Page 14 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

From the window, she watched as Tate stepped off the porch and began to perform a few gentle stretches in the grass.

Noticing the distance between the tips of his fingers and the ground as he reached toward his toes, she thought, hiding a smile, that a little yoga might do him some good.

Tugging his New York Road Runners T-shirt over his narrow hips, he took a few quick steps before setting off at a brisk pace.

A few lingering tendrils of mist curled around Tate’s ankles as he disappeared down the drive, his figure growing smaller before fading away completely.

Turning away, she wandered to the bookshelves again, curious to see if Tate had borrowed anything.

Which was fine, of course—that’s why the books were there—but she liked to know, so she could keep track of them.

That was also the reason for the small whiteboard with the erasable marker in the tray.

Guests were supposed to note the title of any book they removed from the parlor.

Sadly, fewer visitors browsed their little library now that a television had been mounted to the wall.

Grandma Joyce hadn’t wanted a television at all, but too many guests had complained over the years about missing important sports broadcasts.

Rather than installing one in every bedroom, however, Grandma Joyce had put one in the parlor to end all the rumbling.

Pulling Charlotte’s Web from the shelf, she basked in the memory of discovering it as a child. Flipping randomly to a page, she read:

After all, what’s a life anyway? We’re born,

we live a little while, we die.

So true, she thought with a wistful smile. It wasn’t Shakespearean in its eloquence, but upon reflection, she decided it was a pretty good summation of things. In the margins, in her own childhood scrawl, she read the words

That’s so sad!

Next to that, she’d added a frowny face.

She couldn’t remember how old she’d been when she first read the book.

Six or seven, maybe, but E. B. White’s words had clearly made an impression on her.

Closing the book, she wondered how different her life would have been had she gone off to college, or perhaps culinary school, since she’d always loved to cook.

Even Grandma had wanted her to continue her education, but back then she’d made excuses—that her grandma was getting older; that even with Louise and Reece around to help, there was too much work for them to manage.

That she’d go back to school in a few years, once she knew what she really wanted to do with her life.

Looking back, she knew that really, she’d been afraid.

Afraid that she wasn’t smart enough. Afraid that she wouldn’t make friends.

Afraid of living in a bigger, busier place, despite her curiosity about exotic cities of the world.

Afraid of becoming someone different, someone she didn’t yet know and might not want to be.

She put the book back on the shelf, satisfied that all the books were in their proper places, though she straightened a volume of poetry that was slightly off-kilter.

Few guests these days were readers; instead, they spent every free minute with their faces buried in their phones, making her ache for what they were missing.

Even the most artfully constructed Instagram post couldn’t compare with a Wallace Stevens poem or an essay on French cooking by M.F.K. Fisher.

She hoped Tate was a reader, although why it should matter was a good question.

Despite reminding herself that it would be a good idea to maintain a professional distance, she admitted that she wouldn’t mind talking to him again, possibly even over a glass of wine.

She couldn’t suppress a devilish grin at the thought of what her grandma would say to that idea.

She could almost hear her succinct rejoinder:

You’re not dumb so quit acting dumb.

Anyway, it was already clear that Tate had come to Heatherington for work, so he probably wouldn’t be around much. It was for the best, and yet…

Behind her, she heard Paulie meow, and she glanced back over her shoulder, watching as the cat sauntered over to her food and water. When Paulie sniffed at her empty bowl and shot her a pointed look, she shook her head apologetically.

“I’d open a can for you, but I don’t know how much to give you.”

Taking a seat on the sofa, she tapped the cushion, beckoning to the cat. Paulie studied her before approaching, and a moment later, she leapt onto the far end of the sofa and curled into a ball.

“You already need to nap, Paulie? You just woke up.”

Paulie yawned in response and began licking her paws.

She turned to look out the window, wondering if she should make a trip into town.

There was the Barefoot Contessa cookbook she’d ordered waiting for her at Bookends, the town’s beloved independent bookstore, but picking it up would mean passing right by her shop, where invariably Nash would be, and she felt herself recoil.

Had he really believed he could get away with it?

That she, a child of her thrifty, meticulous grandma, wouldn’t have questioned the $50,000 loan he had taken out using the business as collateral, or the amateurishly faked invoices that had started showing up in their books six months ago?

Perhaps he thought that her other problems would distract her from any financial irregularities; she should have known something was amiss when he kept assuring her that he had her back, and that she should focus on taking care of herself.

This from the guy who seemed to prefer volunteering elsewhere whenever he could, leaving most of the actual work in the store to her.

Her absence this past week—and the fact that she wasn’t taking his calls—had probably tipped Nash off that she knew what he’d done. Because the money hadn’t yet been returned, she suspected it was gone, lost in some Ponzi scheme, or frittered away on whatever vice had gripped him.

She let her head fall back on the sofa cushion, wearied by these relentless worries and the white-hot rage that sometimes engulfed her.

As much as Heatherington was home, these days she often felt that its walls were closing in on her.

She told herself that she needed to set aside her fear of leaving—she needed to set aside all her fears, period—and simply take a chance.

She thought again about the application form for Le Cordon Bleu culinary academy in Paris, the one she’d bookmarked on her computer.

To leave Heatherington for good and study in Paris…

that would be something, and she wondered what Tate would think.

Surprised by Tate’s sudden intrusion into her thoughts, she tried and failed to banish his image. She realized that in his own way, he’d inspired her. If he could find a way to heal and start over despite all he’d lost, then perhaps she could, too.

Scolding herself for thinking about him, she rose from the sofa and made for the kitchen.

What she needed was a distraction, she decided, pulling open the door to the cellar and descending the stairs.

On the shelves in the far corner, she located the boxes of puzzles, some with hundreds of pieces, others with more than a thousand.

Knowing that more pieces meant more distraction, she began sorting through her choices.