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“Sure,” I lie. “Why?”
She gives me a long look. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m missing your usual cheerful greeting.”
At that moment, I realize I was so occupied thinking about Ryan Steele that I have indeed walked into the office without even saying hello.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Emma. But you know I’m here if you need an ear.”
I don’t say anything to that, and then she says. “It’s Ryan, isn’t it?”
Her insight does not come as a surprise to me; she has been my closest friend forever. We know each other better than we know ourselves. I’m now annoyed at myself that I’ve allowed him to move into my headspace rent-free. And why? Because he showed up yesterday? I must be out of my mind.
So, kick him out so you can move back in.
Shaking my head, I say, “I just need to shake it off. I’ll be fine.”
When my first client arrives, I pin on my warmest smile, give myself a metaphorical slap in the face, and tell myself that I need to get it together. These people are not paying me good money to be in the same room with such negative energy.
Losing myself in the work I love so much, I find my usual rhythm, and soon, I’m laughing and smiling again with my clients. Somewhere along the way, I realize that I won’t be seeing him again. My decision was final, and knowing the kind of man he is, he has likely already moved on to someone who would accommodate his need to be the center of attention.
At lunch, I slip on my coat. Sharon and I take turns to go out to get our midday meal. What we have is more of a partnership than boss and employee.
“Ooh, can I get the chicken tikka today?” she says, her eyes lighting up at the sound of it. “I’m in the mood to spice things up a bit.”
Rolling my eyes at her, I reply, “Sharon, you get chicken tikka three days of the week. Your idea of spicing things up is adding chili mayo to your sandwich.”
“Hey, just because you could eat fire if it was offered to you, it doesn’t make you better than me, you know,” she counters with a smirk.
I do like my spicy food. It’s not practical to eat it for lunch, given the proximity I have with my clients, but on a weekend, I like to experiment with my spices. Sometimes, Sharon is brave enough to try my concoctions, but not recently. Maybe because the last time she did, her face made more moves than John Travolta on the dancefloor, she turned bright red, and—shrieking like a little girl—she drank my house out of milk.
I throw a wink over my shoulder and head out into the street.
The bitter wind tugs at my coat and scarf, and I nearly lose my trilby altogether. Oh, yes. I wear a trilby. I get some strange looks when I’m anywhere other than Maple Springs, but here in my hometown, no one bats an eyelid.
It belonged to my daddy. I was only nine when he died, and for six months, I wouldn’t take it off. I wore it everywhere: around the house, going to school. I even took it to my room at night, where it sat on my bedside table while I slept. In my nine-year-old little head, it kept me close to him somehow. My sister is ten years older than me, but I was always Daddy’s little girl, and his death left a huge hole in my heart.
After a while, I got through my grief, and the trilby was put away. I didn’t see it again until I was twenty-two. Penny, my older sister, and I were clearing through Mom’s house, trying to get rid of old stuff for new furniture arriving. Most of Dad’s stuff was gone by that point, but I just couldn’t let the trilby go, and so, much to Penny’s dismay—at least at the time—I began wearing it again. I don’t need to wear it to feel close to Dad, but somehow, I always know he’s with me.
After rounding the corner, I head into The Rusty Spoon, a quaint diner on Main Street. As well as delicious food, they alsodo take-out, which is how Sharon and I get our lunch every weekday.
“Hey, Emma,” Jimmy says, beaming a smile at me over the counter.
He’s a tall, broad man with a soft belly and an open face. About fifteen years older than me, he’s known me all his life—or should I say, all my life, because like me, he’s never left Maple Springs. This is his father’s place, and when Jimmy left school, he moved from helping his dad on evenings and weekends to full-time work.
“Hi, Jimmy.” I smile back. “How are Whitney and Tess?” Jimmy’s wife has just had a baby.
With glowing pride, he says, “Great. We actually got five hours of sleep last night.”
“Woohoo,” I laugh.
“Hey, we take what we can get, right?” he grins. “Speaking of which, what can I get you?”
I give him my order and then stand out of the way so he can serve the customers who came in behind me. They’re all locals, and we nod and greet each other, like we do every time we meet.
Five minutes later, Jimmy hands me the parcels, and I go to pay.
But he shakes his head. “It’s been paid for already.”