Chapter Thirteen
Jennifer Patrick cracks open the spine of the book, holds it up, and reads between sips of her coffee.
It looks so damn relaxing. Ask any mother when she last sat down to simply read a book and enjoy a cup of coffee, and I guarantee she’ll give you a blank stare—or, if her child’s nearby, sprint after them before they eat a handful of mulch or throw themselves off a piece of playground equipment—instead of attempting to answer you.
Because she hasn’t, probably since that child was born.
Anyway, what’s notable is not the title of the book, or even that she herself is reading—seventy-seven percent of women in the United States have read a book in the past year. It’s hardly remarkable.
What’s interesting is the book itself—the binding.
Books have bindings. Which means the riddle could be telling me to go somewhere books are.
It feels right.
Secrets cloaked in bindings tight. A library? A bookstore? A thread of frustration races through me—hell, Target sells books. It could be anywhere.
I drop my phone and snatch up the paper, scanning it once again.
You may take a walk, go to where the concrete stops. I thought it might mean water. And I’m pretty sure—
“Yes,” I hiss, realization cracking like lightning.
I open Google Maps, search for a bookstore I can’t remember the name of but have taken the girls to plenty of times.
I scroll through the list of shops—ones that serve wine, more Barnes & Nobles than I can count, and finally—of course, that sounds right—The Sprig.
It’s a gorgeous little shop, with sunshine streaming through the windows, tucked into the bustle of the Pearl District along the San Antonio River Walk. It’s too perfect. Bindings of books, a brick walkway where the concrete ends.
I huff out a breath, run my finger over the smooth paper, rereading the riddle. I grin. Yes. This must be it.
A lover you’ll follow into the bright. I’m not sure what to make of that. But I’m on the right path, that much I’m sure of. Sometimes, you just have to take a leap of faith—that you’ll figure the rest out when you get there.
A plan automatically hatches itself: Monday morning, I’ll drop the girls at school, drive to the River Walk, find parking, and hurry toward The Sprig.
Another quick search tells me it doesn’t open until ten a.m., so that’s when I’ll go.
My heart speeds. This is progress, and the excitement building assures me it will pay off when the job is done.
I hit the call button on my phone, ring Brian back, but he doesn’t answer. Figures. Man wants to talk until he doesn’t.
I text Ian instead—I figured out the first part!—then train my gaze across the way at the pharmacist. The cover of the book, even from a distance, is familiar—it’s the one about an octopus everyone has been reading. Probably a library copy because the cover is shiny, reflecting the morning light.
“Thank you, Jennifer Patrick,” I murmur. Without her, I might not have figured out this first chunk.
Fifteen minutes later, Jennifer has gone back inside, and just like that, I’m bored.
Boredom isn’t good for me. When there’s nothing to do, my imagination runs wild, and sometimes my inner monster is in control of said imagination.
It suggests bad things—like killing people who do not deserve to die—so I try to keep myself busy, my mind engaged.
I could go home, prepare dinner, and stick it in the fridge so I can relax tonight. Or I could—
A text dings through.
Brian: I know you’re mad. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have put that on you like I did. And if you want to work more, then you should. I support that. I’m sorry I didn’t understand.
He thinks I’m mad, must assume that’s why I got off the phone earlier. Regardless, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll still plan that fun, sexy weekend. But him backing down is a good sign. Just like the relationship book said, we’re discussing the disagreement, we’re solving it.
Brian texts a second time: DC is beautiful. We should plan a trip here with the girls when they’re older.
A stream of photos comes through: Brian in front of the Capitol Building. Brian in front of the White House. Brian surrounded by bright pink cherry blossom trees in full bloom, his smile bright like he’s delighted to be in DC in spring.
I tap out a search on Google for how to respond when someone apologizes about a big issue in a marriage.
Google, of course, gives me a list of relationship counselors.
I hum under my breath, trying to think of the right response.
I want him to feel good about his answer, about us coming to an agreement on no more children.
What would Piper do in this situation? Probably, she’d still be pissed. But sometimes I think Piper likes having a reason to be mad at whoever she’s dating.
Thanks for apologizing, I write, then add, Is the trip going okay?
That should do it—should let him think I’m the lovely wife who of course forgives him, who understands when he makes a mistake. That is, after all, what a good wife would do.