Page 19 of In a Word, Yes

Is she for real? I narrow my eyes at her. “Pretty sure I’m way underfunded for that one.”And not an actual journalist, I don’t say.

Dot trills persimmon-colored fingernails on the counter andstares into space. I need to find her off switch. At the sound of faint, soft footfalls behind us, we turn.

Meg passes wordlessly, all the while coiling a length of rope into a figure eight between her elbow and hand. She exits through the front door. Bouldering before 9:00 a.m.? Slacklining? Steer wrestling?

Dot’s neatly penciled eyebrows form two amber crescents way up at her hairline, as if to suggest,There you go, Lucy! There’s your solution, all wrapped up in a bow and sentdown from the high and holy place. As if the antidote for what ails me is to invite myself along on Meg’s next adventure.

I bite my lip. “Dot, think less physical, more ... personal.”

She nods slowly. “Ahh, I see what you’re saying. Like, you didn’t come this far to only come this far.”

I manage a wobbly smile. Now we’re on the same page.

Later she texts me.

Stumbled on this quote. “Courage is not the towering oak that sees storms come and go; it is the fragile blossom that opens in the snow.” Isn’t that lovely?

Like I say, Dot’s a peach.

***

By lunchtime, I’m experiencing sharp hunger pangs alongside the squeeze of a drop-dead deadline. On top of our usual weekly deadlines, we’ve been tasked with producing a special publication for the chamber of commerce: a magazine geared to invigorate the local tourism industry, in which we tout the “innumerable reasons to visit Charity Falls and our whole recreational paradise here on the sunny side of the Cascade Mountains in the heart of the Pacific Northwest.”

It’s hard to argue with the case we’ve built for vacationers to drop a pin in their Google Maps and navigate to this place I callhome. As I proofread a prominent pagethree sidebar, I can practically hear the resonant voiceover of some Travel Channel dude inside my head.

High-mountain lakes, rolling forests dense with pine and fir for exploring, plus a world-renowned fly-fishing riverform the backyard for a charming Western-themed downtown boasting myriad vibrant expressions of artfulness and Americana.

Words I penned. And which, as I reconsider them, are all quite true. Of course, what this paragraph doesn’t mention are the myriad reasons a young mom, determined to shield her child from his father’s cold disregard and volcanic temper, might find Charity Falls the ideal spot for a do-over.

Literally and figuratively, the green pastures and quiet waters that continue to heal my thirsty soul.

Of course, it didn’t become all those things overnight.

My heartbeat pounds inside my temples.

Thank God Chase was too young to remember—and that I’d had the presence of mind to pack sleeping bags. Although, a can opener would have sure made things easi—

“Check these over,” Brad says, interrupting my thoughts with that nasal monotone of his. He plops a thick manila folder atop my inbox without stopping. Display ads. The bread and butter of a small press.

Once again, there’ll be no actual lunchtime. Which is fine. Important stuff to be done.

Half an hour later, Dot’s at my elbow, face flushed. “Got twenty-three and twenty-four yet? The forest ranger spread?”

Now there’s a great story. I’ll bet plenty of locals have no idea our local district ranger joined a quilting circle. Or that he’s taught his crew how to quilt. All year, forestry personnel have been turning out warm, cheerful quilts to distribute among unhousedpersons living in the national forest before winter descends. I donated some fabric for the project myself.

Because I know firsthand the desperation that can lead someone to spend the night in a vehicle in the forest.

“Just about,” I answer, eyeing the time. “I’m still waiting for—”

As if on cue, Meg props open her office door.Phew.“Hey, Meg,” I say after rapping on it twice. “Got a sec? I think something’s wonky with this quote from the quilting ranger—”

“Sorry, Luce. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Been on the line most of the morning with Steph Stoneback’s publicist.” She punctuates this with an eye roll.

Not buying it. She loves every second of this assignment. It’s just that half her fun is pretending she doesn’t.

Maybe it’s the out-of-whack ratio of caffeine to protein I’ve been chancing all day, but by 1:30, when Sam lumbers toward my station, I’m experiencing a freaky out-of-body sensation. As if I’m watching my interaction with a certain burly editor from a distance. I’m just a fly on the wall, a curious observer, and my subject is a thirty-one-year-old introvert named Lucy Montgomery.

“How’s things shaping up?” the old guy named Sam says with an air of authority to the petite woman at the front desk with a fresh orange juice stain down her T-shirt.