Christian turned on command and darted down the hall, but Nathan lingered, blue eyes fixed shyly on Christy-Lynn. Finally, he slipped away, giggling as he vanished down the hall.
Missy grinned as she grabbed her wineglass from the counter. “Looks like my baby’s developed his first crush.”
By the time the food arrived, the boys had cleaned themselves up and were sprawled in front of the television, engrossed in what Missy assured her was their seventieth viewing of Ice Age.
Missy unpacked the food and portioned fried rice into two small bowls, then carried them to the living room, along with the remaining containers.
They ate sitting cross-legged on the couch, swapping containers and chatting like college roommates, while the boys sat on the floor in front of the TV. It surprised Christy-Lynn just how quickly she’d become comfortable with Missy. She couldn’t put her finger on any one quality. Perhaps it was her big heart and her clear-eyed ability to deal with whatever was in front of her. Or the pride she took in the life she had built for herself and her boys. Whatever it was, she was grateful for it.
When they had eaten their fill, Missy stacked the containers and set them on the coffee table. At some point between the fortune cookies and Missy’s third glass of wine, the boys had crashed. “Told you,” she said softly. “Every year they swear they’re going to watch the ball drop, and every year they’re out by nine. Give me a minute while I get them to bed.”
“Can I help?” Christy-Lynn asked, secretly hoping the answer was no. She hadn’t the slightest idea what putting a child to bed entailed. Pajamas presumably, toothbrushes, bedtime stories, prayers. None of which she felt equipped to handle.
“No worries,” Missy grunted as she hoisted a limp Nathan onto her shoulder. “When they’re like this, it’s just a matter of dumping them in the bed and pulling up the covers. Parenting rule number one: never wake a sleeping child.”
Ten minutes later, the boys were safely tucked in, and Missy reappeared with a new bottle of wine and a fresh can of Sprite. Reaching for the remote, she sank back onto the couch with a sigh. “And now . . .” she said, flipping to the Hallmark Channel. “It’s girl time. We’ll do a nice sappy movie, then switch over to Anderson around eleven for the festivities.”
Christy-Lynn watched as Missy took a sip from her wineglass then rested it carefully on her knee. Her movements were slightly exaggerated, her speech slower than usual and more than a little slushy. They were signs she recognized only too well.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked Missy tentatively. “And feel free to tell me it’s none of my business.”
Missy grinned, waving her glass expansively. “Ask away.”
“I can’t help noticing that every time we get together, you seem . . .” She paused and took a breath before plunging ahead. “I was wondering why you drink so much.”
Missy’s chin lifted a notch. “Why don’t you drink at all?”
Christy-Lynn recognized the reply for what it was—deflection—but decided to answer anyway. “It’s a family thing. My mother.”
“She drank?”
“You could say that. She came by it honest, though. Apparently her mother died of cirrhosis when she was twelve. Given my gene pool, not tempting fate seems wiser than just hoping it skips a generation.”
Missy’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
Christy-Lynn shrugged. “It’s no biggie.”
“But you still look for the signs.”
“Not purposely, but when I see them, I do wonder. And maybe worry a little. You didn’t answer the question, by the way.”
Missy stared into her glass, swirling the contents idly. “When you said you wanted to ask me a question, I wasn’t expecting that one.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I’ve just noticed that you seem to—”
“Self-medicate?” Missy supplied without blinking. “Yeah, maybe I do. But I am careful. Never more than two if I’m driving.”
“And when you’re not driving?”
Missy’s gaze slid away. “Then I don’t really have to count, do I?” She raised her glass to her lips, then seemed to change her mind, setting it aside instead. “It’s hard, you know—doing what I do. Two little boys and an inn to run. I’m not complaining. It’s the life I chose. And I love it most of the time. But it’s nice to step away and just . . . numb out once in a while. To pretend I don’t have to hold up the entire world by myself.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“Sometimes. I mean, all I do is take care of other people. And you just know there are people out there, women mostly, who think I’m doing it all wrong, who think it’s selfish of me to try to run a business and raise two boys on my own. They have no idea what I do to make it work—or what I’ve given up. Hell, I don’t even date. Because I swore the day I kicked their father out of this house that my kids would always come first. And they do. I might not be president of the PTA, and the cupcakes I send for class parties might come from Harris Teeter, but my kids are healthy and smart and happy. And just maybe, when they grow up, they’ll know how to handle a woman with goals of her own. At least I hope they will.”
Christy-Lynn’s admiration for Missy ticked up another notch. “I don’t know how you do it. I know I couldn’t. You have an amazing family and a business you’re proud of. So I say screw anyone who says you aren’t doing it right. All you have to do is take one look at those boys to know you’re doing it great.”
Missy’s expression brightened. “That’s sweet of you to say. And you could do it. Something happens when you have kids. It’s like some switch gets flipped somewhere, and all of a sudden you have these superpowers.”
“I don’t know about that,” Christy-Lynn said, feigning interest in the Star Wars–themed Christmas tree withering in the corner.
“So,” Missy said when the silence grew heavy. “Can I ask you a question?”
Christy-Lynn dragged her attention from the tree. “I guess it’s your turn.”
“Why didn’t you ever have any? Kids, I mean. I didn’t want to pry before . . .”
“But now you do?”
Missy grinned sheepishly. “A little bit, yeah. So what’s the deal? You tried and couldn’t. You just never got around to it? Your husband didn’t want them?”
“I didn’t want them.”
Missy blinked back at her, clearly surprised. “Oh.”
“Weren’t expecting that, were you? Which is why I don’t talk about it. You worry about people thinking you’re doing it wrong. How about people thinking you’re defective because you’re not doing it at all?”
“Do they?”
“Not out loud, but you see it when you tell them you don’t have kids. They assume it’s because you can’t, because what normal woman doesn’t want children?”
“You don’t.”
Christy-Lynn nodded but said nothing.
“I feel like I should say I’m sorry again, but I’m not sure why. For bringing it up at all, I guess.”
“The reason I don’t drink—it’s the same reason I chose not to have kids.”
“Your mother’s drinking?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t just alcohol. She was into other stuff too. Bad stuff. I decided no kid of mine was ever going to grow up the way I did. I know all about the nature versus nurture argument, that it’s not always your genes, that sometimes it’s about the role models you grow up with, but since I drew the short straw there too I decided not to risk it.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Now you see why it’s not something I share.”
“I do. But you should never let anyone make you feel bad about your choices. They’re no one’s business but your own. No one, and I mean no one else gets a vote.”
“Try telling that to the woman who hands you a card for her fertility specialist right in the middle of a cocktail party.”
Missy shook her head grimly. “We’re not always the most tactful species, are we?” She took a sip of her wine then s
et the glass aside as if some decision had been made. “You know what? It’s about to be a brand-new year so let’s make a pact. No more giving a flip about what anyone else thinks. You’re starting a new life. Come spring, you’re going to have your very own bookstore. Next thing you know, you’ll meet someone and be living happily ever after.”
Christy-Lynn shot her a look of horror. “Let’s leave it at the bookstore, shall we? The last thing I need in my life right now is one more complication.”
Missy shrugged, but a sly smile lit her face. “Sometimes complications are really just gifts in disguise.”
SIXTEEN
Sweetwater, Virginia
March 26, 2017
After a month of wind and rain, spring had finally come to Sweetwater, and Christy-Lynn couldn’t have asked for a finer day for her grand opening. Missy had called at the crack of dawn to invite her to Taco Loco for a celebratory dinner, and Dar had pronounced the clear skies and warm weather a good omen. She prayed Dar’s intuition proved true. The last three months had been a blur of hammering and sawdust. Battered shelves had been torn out and replaced with new, the original oak floors sanded down and restored, the café demolished, rewired, and rebuilt. She had even carved out a small children’s corner at the back, stocked with toys and educational games.
It had been a joy to watch the place take shape. Best of all, every inch of the transformation had been carried out behind paper-covered windows, an idea proposed by one of the two grad students she had hired to staff the store. And now, at long last, it was time for the unveiling.
“It’s almost ten!” Tamara, her new barista, called from the café where she was giving the tables a final wipe. “Do you want to pull the paper off the windows, or should I?”
Christy-Lynn’s stomach lurched as she checked her watch. What if no one came? Or worse, what if they came and hated it? Sweetwater wasn’t exactly big on change. Most of the sidewalks were still paved with brick laid before the Civil War.
Tamara came up from behind, nudging her with an elbow. “Come on, boss. Five minutes. I’ll help you with the windows.”
Christy-Lynn nodded, but her limbs seemed paralyzed.
Tamara narrowed catlike green eyes. “Oh my God, are you nervous?”
“Try terrified. What if nobody comes?”
“Well, that’s just silly. The Crooked Spine is all anyone’s talking about. Everybody’s dying to know what you’ve done with the place.” She had moved to one of the plate-glass windows fronting Main Street and was slowly peeling off yellowed sheets of newspaper.
Christy-Lynn closed her eyes and pulled in a breath. The butterflies she’d been experiencing all morning had just become a swarm of bees.
“Uh, boss?” It was her new cashier, Aileen, insistently prodding her shoulder. “You might want to look out front.”
The floor seemed to wobble as Christy-Lynn opened her eyes. She blinked then blinked again. For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. It appeared the entire town had turned out. “We forgot to clean the windows,” she said numbly.
Aileen squinted in her direction. “Seriously? That’s what you see? Dirty windows?”
Christy-Lynn shook her head, still dazed. “I had no idea this many people would come out for a bookstore opening.”
Aileen grinned, giving her auburn ponytail a toss. “Of course they came out. Like Tom Hanks said in You’ve Got Mail—we’re a piazza—a place for people to mix, mingle, and be!” And with that, she headed for the back room. “I’ll get the lights.”
Tamara came to stand beside Christy-Lynn, arms full of rumpled newsprint. “You did good, boss,” she said quietly. “Really good.”
Christy-Lynn felt tears threatening but blinked them away. “Thank you. And thank you for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you and Aileen.”
“I have to say it’s been pretty cool being a part of it. So what do you think? Should we let them in?”
Before Christy-Lynn could answer, the overhead track lights flipped on. The place really did look amazing. “Yes,” she said. “Let them in.”
The next two hours were a blur as a steady stream of customers poured in, gushing over the changes she had made and thanking her for saving the shop. One woman even snapped several photos with her phone, promising to forward them to Carol so she could see the transformation for herself.
Christy-Lynn savored every word, but as the day wore on, the excitement began to take its toll. She was parched, ravenous, and could feel herself starting to fray around the edges. She glanced at her watch and then at the register. If she hurried, she might be able to swing a deli run.
She had just slipped behind the counter to ask Aileen if she wanted anything when the words died in her throat.
It can’t be. Not here. Not now.
But there was no mistaking the telltale prickle along the nape of her neck, a kind of antennae she had learned to pay attention to during her street years. There was only one reason for that prickling sensation—danger.
Slipping away unseen was going to be impossible. Instead, she did her best to shrink from sight while keeping an eye on the man at the back of the line. He’d been wearing a dinner jacket the last time she saw him, quite different from the jeans and rumpled Oxford he wore now. But there was no forgetting that profile or the sharply chiseled jaw. Wade Pierce, star reporter for Week in Review—in Sweetwater, of all places.
He was holding a cup of coffee, staring down at the cover of Stephen’s latest novel as if he’d just unearthed something rancid. She had debated whether or not to carry Stephen’s books but decided their absence might seem odd, even conspicuous. And here, by some horrible twist of fate, stood her dead husband’s personal Moriarty waiting to purchase a copy of A Fatal Franchise.
The line moved, and Wade shuffled closer. Christy-Lynn felt as if she were caught in the path of an oncoming train. He and Stephen had been roommates in college, both creative writing majors until Wade had abruptly switched to journalism. According to Stephen, their friendship had ended just as abruptly, though he’d never said why. Not even after the scene at the Omni.
It had been three years ago—no four. A dinner honoring the recent achievements of several UVA alumni. Stephen was fresh off his fourth bestseller, Wade the recipient of some coveted journalism award. There was a cocktail reception scheduled the first night, and they’d both been drinking. Stephen was in rare form, laying it on so thick even she had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. He got like that sometimes, dropping names and casually referencing his current position on the New York Times bestseller list. But she’d never seen him go out of his way to make someone else feel small—until that night.
And he’d accomplished it in signature style, delivering one of the barbed compliments he loved so well. A sharp smile and a slap on the back, so that no one was quite sure if he was being snarky or magnanimous. Something about Wade being the most talented guy in the class—the second goddamn coming of Ernest Hemingway—and clearly wiser than the rest of them since he’d chosen to use his talents to bang out magazine articles instead of wading into the deep end of the literary pool.
Wade seemed to take it in stride at first, laughing as he set down his drink. Things went downhill from there when he proclaimed in a voice loud enough for the whole bar to hear that he’d take writing articles any day if the alternative was becoming an overhyped hack churning out four hundred pages of crap every year.
She had never seen Stephen’s face go so red or been afraid he might actually take a swing at someone. She had stepped between them before things could escalate, informing Wade curtly that a bar full of colleagues was hardly the place to air petty jealousies and that if he couldn’t handle a colleague’s success he should have stayed home. His jaw had clenched tight, a vessel at his temple throbbing furiously as she stood waiting for him to respond. Instead, he turned and stalked out of the bar. She had scowled as she watched him go, but there was a part of her, even then, that knew he had a point, even if he�
��d made it badly—and with stunningly poor timing.
“There she is! My favorite bookseller!”
Christy-Lynn jerked her head around, startled to find Missy standing at the end of the counter with a to-go container in one hand and a plastic utensil packet in the other.
“I wasn’t sure you’d have time to grab lunch so I popped by with a salad. How’s it been going? Are you—”
“Christine Ludlow?”
Wade’s voice seemed to slam into her, like an object hurtling at high speed, knocking her off balance. Before she could check herself, she turned, coming face-to-face with a disconcerting pair of amber eyes. He was taller than she remembered and scruffier, his hair messily combed and grazing his collar in back.
“Wade,” she said evenly because it was too late for anything else.
“Well, I’ll be damned . . . it is you. I wasn’t sure with the short hair. Don’t tell me the great Stephen Ludlow has decided to grace Sweetwater with his presence.”
“Of course he isn’t here. He’s—” Christy-Lynn stopped short, suddenly remembering Missy.
Wade, on the other hand, seemed oblivious, carrying on his half of the conversation as if they were the only two people in the store. “I’ve got to say, you’re the last person I expected to see today. I came into town for some supplies and saw that the place was under new management. Good thing too, or I might have missed the hubby’s new novel. And another bestseller. What does that make now—ten, eleven?”
He was being droll and purposely malicious, but at the moment, Christy-Lynn was too busy registering the fact that virtually every eye in the place had just shifted in her direction. The irony was almost too much to wrap her head around. She had been outed on the opening day of her lovely new store—by an award-winning reporter who had despised her husband.
“Christy-Lynn?” Missy stepped closer, running sharp eyes over Wade. “What’s happening? Is this guy bothering you?”
Yes, he is bothering me. That’s what she wanted to say, to scream. But until she knew what Wade Pierce was doing in her store, she thought it best not to antagonize him.
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