I pull into an empty space beside a cherry red Tesla. I grin, wondering how many charging stations the driver will be able to locate in this rural town.
A definite effort has been made to play up the quaintness of Cedar Gap, from the black iron lampposts dotting each sidewalk corner to the colorful awnings adorning shop entrances. I pick out the green one above Page Turner and walk that way.
The pizza shop, which is simply called Luigi's, sits under a red-and-white striped awning. A woman puffs on a cigarette at the lighted outdoor table, her single slice practically untouched. When the smoke drifts my way, a short cough erupts from my mouth and I try to stifle it, which only makes things worse.
The woman cuts an irritated look my way. When I get a full view of her—the cropped blonde bob, the aviator shades, the pale blue sheath dress that's totally out of place—I startle. I've seen this woman before, I'm sure of it. But where?
TEN
Pushing through the door to move out of the woman's sights, I try to focus my attention on the menu. I finally settle on a medium pepperoni pizza, so I'll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
As the cashier rings me up, I dart a glance out the window. The mystery woman is beating a hasty retreat, sliding her cigarette pack into her ivory quilted Chanel bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She shoves her paper plate bearing the uneaten pizza into a trash can, then walks straight toward the red Tesla, her high heels teetering.
Of course that's her car—it's as out of place here as she is. Unless she's gotten all dressed up to go to church, which I doubt.
The cashier hands me my pizza box, so I grab it and speed out the door. There has to be a reason I'd recognize someone in the middle of West Virginia—something significant. But by the time I step onto the sidewalk, she's pulling away. Someone drives right up behind her, so I can't catch her license number.
The second car whips into the vacated parking space, and a woman gets out. I take a closer look at her curly red head, only to realize it's Hope from the grocery store. She looks weary, but the moment she catches sight of me, she waves.
I smile and continue walking toward my car. She's probably here to get her own dinner at Luigi's.
She hurries my way, beaming as if it's a delight to see me, which I fail to understand. She strides alongside me, gesturing toward the box in my hand. "They have some of the best pizza for miles," she says.
That wouldn't be a hard feat, since I doubt there are many towns in that radius, but I give a polite nod. I'm not sure why she's chatting me up.
She continues, "Our book club is meeting here to discuss fall reads. It would be a delight to have you sit in on it, if you aren't too busy."
I'm busy, all right. Busy being a recluse. But something tells me that Hope isn't going to take no for an answer.
"We'll feed you pizza, of course," she says. "And it's just a small group. Actually, Henry Basham will be here—he lives right next to your cabin."
I nod. "Yes, we've met." I'm unable to formulate a coherent excuse, and, like a complete traitor, my stomach gives a loud rumble. "Sure, I'll take you up on it, but only for a little while. I do need to get back to writing."
As she smiles and leads the way into Luigi's, I wonder if I've taken leave of my senses. It's completely unnatural for me to accept an offer to eat with a virtual stranger, much less interact with a group of them. Some deep and dormant part of me seems to be steering the ship, telling me to feed my curiosity about these townspeople...namely, the handsome but rather monosyllabic Henry.
I take a bite of garlic breadstick, letting my gaze roam the length of the table. Hope sits in the head seat, since she's the club leader. She's holding an empty chair next to her for Barry, who will arrive after he closes the store, she says.
A couple of peppy young women sit between us, talking amongst themselves. I get the feeling they know who I am, even though Hope hasn't introduced me yet. Thankfully, they don't ask me any awkward questions.
Unfortunately, Quincy, the bookstore owner, has settled into the chair right next to me. His pale stare seems to follow my every move—I can feel it, even when I'm not looking directly at him.
Hope wanted to wait until Henry arrived to start the discussion, but since it looks like he's not going to make it, she asks Quincy to read last month's minutes. I wasn't aware that most book clubs even kept minutes, but apparently this one does.
With Quincy's attention thus diverted, I'm finally able to take a few bites in peace. But before long, he mentions that there's a world-famous author in their midst. He asks me if I'd like to say anything.
I feel betrayed. Doesn't he remember our bookstore discussion about keeping my visit quiet? Some "soul of discretion" he is.
Hope notices my reaction. "Please, just continue with the minutes, Quincy. Alexandra is here as a guest. She doesn't want to be put on the spot."
He gives a confused nod. "Oh, I thought she'd be speaking to us?"
"Not tonight," Hope says firmly.
I feel a presence looming behind me, so I make a slow turn, only to see that Henry has walked up. He motions to the seat across from me. "Empty?" he mouths.
I nod. He sits, taking a plate and placing a couple slices of supreme pizza on it. Quincy drones on about some kind of Halloween raffle the club will be doing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Henry looking my way. His glimpses are nowhere near as irritating as Quincy's relentless stare. Instead, Henry seems to be taking timed peeks out from under his dark lashes.
As Quincy finishes his report, Hope says, "That's great, thank you."
Quincy shifts to gaze at me, clearly proud of his thorough minute-reading. I try to hide my irritation that he basically threw my privacy under the bus.
Hope continues, "Now we need to discuss book choices for September. Henry, I know you had a hankering for a classic." Her eyes quickly shift from Henry to her husband, who's arrived and is moving her way.
Once Barry has taken his seat, he helps himself to a couple of breadsticks. "Go on, Henry—sorry to interrupt."
Henry nods, his mouth full of pizza. After finishing his bite, he says, "I had thought of something like Kidnapped, by Stevenson. I've wanted to read that for years, and I watched a great movie version of it."
One of the younger women sighs. "Isn't that a heavier read, with some Scottish brogue in it?" The brunette casts a desperate glance at Hope. "It's just that y'all know I'm home with two under two right now, and I can hardly find a few minutes to rub together. I vote for something simpler—a faster read."
Hope gives her an understanding look. "Of course, Lindy. Maybe a more popular book?"
The young mother darts a look my way. "I've read one of your books. It was amazing. I vote for your latest—what's the title?"
