I clear my throat. "Uh—it's Silent Beauty."
Quincy pipes up. "I have a wonderful idea. What if we do a book signing at my shop for Alexandra? Then everyone can pick up a signed copy of her latest there! What a delight, to be honored by such a lovely author." He blinks at me, as if willing me to go along with this plan. In a tone of unabashed admiration, he adds, "You look exactly how I pictured Natasha Summers."
Great—is he hitting on me now? And I can't grasp how he's completely forgotten my entire "lying low in town" spiel. "Well—I'm not sure how long I'll be here," I sputter.
Quincy waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't worry about it. I have a big shipment in now, and I can rush-ship another, just to be sure we'd have enough books. I could arrange a signing in a couple of days—how's that?"
Henry notices my distress. "You're being pushy, Quincy. She doesn't even know her schedule yet."
I appreciate Henry trying to give me an out. But the young mother and her friend are looking at me like I've hung the moon. It's easy for me to downplay my fame, but when I see it there, shining in my readers' eyes, it's hard to dismiss out of hand. They want to get to know the woman behind the books, and what's wrong with that? My signature means something to them. And they aren't my stalkers.
"Sure...okay. I can do a signing on Tuesday," I say.
Quincy rubs his hands together like a gleeful young boy. "We'll do it up right. Classy. Understated."
"Okay, okay—now back to the reading schedule." Hope reins in Quincy's jubilance. "What are we thinking for October? Suggestions?"
I throw a glance toward Henry, who is giving me a rather smoldering look. Is he upset with me for folding to Quincy's demands? Or is there something else there?
As he holds my gaze, he doesn't smile. Yet something about his downturned lips is more captivating than any open show of friendliness. His serious look says that he's concerned about me. He's already showed me as much by staying overnight in the gazebo and standing up to Quincy.
Still, I know better than to allow a few acts of kindness to break down my barriers. My mom manipulated me that way—suddenly turning on the charm to get what she wanted—and Renard did, too. The only difference is that they always used words.
I constantly have to remind myself not to take what people say at face value. People can lie, but their actions tell the truth.
I glance over at Henry's clasped hands, his set jaw. So far, his actions have told me he is a concerned caretaker, and no more. I need to let it go at that.
When the meeting closes, I stand to leave. Henry walks over to chat with Barry, so I retrieve my takeout pizza box and head toward the door. Quincy follows me onto the darkened sidewalk, inspiring me to walk faster.
But he keeps up with my pace. "Thank you so much for doing a signing at Page Turner," he says breathily. "I'll make sure you have a great turnout."
That's the exact opposite of what I want to hear, but I give an agreeable nod, hoping to shut down any further conversation.
"I was serious about you looking like Natasha," he continues. "Although she has green eyes, and I noticed yours are blue."
He's getting way too personal, too fast. I hurry my stride and click the button to unlock my car. "Thanks," I say vaguely, leaving the car door open as a barrier between us.
He gives me an unreadable smile as I set the pizza box on the passenger seat. I slam the door and start the engine, so he finally gives up and skulks away.
As I pull out, my thoughts return to the woman with the Tesla. I try to picture how she would look without the oversized sunglasses. It's not difficult, because her face shape was distinctively long and narrow, kind of like a horse's face.
Her platinum bob seemed too perfect...almost like a wig. What if I juxtaposed her face with red hair? Or brown?
Long brown hair and a rectangular face. An image swims to mind, of someone I know. Someone from Greenwich? No, that doesn't fit.
I stop at a light, my mind whirling. Maybe it's someone from the writing world? That seems more likely. Maybe an agent? Or an author.
And then it hits me. Yes, the woman is an author—and one who hates me. In my early days, we'd joined the same online critique group. When we swapped manuscripts, she told me to "do my worst" when I edited hers.
I took her literally, not catching the nuance behind her words. So I was completely unprepared for the reaction my thorough and somewhat scathing critique would have on Mariah Cloud. She was using a pen name, even then.
The car behind me gives a soft honk and I glance up, only to see that the light has already turned green. How long have I been sitting here?
I speed up, mulling over the mistakes of my past all the way to the cabin.
I labored for weeks on Mariah's manuscript, while she shot mine back in a matter of days. She'd only made about ten suggestions. I should've taken her lackadaisical critique as a hint and laid off my scrutiny of her story, but I was already in too deep, determined to do right by her and give her the kind of serious edit I believed would land her a book contract.
She hit the roof when I sent her manuscript back. I really can't blame her, because I had basically rewritten the entire book, from plot to characters, in the form of helpful suggestions. Not to mention, I'd corrected every instance of her sloppy grammar. Each page had anywhere from fifteen to forty helpful suggestions in the track changes section. Looking back, I don't even know how she could've possibly gone through and integrated everything I suggested.
Yet I sent it to her, attached to a thoughtful email encouraging her that her romance novel would surely be picked up by some NYC editor. I had done my duty, raising the standard for Mariah Cloud, illuminating all the errors she couldn't see on her own.
She blacklisted me to the entire critique group, sending me a hateful email response and CCing everyone else. She said I was spiteful, holier-than-thou, proud, and a host of other names. She said she hoped I would rot in hell for what I did to her book.
She also said that if she ever saw me in real life, she'd have to resist the impulse to strangle me.
As the years went by, I'd shoved her venomous email out of my mind. I got picked up by a publisher, and, shockingly, so did she. I realized she probably didn't recognize me as Alexandra Dubois, since I'd gone by my maiden name of Winters in the group (it was an inside joke when I'd bestowed the last name of Summers on my heroine, Natasha).
Why on earth would Mariah be hanging out at a pizza joint in Cedar Gap? Does she live here? If so, she hasn't made any effort to blend in with the locals.
The mountain road back to the cabin doesn't have any turnoffs, so I don't have to consult my app to make sure I'm going the right way. It's satisfying to intuit which way the serpentine pavement will curve next, almost like West Virginia is playing a strategy game with me. I've never been in a place that feels this alive, and I'd imagine Alaska would feel the same way for Natasha.
My headlights cut the darkness as I cross the bridge. I let off on the gas, gripping the wheel to be sure I'm steering in a straight line. If my tires slip off either side, I'll wind up in the creek. The only way in and out seems incredibly precarious.
I pull into the driveway and grab the pizza box. The outdoor light flicks on as I approach the door, and I manage to remember the keycode and head inside.
I head upstairs, flipping lights on as I go. After setting the pizza on the counter, I decide to ask Hope if she's seen Mariah around. If she's in town, she's likely visited the grocery store at some point or another.
