Outwardly: a hit. Inwardly: a dial tone that won’t disconnect.
Every time the door sighs open, I glance up; every time it’s not Audrey, my chest does that hollow elevator drop. A toddler offers me a half-eaten marshmallow with grave generosity. I take it because I’m not a monster. He beams like we’ve agreed to something important, and the lawyer in me is convinced I was hoodwinked by a kindergartner.
Amanda finishes with applause and a blizzard ofconstruction-paper antlers. She signs a stack of programs and books while I smooth the two-piece Brioni I wear like a suit of armor, for some reason needing to feel more like the Hollywood agent I am than the small-town lawyer I’ve been pretending to be.
In the quiet between celebrity readers—including Hideaway born and raised model-turned-actor Brody King reading a book about a Christmas Yeti—Amanda corners me. She’s got that celebrity interview smile she uses when she’s about to be kind yet sadistically surgical.
“Looking charming as always.” She flicks a bit of glitter from my suit sleeve. “Also distracted.”
“I can do two things at once.” I aim for light, trying to convince myself that the bookcase of thrillers on one side and murder mysteries on the other is completely circumstantial.
“You can.” Tucking a glitter pen behind her ear, she slides a Stephen King book off the shelf and pretends to read the back. “But I meant it last night when I told Audrey I wouldn’t steal you today.”
That lands harder than I expect.
She looks up from the book. “You’ve made me into a liar.”
“Wait.” The image of Amanda, drunk on cider after caroling, resurfaces. “When did you talk to Audrey about this?”
“On the walk back from town square last night.” She talks like she’s telling me about the weather, not wielding a book about a vengeful woman soaked in pig’s blood. “She asked about the movie I want to make. We talked about inspiration. I said I’d give you a pass on the library…” There’s a pause like she’s replaying their conversation, then a wince. “Shit.”
Instantly I’m on alert. “What?”
No longer looking dangerous, Amanda replaces the book on the shelf. “I also mentioned you took on Scott Evans as a client.”
I blink. “You what?”
She runs a hand over her face, slightly smearing her mascara. “I might’ve been a bit tipsy.” A grimace. “In my head, it seemed absolutely plausible she’d already know about Evans. You two have been attached at the hip for weeks.” She flutters her smudged eyelashes, hopeful. “You did tell her, right? I mean, that seems like something you should tell the person you’re involved with.”
I picture Audrey on that sidewalk, nodding like the news didn’t knock her sideways.
Amanda reads whatever expression I’m making. “Fuck.”
“I’m going to the bakery.” I straighten my tie, preparing for battle. “I’ll fix it.”
“Good.” She squeezes my elbow. “And just so you know, I’m sorry.” She locks eyes with me. “Really.”
I bring her in for a quick hug. “Don’t be. It’s my fault.” Pulling back, I take a moment to really look her over and—aside from the raccoon eyes— Amanda glows, just like she does on screen. But the real-life version is much warmer. I’ve been so busy with my own business that I haven’t really appreciated all that this trip has done for my friend. “And just so you know, I’m happy that you’re happy.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Really.”
She snorts, her eyes shining as brightly as her glossedlips. “Iamhappy.” She shrugs, laughing off the sudden emotion. “Who would’ve thought, huh?”
We share another hug before Amanda pushes back, thumbing behind her toward the door. “Go.” She runs her fingers under her eyes, looking picture perfect once more. “I can survive a town’s worth of five-year-olds without your legal counsel.”
Portia spots us and starts walking over. If possible, Amanda shines brighter.
Leaving my friend in her girlfriend’s capable hands, I weave through the library crowd until I make it outside. The day is a quiet, pale bowl compared to the vibrant interior of the children’s section of the library. Snow does that soft sifting thing that turns everything so pristine it almost hurts to look at.
Hands jammed in my pockets and my heart doing its worst version of a pre-workout warm-up, I’m about to cut across Lobstah Lane when a vintage pickup pulls up in front of me—two-tone paint, chrome grinning, breath clouding from the exhaust like an old dragon.
Eli leans across and rolls down the passenger side window looking straight out of an L.L. Bean catalog in a red and black flannel over a thermal Henley. There’s a duffel in the passenger seat and what looks suspiciously like a pair of ice skates tossed in the back.
“Counselor!” He thumbs the brim of his honest-to-goodness local hardware store trucker hat. “Heading to the bakery?”
“That’s the plan.” I make a show of looking him over. “You heading to the lumberjack competition?”
He laughs. “I’m heading from hockey practice over to mysister’s to grab my niece.” He glances at the clock on his dashboard. “She volunteered to help with the Woolen Sock Run over at Locke Reserve.”
I nod, impressed. “I guess even teenagers are wholesome enough to volunteer in the community when they live in a small town.”
