ago that OnTrac said they’d delivered. Wait. Definitely not plausible because, when OnTrac pulls up at your house, you’re not sure if it’s a serial killer or the pizza delivery guy. Their cars always seem to be dented, running on fumes.
5. Could be someone my father sent to keep an eye out. Also plausible.
I go with options three and five, but I sure as hell am not walking up to the car to demand to know what the hell they’re doing because my life is more important than my ego. My stomach grows uneasy. Turning, I pop up the stairs and shut the door behind me, slamming it, hoping that whoever is in the car hears it. I lean against the door and move to peek out the window, pulling back the curtains to see the black sedan.
Still there.
I lock the door. I’d feel more comfortable with a dead bolt.
“Typical Granite Harbor.”
I’ll ask the rental agency to add a dead bolt tomorrow.
I walk through the living room, taking in the doilies and the eclectic decor, running my fingertips along the wall. I open a few drawers when I make it to the kitchen in search of paper to make a grocery list of stuff I’ll need. I find one next to the silverware drawer, and I grab a pen from my purse.
I sit down at the dining room table that seats eight and start my list.
Trying to push the black sedan out of my mind.
There’s a knock at the door, and my heart just about falls out of my chest.
Hesitantly, I walk to the door and peek out the hole. Of course, it doesn’t work. I roll my eyes and mentally add another item to the list that I’ll ask the rental company about.
Cautiously, I turn the handle of the door and pull it open just a bit. I peek out to see that it’s Ruthie Murdock, the unofficial welcoming committee of Granite Harbor. She’s holding a big container of food. Ida, Ruthie’s mother, comes in behind her. Now, Ida, I have a soft spot for.
“Hey, ladies,” I say as I unchain the door and pull it open, noticing the black sedan is gone.
“Oh, Bryce! We ran into Alex at Granite Harbor Grocery, and she told us the good news!” Ruthie reaches in for a hug. “We just had to bring you some of Milton’s chili, as I’m sure you have nothing in that refrigerator yet.”
She hands over the container of chili. “We had some sitting on the stove. He’s been practicing for the chili cook-off for the Fall Carnival next week.”
“Hey, Ida.” I look past Ruthie.
“Ruthie, you know as well as I do that Milton wins every year. Nobody’s gonna compete with him.” Ida looks at me. “It’s good to see you’re back, Bryce.” She gives me a kiss on my cheek.
Ida is everyone’s favorite senior citizen.
“Causing trouble, Ida?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ruthie spouts. “Do you know what she said to Leonard the other day at the post office?”
Ida rolls her eyes. “Who was going to tell him his zipper was down if I didn’t?”
“Mom, it’s all well and good, but when you made reference to his … well, you know, his private area, it just got awkward. And embarrassing.”
Ida shrugs. “Oh, you know Leonard got a chuckle out of it.”
“And I’m sure his wife, Eleanor, was just a bag of giggles.” Ruthie attempts to fix her hair with her hands, more of a nervous habit than anything, shaking her head.
Ida grins ear to ear and looks at me. “There are some things you can get away with, Bryce, and some you can’t.”
“Noted.”
“Well, we’ll get out of your hair, Bryce. We’re sure glad you’re back. We’ve missed you,” Ruthie calls behind herself as she helps her mother down the few stairs.
“Missed you.”
I’ve done a lot of traveling in my life. Seen a lot of beautiful country, both in the United States and internationally. The people of Rome didn’t say they missed me when I went back for a book convention. The people of Spain didn’t miss me when I went back for a vacation. And, when I went back to Los Angeles, my neighbors didn’t know I was gone. Not that I care. Not that they cared even. It’s the fact that no one missed me.
But the people of Granite Harbor missed me.
I don’t say anything, but I’m moved as I watch Ruthie and Ida make their way back down Main Street.
I stare at the pot of warm chili, and a thought crosses my mind. I wonder if I can make a better chili than Milton.
But the thought leaves my mind as I glance down the street and see the black sedan is back.
Four
Bryce
The next morning, I’m heating up Milton’s chili while I curse him. I’m not sure what he does to make it taste this good, even cold, but I’m convinced he added drugs. Good drugs. The kind that makes you think it tastes good, so good that it’s addictive, and you can’t stop eating it.
An email pops up on my phone from an unfamiliar email address.
I’ll be by today to add the dead bolt.
Before I went to bed last night, I sent an email about the lock on the door to the property management group. Why wouldn’t the property management group email me back? Who’s this email from? The owner? And, while I’m at it, there’s no, Hello, Bryce. There’s no, Thank you. There’s no closing to the email. A name would have been nice.
So, I respond.
Do I need to be here?
Almost immediately, I get a response back.
No.
Abrupt. To the point.
The chili starts to boil, so I tend to it, forgetting about the email.
It’s just after nine thirty in the morning, and usually, I like to get a quick run in before I get to work, but the black sedan is stuck in my head. So, I opt not to run, just to be safe. It hasn’t come back so far this morning.
Could be just your imagination, Bryce.
Could be just your nerves.
Could be. Nor not.
But I lock the door from the outside just for good measure and then shove the key in my pocket. I throw my workbag over my shoulder and head down to Level Grounds Coffee Shop, taking in the cool morning air as I approach Main Street.
When I think of Granite Harbor, I think of nosy neighbors, inconvenience, and the holidays. Nosy neighbors because it’s a small town, and everyone talks. The inconvenience because most of the town, aside from restaurants, shuts down at five p.m. Although Granite Harbor Grocery has been open later in past times when I’ve visited for last-minute items. And the holidays because look at the place. Fall wreaths rest on the lampposts that line Main Street. The fall leaves, as if strategically placed, dance and flip about the street. Something within me loosens. Something deep within me tells me I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything aside from be in this moment right now with the small town I’ve been led back to countless times. I also keep questioning why. Why I come back if I don’t enjoy Granite Harbor. Of course, largely, it’s Alex and the girls, but I can’t help but think about Ethan, too.
“Good morning,” an elderly gentleman says while walking his dog.
“Morning,” I say.
My phone pings.
It’s a text from my mom.
I told you to text me when you got there.
I text back.
I’m here.
My phone rings.
Great way to start my morning.
“Good morning.” Satan. My voice is chipper.
“Just a text. That’s all I asked, Bryce. A text to let me know you arrived in Rock Harbor.”
“Granite Harbor.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
There’s a long, awkward silence. I’ve always been the one to outwait my mother. She’s stubborn, but I’m more stubborn.
“Where are you again?”
“Granite Harbor, not Rock Harbor. Same hard material.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I grow impatient, just wanting to hang u
p the phone. “All right, Mom, I’m here, and everything is good.”
Still awkward silence.
“Seriously? You’re mad because your adult daughter didn’t call you when she landed? Unbelievable. I’m a grown woman, Mom.” I wince. Shit.
Now, she knows she’s under my skin.
“I just wish you’d make your family more of a priority.” Her tone is short but crystal clear.
Laughing out loud, I say, “So sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Hayes, but I shouldn’t be the child you’re talking to. Why don’t you call your son and talk to him about making the family more of a priority? I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
Click, I hear on the other end of the line.
She hung up on me.
Why do I let her get under my skin? I say to myself as I hastily shove my phone into the side pouch of my bag. Why do I sink to her level?
I look up at the clear blue sky and take in a big breath of fresh air as I remember where I was just moments ago—soaking up Granite Harbor.
Running shoes, yoga pants, a light parka, and a double espresso are the simple things I need to get my day started.
I pull open the door of Level Grounds Coffee Shop, and immediately, I’m met with a deep-rooted coffee scent that creeps into my lungs and sits. Asks to stay awhile. There’s something about this place that I love. Maybe it’s the old photographs that adorn one wall. The old postcards on another wall from all over the world from patrons who sent them when they got back to their home destination. The abstract oil paintings that meander between everything. The music is classical and plays lightly in the background. It’s a hole in the wall. A tiny place with two front windows and six or seven small tables.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our favorite West Coaster.” Lyn pushes the rag across the counter. Smiles. Her honey-colored skin and deep, dark freckles match the weight of her smile. “Been missin’ you, baby girl.” She comes around the counter and gives me a hug. Her scent, coffee grounds and lavender, lingers past long after she’s made her approach. Maybe it’s her touch, the way her hands are placed on my back, that makes my shoulders come down once again.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I say.
Lyn moves back around the counter. “Usual, honey? Four shots of espresso with some cream?”
“Yes, please.” I find my favorite spot close to the window that looks out onto Main Street.
Lyn gets a lot of tourist traffic, which is nice for her because winter in Granite Harbor can be a bitch. Nobody wants to make the trek out in the snow to get coffee. At least, that’s what Alex tells me. I’ve never been in Granite Harbor in the winter. This might be my first.
I open my laptop and start with emails. Just this morning, two hundred emails from hopeful writers, praying that it’s their manuscript that blows my mind—or any literary agent for that matter. Of these, unfortunately, I’ll maybe ask one for a partial manuscript. Maybe. This isn’t the fun part of the job.
I read a lot of words every single day. Words that are beautiful. Words that aren’t. Sometimes, I’ll go months without finding a manuscript that I click with. It doesn’t mean the writing sucks. It might. But it also might not suck. Which is great for me and the writer. Because emailing a dream-chaser with good news? That’s almost the best part of my job. The most amazing part? Nailing a six-figure contract for the writer. That’s when the tears usually come.
That’s how Alex and I met years ago. Bellencourt Publishing made the offer, we countered, and the rest is history. I think what attracted me most to Alex was her ease with life. Her ability to take everything at face value and move forward. We’d made the deal with Bellencourt before she lost Kyle. Watching Alex walk through the grief was like inching my way through a slow death. I knew I couldn’t fix her. Heal her faster. But I kept showing up.
“Here you go, sugar.” Lyn sets down my espresso with cream and two raw sugars.
“Thank you, Lyn.”
“Holler if you need anything, baby.” Her hand touches my shoulder, soft and gentle. “And don’t work too hard,” she calls as she makes her way back behind the counter.
I discovered Level Grounds the first time I came to Granite Harbor. It’s not a coffee shop that stands out. It’s tucked neatly between Rick’s Pharmacy and Rain All Day Books. It’s perfectly fitting to have a bookstore and a coffee shop side by side. Coffee and books go hand in hand.
I put my earbuds in and click on my work playlist, which consists of Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Third Eye Blind, and meditation music. I know; I know. Weird combination.
Finally, I make it through all two hundred-plus emails. Unfortunately, I didn’t find a winner today, and I’ll have to send form rejections to all of them. Some literary agents just don’t respond. It’s clear though on the agent’s website that, if the agent doesn’t respond, consider it a pass on the manuscript. I’ve never been able to do that. My stance is and always has been, if the author takes the time to query me, I have time to at least send something.
I send out the bulk email of rejections.
While I enjoyed reading [insert manuscript title here], it just didn’t work for me.
Next, I open up the manuscript I requested from Shane Swenson. He’d sent me a partial a few weeks ago. My gut told me I had to read more. It isn’t the plot that’s intriguing really. It’s his characters. I had to find out more about Wade Lowe and his draw to poor choices.
Before I dive in, I pour a little cream into my espresso and take a sip. There’s something about Lyn’s espresso that I can’t get anywhere else. Not in LA, not in Rome. Not in the United Kingdom. Not anywhere. Except for Granite Harbor. I watch as a few patrons walk to the counter and place their orders. I watch as a family sits at a far table, closest to the back, with a map, and they plan their next stop.
Inside my head, inside the music, inside my bubble, life is small. My mother has always accused me of being rude.
“You didn’t see Delana Weatherby standing by the magazines? You didn’t see Brock Johnson at the counter? Honestly, Bryce, I wish you wouldn’t be so rude.”
It wasn’t that I was being rude. I wasn’t. I just didn’t have my eyes transfixed on others, and, I guess, I didn’t care what they thought.
I jump feet first into Swenson’s manuscript.
Please, God, let me love this story.
It’s just past four thirty when I finally look up. The place is deserted. But Lyn’s back in the kitchen with a few of her workers, washing dishes, cleaning up. Level Grounds usually closes at three.
Quickly, I stand and take my cup to the back.
“Well, look who finally joined the land of the living.” Lyn smiles and places a hand on her hip.
“I’m so sorry, Lyn. I lost track of time.”
“No bother, baby. Get your work done?”
“I did. Thank you. Would you like me to wash this?”
Lyn reaches for the small mug, shaking her head. “No patrons do dishes in my establishment.”
“Thank you.” I hand Lyn the mug.
I walk back to my place at the front window and gather my stuff. I slip a fifty-dollar bill on the table. I figure the least I can do is give her the money she might have made had I not been working for hours at a table where she could have had at least six to eight paying customers.
I throw my bag on my shoulder. “See you, Lyn. Thanks again,” I call to the back.
“All right now, baby girl. Have a good evening.”
The door has a bell that jingles slightly when the door is opened and closed.
I don’t notice the man when my fingertips leave the doorway, but he catches the door. And what makes me take notice is his swift action.
The man is in a dark suit and taller than most men. His lifeless gray eyes are particularly haunting—and not because they’re lifeless, but because the smile behind them feels off.
“They’re closed,” I say.
I don’t move because something tells me not to—and not because of the man,
but more for protection for Lyn and the two kids in the back.
He’s holding the door open. Staring at me.
I’m standing just beyond the door.
He waits for me to leave.
“Hey, Lyn?” I call out through the open door.
“Yeah?”
“You got a customer out here.”
My stare deepens, and the man simply walks away. His steps are quick, calculated, and short even though he’s tall.
Lyn meets me at the door.
“Do you know that man?” I motion to him.
Lyn rests her hand on her hip. “Can’t say that I do. Why?”
“No reason.” I’m not going to explain my suspicions. I am probably wrong anyway. “See you tomorrow.” I give her a quick hug and head back toward Granite Harbor Grocery.
Mr. Pete is pricing the lentils when I walk in.
“Well, hello, Bryce. So glad to have you back in Granite Harbor.” His thin mustache sits neatly below his nose.
“Hi, Mr. Pete.”
“Are you coming to the Fall Festival next week?” he asks.
“Thinking about it.” I start to make my way down the aisle as a customer approaches.
“See you.” He waves and turns toward the customer.
I look down at my list and continue my shopping.
When I approach my rental, grocery bag in hand, a man in a hunched-over position is on the porch, fixing the lock.
Great, a handyman. Or maybe a locksmith.
“Hello!” I say as I approach.
The man unfolds as he stands. He turns and looks at me with his dark brown eyes. The eyes that tell you he’ll stay. Give you what you need. Give you everything that relates to love, and you’ll believe he wants it, too. And then he’ll run. He’ll run and pretend like what happened between you two was all a work of fiction, your imagination. That he wants nothing to do with you. Push you away like a used body. And you’ll try to forget him. Tell yourself he’s a broken toy that needs fixing. You’ll tell yourself he isn’t worth it even though your heart is bursting, crying.
The look his icy eyes give me now says, You don’t need me. You’re better off without me. Find a man worth fixing.
Magnolia Road Page 3