Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Zachary
Ablur slips by, dark hair and pale skin, dressed for a business meeting. She’s got her head down, chin to her chest, but there’s something so familiar about her. Too familiar.
My head twists back to get a better look, but she’s already out the door and out of sight, a ghostly trace of perfume in the air.
“Can I put you on the list for tonight, Murphy?” Levi is suddenly beside me, shoving me toward the counter, where the rest of the squad are ordering lunch. Not that we ever get anything different.
I glance at the table by the window: two coffee cups, a plate between, and a copy of the Crown Hill Gazette lying open. That woman left in a hurry.
“Huh?”
Levi rolls his eyes. “Can I put you down for a ticket tonight? The hospital fundraiser. You know, the thing I’ve been harping on about all week. My sister will kill me if I don’t get at least ninety-percent of the station there.”
I don’t deal in best friends anymore, but Levi Reed is the closest thing to it. A brother, really, in the dysfunctional family that is my squad.
“And you’re waiting until the last minute to get names down?” I smirk. “Risky business, Levi.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’d rather get called to an MCI five minutes before my shift ends than have to face her if I can’t get everyone there,” he replies, grimacing. “So, can I put you down for a ticket?”
I shrug. “Sure. Anna has Ella tonight, and I’m not on-call, so why not? Saves me the trouble of figuring out what else to do with my evening.”
“You’ve got a thrilling life, Murphy.” He elbows me in the arm. “Is the ex-wife being less of a–”
“We’re civil,” I interrupt sharply.
Anna isn’t a topic I discuss with anyone. I’d gladly forget about her altogether if it weren’t for our daughter, but I’d get along with Satan himself for that little girl, if that’s what it took to keep her happy.
“Yo! Who’s this Turner girl that everyone’s blowing up about?” one of the squad, Brandon Jones, pipes up. He’s talking to the woman at the bar, but my ears prick at the sound of that name.
“She was just in here,” the woman replies, as she turns her back to steam some milk, the spout screaming. “Over by the window. Don’t know her, but Mrs. Oakley asked for a signature.”
“She someone famous?” another of the squad asks.
Levi jumps in, sweeping a hand through his red hair. “Summer Turner?”
“You know her?” Brandon replies, waving his phone. “Says here she’s a big deal. Is she, like, an actress or something?”
“My sister knows her,” Levi says smugly, as if Summer’s fame is somehow his by association. “Best friends since they were in high school. New York Times bestseller. If you had a woman in your life, Jones, you can bet your ass she would know who Summer is.”
Brandon shoots a glare at Levi. “I got plenty of women in my life. Too many, to be honest. Might see if this Turner girl wants a piece if she’s as fine as her picture.” He pauses, grinning. “See if your sister will put in a good word for me.”
I bristle, my tone sharp as I cut in, “It might be lunch, but you’re on-duty, Jones. Adjust your attitude. Don’t want the town thinking we’re a bunch of animals.”
“Sorry, boss,” Brandon mutters, turning his attention back to the woman at the counter.
Levi flashes me a funny look but I ignore it, retreating to our usual table at the back of the Roscoe.
There, with a moment to myself before the rabble descend again, I glance back over at the abandoned table by the window and think of the woman who slipped out as if she couldn’t escape fast enough.
So… she’s back in town.
And with all of Crown Hill seemingly exploding with excitement at her return, she’s going to be hard to avoid.
* * *
Summer
“You said everyone would be dressed up!” I hiss to my mom, shivering in the tight evening dress that definitely has no place here in the town hall.
The rest of the fundraiser’s guests are in their Sunday best, formal but sedate, not a sequin or sparkle in sight. And here I am, looking like I’m about to walk a red carpet, feeling like more of a fraud with every passing second.
“I’ll just run home and change,” I insist, pulling away. “Grab my coat from the car at least.”
But Mom’s arm is a vise around mine, holding me at her side. “You’ll do no such thing. You look fine, stop fussing.”
Before I can argue or break free from her grip, I’m spotted by Mrs. Oakley, who has a horde of other older ladies with her. “Summer! Look, it’s Summer!”
In a matter of seconds, they swarm, their excitement palpable, their well-wishes and compliments stirring up a fever of imposter syndrome that threatens to burn me alive from the inside out. I’m no one special. I’m not worthy of the celebrity they seem determined to foist on me.
“Are you back in town for research?” one asks.
“Well, I…” I don’t get any further than that before someone else jumps in, a clamor of voices that make my ears ring.
“I’ve always thought that Oak Valley is really Crown Hill.”
“If you know where to find me a Rhys Corbridge or a Maxwell Hart, you point me to ‘em.”
Laughter erupts, while I squirm in the center of it.
“Will it be out in time for the summer?” another well-meaning lady asks what appears to be the most pressing question. “I can’t imagine anything better than reading a new Redwood Sisters book by the lake. Gives me something to do while Walter is holed up inside watching his sports.”
“You should have said you were coming, dear,” someone else chimes in. “We could’ve brought our copies for you to sign!”
“You must come and speak at our book club,” another insists, though I get the feeling that this is the book club.
“Doesn’t she look wonderful? Every bit the city girl!” someone, maybe Mrs. Oakley, cries. “If I were thirty years younger, I’d have myself a dress like that.”
Another woman snorts. “Your husband wouldn’t know what to do with himself!”
I take a breath. “I can’t give away the mystery, but you’ll all be the first to hear about it when there’s a new book on the way.”
That seems to appease them, and I feel even more terrible for not just being honest; they’ll be waiting for a book that’s never going to make an appearance.
Then again, they’ll figure it out soon enough when they realize, months from now, that I’m still in Crown Hill, working some job that’s decidedly not writing a book.
It's Paige who saves my floundering ass, her voice rising above the din of eager chatter that fills the foyer of the town hall. “The fundraiser is about to start! Everyone, take your seats!”
I try to catch her eye to flash her a grateful look, but she’s deep in business mode, tearing tickets and selling little white ribbons. She never seems to stop, and I have to wonder if it’s by design, a distraction from everything that happened to her this past year.
“Come on, then! I want us to get a good seat!” Dad chirps, weaving my arm through his to steal me away from the heartfelt compliments I’m not sure I deserve.
Ten minutes later, what feels like the entire town is seated in the hall, a space that has always reminded me of a summer camp basketball court; it’s just missing the corrugated iron roof.
A sixties addition to Crown Hill. I’m surprised there isn’t a renovation fundraiser alongside the one for the hospital.
A stillness settles over the audience, peppered by the usual coughs and crumpling of paper, a few sniffles and sneezes, though the quantity of bodies in the hall has stopped me shivering.
Onto the low dais that’s barely higher than the timeworn floor, the mayor, John Allbright, takes center stage with the flair of a Southern pastor.
“Are we all ready to raise some money for the hospital?” he calls out into an ancient microphone.
Shy voices mumble back, mostly in agreement.
“I said, are we all ready to raise some money for the hospital?” he tries again, sweeping his arms forward.
The audience gathers a bit of courage, me included, to reply with a chorus of, “Yes!”
“You can do better than that!” John insists, grinning. “Are we ready to raise some money for the hospital?”
This time, the answer is deafening, blaring so loudly through the town hall with the added thump of stomping feet that I fear for the building’s structural integrity.
But I smile as I put my “yes!” into the mix, my dad shouting at the top of his lungs, my mom whooping like she’s at a concert.
The mayor waits for us all to simmer down again, his cheeks bright red, a glisten of sweat showing under the spotlights. “Then, let’s get the night started with an auction!” he shouts.
The crowd cheers, some murmurs of excitement rising up as if this wasn’t expected.
“Now, as most of you know,” he continues breathlessly, “I’m something of a painter, and I was going to donate one of my original pieces as the first lot.”
Someone boos, and he takes it in good humor.
“It was a painting of my dog, if that changes anything?”
Applause and cheers swell afresh. Even I know about the mayor’s dog: a talkative, one-eyed Frenchie named Nugget, more famous than I could ever hope to be. Worthier of her accolades, too.
“But…” the mayor pauses for dramatic effect, “… that all changed when I got wind of a town celebrity whirling back into Crown Hill! Who’d want one of my paintings when they could have three dates with a famous writer instead? I know which will raise more money.”
My smile vanishes, and I’m suddenly aware of countless eyes fixed on me, the room so painfully quiet that I swear they must be able to hear the rapid beat of my heart and the gurgle of my writhing stomach. The mayor can’t be serious. This is just one of his silly jokes; it has to be.
“Surely, Crown Hill’s prodigal daughter won’t deny us this?” the mayor says, as a spotlight clumsily finds me, dazzling me with its retina-searing glow.
The room erupts, led by raucous howls from Mrs. Oakley and her book club dames. An entire town clapping fervently, whistling and hollering, until the wall of sound has me trapped in a position I don’t want to be in.
I should have stayed home.
“You have to, honey,” Mom whispers, giving me a nudge.
“Think of the hospital, sweetheart,” Dad encourages, with so much pride on his face that I can’t stand it.
A sharp jab catches me in the back, and I turn to find Paige leaning forward, her brown eyes as wide as a cat that wants a bit of your dinner.
“Please, Summer. There are kids being sent hours away because our x-ray machine only works when it wants to. And forget about MRIs. That conked out weeks ago. Folks having to share heart monitors, and don’t get me started on—”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it.” I take a breath and stand; I’m not going to turn myself into the most hated woman in Crown Hill by refusing to be auctioned off, even if this does feel like an ambush.
Putting on what I hope is a convincing smile, I head to the front and step up on stage to join the mayor.
“Thank you,” he whispers in earnest as he shakes my hand and pushes me toward the microphone.
“Uh… well, this is… um… unexpected,” I say, laughing awkwardly. “But I’m… happy to help; it’s the least that I can do after such a warm welcome.”
As enthusiastic applause reverberates around the hall, and the mayor shouts for everyone to dig deep and get their wallets ready, a little shiver runs through me.
The feeling of being watched, which sounds absurd when the entire town is staring at me, but this is different; it’s intense, prickling the fine hairs on the back of my neck.
Puzzled, I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the spotlights… and I see him, right there in the front row, the men from 59 around him.
A man I haven’t seen in three years, who ditched me with a measly note and never bothered to get in touch.
Zachary…
The catch of my breath is thankfully ignored by the mic, but there’s a shine in his eyes and a quirk to his lips that says he heard it anyway. He can smirk all he likes; I’m not worried. There’s no way he’s going to bid on me.
Right?