The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs
and docks, and fleet of dinghies and powerboats. Over time, the house had deteriorated, and when his grandparents had retired to Arizona, they’d deeded the place to Will. He’d always dreamed of restoring it to its former glory.
Today he had something else on his mind—Caroline Shelby. He wished he didn’t know that it had been ten years since he’d last seen her. He wished he didn’t know the exact date he’d watched her drive away, tires spitting crushed oyster shells in their wake—the day he’d married her best friend, Sierra Moore.
But he did know, and that bugged the shit out of him.
He wondered what she was doing back here. She was supposed to be living large in New York City, making her name as a famous designer. He hadn’t thought about her in years, and suddenly there she was, clearly exhausted and stressed by her two little kids—damn, two kids—and an old car crammed with baggage. Despite the circumstances, Caroline still looked like the girl he’d known for most of his life—small and intense, her mouth like a red valentine, her movements quick with agitation, her cropped, mussed hair streaked with crazy neon highlights like one of his high school kids.
The town being what it was, local gossip was bound to fill in the answers to the questions buzzing through his mind. Mainly, the kids. A girl named Addie. A boy named Flick. What the hell? Where was their dad?
Apparently, Caroline had been busy with more than her career.
With steam swirling around him, he stepped out of the shower and groped for a towel.
“Here you go.” Someone placed it in his hand.
“Jesus.” He snatched the towel and jumped back. Then he recovered, leaned forward through the dissipating steam, and kissed his wife—lightly and briefly, so she wouldn’t remind him not to muss her makeup. “Hi, babe,” he said. “You’re up early.”
“Heading down to Portland,” she said. “I stopped in to say goodbye.”
Again?
“The fall catalog shoot,” she reminded him, stepping out of the tiny cubicle.
He scrubbed his head to dry his hair. “Fall, huh?”
“In the fashion world, the seasons are reversed, remember?” She wiped the fogged shaving mirror with her sleeve and leaned in to inspect her face. “Miriam Goddard was asking me where I get my hair done. Was that a veiled insult, do you think?”
“I don’t get it. Your hair’s perfect, like the rest of you.”
Her smile was fleeting. “I’ll take your word for it. We live in a fishbowl here. I feel like everyone has an opinion about us.”
He let the towel drop and reached around behind her. “You’re always complaining about the town gossips. Let’s give them something to gossip about.”
She pushed her hand against his chest. “Very funny. You need to get to class, and I need to get on the road.”
“Let’s be late.”
“Let’s not.” She patted him lightly on the shoulder, then stepped out into the office. “You can’t get away with anything in a town like this.”
“I like small-town life,” he said, dressing quickly. “I like the slow pace, the sense of community.”
“The sense that everyone knows everyone else’s business,” she said. “Trust me, being Pastor Moore’s only daughter was no picnic. You were a navy brat. You have no idea what it’s like, having to make sure you don’t embarrass your parents.”
Sierra sometimes chafed under the scrutiny, but Will was philosophical. “Good thing we’re old enough now, and married. Nothing for folks to see here, simple as that.”
“It’s not so simple,” she said. “Some people will always find something to gossip about.”
“Could be you’re right.” He came out of the bathroom with his tie slung around his neck. “Remember that summer your dad caught us making out in the choir loft? I had my hand up your—”
“Knock it off,” she said, removing his hand. Then she stepped forward and tied his tie for him in a now-familiar ritual. “You headed back to the city, and I was left to face the consequences.”
“Come on, we had fun. Your folks are my biggest fans now.”
“Indeed. Sometimes I think they like you better than me.” She was all done up as usual, her hair gleaming, makeup airbrushed to perfection over a forehead smoothed by Botox injections she insisted she needed.
“Guess you have a busy day lined up,” he said.
“Yep. Interior and exterior shots today.” She smoothed his collar and stepped back.
“Sounds good. So you’re going to put on pretty clothes and knock ’em dead,” he said.
“Right.” Her too-smooth brow tried to frown. “The world’s oldest model.”
“Only my ninth graders think thirty-four is old.”
“News flash—the entire fashion industry thinks thirty-four is old.”
He knew better than to argue with any female about the fashion world. But damn. Despite the accident that had taken one eye, his good eye could see perfectly well that his wife was gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that made people do a double take, the way they might when a perfect rainbow appeared in the sky. She had shiny red hair and a tall, slender body, green eyes that gleamed like rare jewels. Her face had graced ads for toothpaste, cat litter, fine perfume—anything that could be marketed alongside a pretty face.
And as incredible as she looked, she had managed to pursue the one career where her looks were not particularly striking—merely commonplace in that world.
Lately—and he knew this frustrated her—the bookings for her high-fashion modeling had tapered off. He was not going to be the one to ask the reason for this. He didn’t want to hear her say it was because she was old. He didn’t want to hear her say it was because she lived in the world’s smallest backwater, where she had to drive for two hours or more to find even a glimmer of civilization.
“Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
She glanced at the clock over his office door. “Just a bit. Hair and makeup starts at eleven.
“Whose pretty clothes will you be wearing today?”
She hesitated. He could tell she wasn’t happy. “McCall’s,” she said briefly.
A discount store on the lower end of the spectrum, then. Not exactly Nordstrom. “They’re lucky to get you.”
She took the proffered cup of coffee and sprinkled it with a dusting of stevia, ever mindful of avoiding extra calories. “Right.”
He added a generous dollop of cream and real sugar to his cup. After the morning run, he was starving, and he didn’t have a break until third period. While loading up his messenger bag for the day, he debated with himself about whether to bring up this morning’s encounter with Caroline.
If he didn’t, Sierra would hear about the drama of the “lost, not lost” kid from someone else. She’d hear one of his athletes had found the little girl. She might wonder why he hadn’t said anything about the encounter. If he did—
“I ran into Caroline Shelby,” he said, threading a belt around his pants. “This morning.”
She perched one hip on the edge of his desk. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. “Caroline! You’re kidding. She’s been a ghost for the past ten years. Where did you see her? Here in town?”
He nodded. “During a training run with the team, super early. She was at the Bait & Switch. Seems like she’d just rolled into town, like maybe she’d been driving all night. That’s how it appeared, anyway. Did you know she was coming?”
“No.