Chapter 23
twenty-three
“When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.” - Dylan Thomas
Uncle Joe dropped Jocelyn at her car around lunchtime the next day.
The sidewalks of downtown Cedar Hollow stirred with life as people took advantage of a day with cooler weather. Another storm had blown in the night before, teasing people with the faintest taste of autumn, and Jocelyn moved among them.
She’d been around almost two weeks, and the gazes didn’t linger as much as they used to, like she’d become a bit more of a fixture. Some folks even offered her a nod of friendly acknowledgment.
It was odd, though. That ache in her middle kept throbbing, reminding her there were answers still to be found, a line that kept her from settling.
That thought stopped her. Settling wasn’t the point.
And yet, she found herself drawn across the street, lured not only by practicality, but also some measure of connection.
It would’ve been easy to seek it out with Cole, whose presence still clung to her like heat, pulling at her even as she fought to steady herself.
Her body remembered his touch too easily, craving more than she dared allow.
The very thought sent warmth into her cheeks.
But she kept on toward Natasha’s boutique. The bell above the door chimed as Jocelyn slipped inside. Natasha was bent over the counter, blonde hair spilling forward as she studied a sheet of paper. She glanced up, her polite smile breaking wide when she realized who it was.
“Jocelyn!” Natasha said, then she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh God, you were staying at the Inn, weren’t you?”
Jocelyn sighed. “Yeah. I’m basically out of all my clothing.”
“Oh, no!” She met Jocelyn halfway across the store and linked arms with her. “Well, let’s get you a few things. On me, of course!”
Jocelyn waved her hands, a pit forming in her stomach. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“No, please,” her sister said. “I can use it as a write-off, and I order these tall sizes just in case, so they end up sittin’ here unless I get them for myself. And I certainly don’t need them!”
She ushered Jocelyn to a dressing room and bustled into the back, returning with an armload. “At least three outfits,” she said, voice stern. “There’s a pajama set in there, too.”
She dumped them into Jocelyn’s arms and pushed her into the stall, hushing any protests. As before, everything fit like it was tailored to her.
It felt flat wrong to watch Natasha place the outfits into big bags and hand them over, but she continued to shut down any of Jocelyn’s attempts at denying the generosity.
“Now,” Natasha said brightly, folding her manicured hands on the counter. “Tomorrow night’s the big bonfire. You comin’?”
Jocelyn cocked her head. “What bonfire?”
“A tradition they started a few years ago. It’s for locals and tourists, a lead in to the Festival. There’s an apple dessert contest.” Natasha’s eyes sparkled like she had a vested interest in that event. Still, it sounded like something no one but her would be happy to find Jocelyn at.
“I don’t know…” Jocelyn shifted the bags on her arm.
“Please come!” Natasha clasped her hands like she was praying.
“I’ll try,” Jocelyn said, mostly to appease her.
It was enough to satisfy Natasha, and Jocelyn headed for the door, pushing through the guilt that she might’ve been lying to her sister. But, then again, maybe she wasn’t.
Her waffling thoughts fell right out of her head when the door opened before she could reach it, and Daniel Abbott stepped into the store.
His smile faltered as soon as he saw her. It was only one breath before he pushed forward with a practiced resolve.
“Jocelyn,” he said. It was almost a question, and the sound of her name on his lips seemed foreign.
They’d so rarely spoken to each other. She remembered the sharp arguments he’d had with her mama, how sometimes his expression softened when his eyes drifted to Jocelyn—as if seeing another life in her face—only to wrench his gaze away again.
“D-Daniel,” she managed, scooting past him.
He grimaced, his attention shifting to Natasha. “You ready, Sweetpea?”
The words pelted Jocelyn, leaving her breathless. She didn’t look back at Natasha, who called her name, only shoved through the door into afternoon light, her chest heaving until she could finally drag in oxygen.
She had thought she was ready, that she could face him. Thought she could ask her questions, maybe even repair something fractured long ago. But as the air pressed heavy around her, Jocelyn knew she wasn’t strong enough—at least not yet.
And when she found the newspaper clipping caught in her windshield wiper, she almost dismissed it as trash blown in on the cool breeze. But its location, and the timing, made her reach for it with a stone heavy in her stomach.
It was just a sliver, but one sentence was circled in red ink.
“Nothing but a sad accident,” she muttered.
Somebody was going a little heavy-handed.
And it was just one more damn thing she didn’t need.