Page 19

I wrote while the words flowed, and when they didn’t, I went outside and walked to the edge of the lake.

I got my toes wet while the cat gave me a disapproving look, then went inside and wrote some more.

The book was taking shape now; I had the plot figured out, and my amateur detective and the grumpy deputy were already reluctantly working together again.

There was a cast of colorful supporting characters and a couple of twists to throw the readers off the scent of the killer.

I couldn’t wait to get to the part where the deputy realized the bookstore owner was in danger and tried to get to him, only to be slowed down by a truck blocking the covered bridge.

That wasn’t just the moment when he’d save the bookstore owner’s life—it was the moment he’d realize exactly how much the bookstore owner meant to him and how he couldn’t bear to lose him.

To be honest, I was probably looking forward to that part more than unmasking the killer, and I hoped most of my readers were as well.

It struck me, halfway through the scene where the deputy was phoning his colleague and best friend to let her know he was having complicated feelings for the bookstore owner, that I was also having complicated feelings.

The difference was, I didn’t have anyone to call about them.

I had friends, but none that felt close enough to call just to talk through my emotions.

These were friends I’d been ride-or-die with in our twenties, and we were still in contact regularly, but we’d grown apart, I supposed, or at least our lives had taken us in different directions.

Jobs or partners in other cities that they’d followed, time zones, family obligations, and, in my case, the fact that if you gave me the choice I’d pick “shut-in” every time.

Small-town living like here by the lakeside seemed ideal; all Ryan’s friends were close enough that they caught up at least once a week.

I thought about phoning my dad, but he didn’t want to know the details of my emotional state, or my love life, any more than I wanted to know the details of his.

He’d just ask if I was doing okay, I’d ask the same of him, and we’d move onto more important topics, like the neighbor’s dog that crapped on his lawn every morning and how that asshole (the neighbor, not the dog) was doing it intentionally.

Dad had a lot of opinions on his neighbor and would share them for hours if you gave him the opportunity.

I tried not to, but Dad and I both loved stringing words together—but at least I tried to keep most of mine on the page.

My verbal diarrhea when I met hot woodworkers notwithstanding, of course.

When I heard the rumbling sound of a truck, I stood up and stretched. The cat stood up too and peered out the window.

“Who’s that?” I asked her, closing my laptop. “Is Daddy home?” Can a brain have a record scratch? Because that was exactly what I heard, as loud as thunder. “Don’t ever fucking tell him I said that, or I’ll buy you the cheap cat food from now on. I’m not married to Ryan, and you’re not our child.”

Our not-child was very interested in the burgers which were, as Ryan had promised, incredible. We ate at the kitchen table and took turns nudging the insistent cat back onto the floor.

“I found your note,” Ryan said, his cheeks pinkening. “Thank you too. For this morning, and for everything else.” He studied his burger intently. “It’s been really good. You being here.”

I bet a professional interrogator in a Cold War movie armed with a bright lamp and some truth serum wouldn’t be able to get many more words out of Ryan.

“I’m glad I came,” I said. “I shouldn’t say I’m glad Rebecca’s cottage flooded, but I am. Is it okay now?”

“It’s all dried out,” he said, relaxing now that I’d shifted the conversation onto more emotionally safe ground.

“The drywall’s been replaced, and the new carpet arrives next week, so none of her future bookings are affected.

I’ll probably have to go over when the carpet’s here and help Chris lay it.

He’s Rebecca’s boyfriend. They bought the place together. ”

“I wouldn’t even know how.”

His mouth quirked. “It’s easy. There are plenty of videos online.”

“I can’t imagine watching someone else do it, and then saying, ‘Looks easy. I’ll give it a try.’”

“Best way to learn.” Ryan tilted his head. “How’d you know how to write books?”

“By reading them,” I said. “It’s kind of the same thing, I guess. And sure, I took some classes in college. But I figured out more by diving in headfirst and trying it, by seeing what worked and what didn’t, than I did in those classes.”

“My favorite high school teacher always said the best way to learn was by doing.”

“Smart man.”

Ryan nodded and took a mouthful of his burger.

I took one of mine and then said around my mouthful, “These burgers are fantastic.”

“Right? I don’t even like blue cheese that much, but these? Incredible.”

“They really are. You were so right about them.”

Ryan looked pleased that I agreed with him and shy about being right at the same time.

It was an expression that I’d begun to associate with him, and it always made me wonder if he was naturally reserved, or if there was some other reason he was uncomfortable being praised.

Because if there was a reason, I couldn’t spot it.

Ryan wasn’t just a talented artisan but an incredible artist as well.

And maybe I wouldn’t have liked him as much if he’d had an ego as big as that talent, but he would have had a right to one.

“What are you making today?” I asked him as we ate. “Or do you give yourself a few days off after Founders Day?”

“I’m finishing up my Windsor chairs,” he said. “My next order is for a dining table and twenty chairs.”

“ Twenty? Who has twenty dinner guests? I don’t even know twenty people!” I tried to think. “Well, not twenty people I’d want to invite to my house.”

“Me too,” Ryan said with a shrug. “It’s gonna be a big job.

I’ll have to move everything around just to give myself room to work on it.

I think the guy is a CEO of something. Whatever he is, he didn’t even blink when I told him he’d have to arrange his own shipping.

It’ll be interesting watching them get a truck big enough down the driveway. ”

“How long is a table for twenty people?” I asked.

“This one’s twenty-four feet.”

“Wow! You wouldn’t even fit that anywhere in this cabin!”

“Wouldn’t get it through the door,” Ryan agreed. “What about you? When you finish the fourth book, do you start on the fifth one straightaway?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I have to procrastinate for months first, then forget when my deadline is, then look it up and panic, and then book somewhere to stay because I’ve told myself that if I’m not at home, I won’t be distracted by anything.

” I tilted my head. “And then, hopefully, I’ll get totally distracted by a handsome woodworker who makes me water lilies. ”

“Am I distracting you?”

“Only in the best possible way. With water lilies and burgers and phenomenal sex.”

His blush was expected, but it was his laugh I enjoyed the most. I hoped to hear it over and over again, for as long as I was in Harmony Lake.