“What do you need?”
“I need for you to stop attacking that wall and flinging paint everywhere.”
Gwen frowned and really looked at the wall she’d been painting. Rather than the neat rows on Mallory’s wall, which were already drying and blending into a creamy covering, Gwen’s wall was covered in thick, uneven strokes that went in all different directions and were already drying into jagged streaks. And she was definitely making a mess of the plastic-covered floor around her.
“Sorry. I can fix it.”
“You’re always so particular about things. I thought you’d be better at this,” Ellen said, her voice heavy with an amusement Gwen didn’t share.
“Maybe this is why I’m a writer and not a painter,” she said, hating the sullen tone, but unable to stop herself. “Or I used to be a writer, anyway.”
“Gwen, if you need to take a break, you should. There are plenty of us to do the painting.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Everybody was working so hard that, as much as she resented losing time to work, she couldn’t put extra on their plates. “I get cranky when I’m not writing.”
The guilt on her mother’s face made Gwen feel like a jerk. “I know we’ve asked a lot.”
“It’s not just that,” she said quickly. “You know I struggle here in Stonefield. Do you know when I went into the pharmacy the other day because I was out of vitamins, the teenager who was stocking the shelves asked me if I was the one who’d made Mrs. Dorsey look bad in the movie.”
“You should be flattered, honey. They love talking about your books—especiallyA Quaking of Aspens.”
Gwen snorted, which earned her a stern maternal look. “Flattered? They’ve accused me of fictionally murdering Tony Bickford and they think I accused S-HoP of food poisoning their customers. And I wasn’t even the one who wrote that scene.”
“Everybody was so excited for you when you got published, and then when everybody started talking about it and the book was on TV, it became one of the biggest things to happen for Stonefield, and I think everybody just wanted to feel like they were a part of it. I guess with a book, you do that by looking for yourself in it. And then the movie happened.”
“Of course growing up in this town influenced me when I was creating afictionaltown for my book. How could it not? But itisfiction.” Gwen shook her head. “And even if somebody in the book was very heavily inspired by somebody here, I can’t tell them that.”
“I understand that,” Ellen said, though Gwen wasn’t sure she truly did. “You can’t change them, but you can choose how you let it affect you. Instead of being annoyed by the comments, maybe just appreciate their somewhat clumsy attempts at being a part of the excitement.”
That almost made sense to Gwen, but being annoyed by the people in her hometown was a hard habit to break. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. As soon as the brewery is open, I’m leaving.”
“But—”
“Mom!” Gwen stopped, taking a breath because that had been louder than she’d intended and she absolutely was not going to raise her voice to her mother. “I have to go home, Mom. I haven’t written at all for days. Other than a few stretches that went well, it’s been almost impossible for me to work consistently. There’s always something to do or somebody talking to me about something. And even if I lock myself in my room, there’s so much going on that it’s impossible for me to focus.”
“It won’t always be like this. Things will calm down.”
There was no point in arguing because she wasn’t going to be able to make her mother understand. There was always something. Somebody in the family always needed something. Friends always wanted to go do things. People felt free to talk to her about her books—especially what they didn’t like about them. In Vermont, she had a routine. It was a lonely routine at times, but it was quiet. Peaceful. She’d written two books there in less time than it took her to writeA Quaking of Aspensbecause she’d made herself a life in an environment that supported her career.
Stonefield was not that environment. The Sutton house wasdefinitelynot that environment.
And then there was Case. He was a distraction whether he was standing in front of her or not. She thought about him constantly—wondering what he was doing and when she’d get to see him again—and remembering the night they’d spent together kept her awake at night.
After a heavy sigh, Gwen refilled her paint tray and set about fixing the wall. It took her longer to make it look right than if she’d just calmed down and done it right the first time, but she was finally able to set her roller down and stretch her back.
“You have paint in your hair,” Case said as he appeared at her side with two bottles of water.
She laughed and pushed some strands back from her face before taking one of the bottles. “So do you.”
“I think I got in the way of the spray when you were taking all of your frustrations out on the paint roller earlier.”
“Not my finest moment,” she admitted before taking a long drink of the cold water. Then she looked around the taproom, which looked entirely different with the walls painted. It was brighter and warmer, and she could almost picture what it would look like when it was finished. “It looks so different.”
“This is going to be a really nice place,” he said, and then he smiled at her and his eyes crinkled and her hands ached to touch him.
Sometimes keeping busy and being tired could keep her longing for Case under control, but there were times—like now—when the desire was almost a pain that she’d do anything to ease.
“Don’t keep looking at me like that if you don’t mean it,” he warned in a low, rough voice before he reached out and brushed loose strands of her hair away from her face. His thumb grazed her cheek, the touch lingering, until everything faded away except for the feel of his skin against hers.
