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I looked down at the coffee, then out the window at the last of the festival equipment being loaded away. I’d come to Dixie’s expecting a conversation about the murder and perhaps a little more clarity about the man who’d once broken my heart. I’d left with neither, exactly, but something had shifted. I’d seen more of the man Josiah had become, and he’d seen more of the life I’d built without him.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t a second chance. But it had been a conversation, and for the first time since he’d returned, I could imagine having another one and maybe being the one to start it myself. Perhaps even over another cup of coffee or a shared breakfast.
That was enough for today.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARIZONA UPDATE
Max
By the time my mother called later that afternoon, I’d managed to get some writing done, although not nearly as much as I’d hoped. My laptop was open on the kitchen table, and I’d made reasonable progress on a scene involving a woman who’d finally managed to enter a café after three paragraphs of indecision. At this rate, she might actually order something before lunch.
My phone rang, and Mom’s name appeared on the screen. I answered, bracing myself for whatever adventure my parents had got themselves into this time. Their RV travels had provided enough material for a book of their own, although I suspected I’d have to change the names and leave out a few details to avoid being sued by campground owners.
“Hi, Mom. Everything all right?”
“Of course, darling. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the last time you called, Dad had managed to get himself banned from another campground, and that was also when I heard about the first time.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“Was it the misunderstanding involving panning for gold in the KOA’s decorative landscaping, or the one involving the laundry and the gas grill?”
“That was all a while ago, Max.”
“And yet somehow I doubt Dad has become more sensible since then.”
“Well, we’re having a lovely time. The weather is beautiful, the scenery is gorgeous, and your father has purchased a metal detector.”
“No.”
My response came out so quickly that she laughed. “I thought you might say that.”
“Why does Dad need a metal detector?”
“He says he’s interested in local history.”
“Dad thinks anything that glitters in the dirt might be gold, and anything rusty might be a valuable antique. Right before you two bought the RV, he brought home a rock he was convinced had traces of precious metal in it. It was a rock, Mom. A perfectly ordinary rock.”
“He says you have to start somewhere.”
“I’d be happier if he started with a hobby that didn’t involve digging holes in places where he isn’t supposed to dig holes.”
“History belongs to those who dig,” Dad called in the background.
I closed my eyes, already regretting answering the phone. “Dad, history belongs to people who know when to put the shovel down.”
“He doesn’t have a shovel,” Mom assured me.
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is, especially since he has a metal detector.”
She laughed again, sounding far too pleased with herself. I could picture her perfectly, sitting in the RV with her feet up and a cup of coffee within reach, watching Dad pursue whatever new idea had caught his attention. She loved him, of course. She also understood that keeping him out of trouble was a full-time occupation, and she’d long ago decided that the best approach was to let him get on with things while documenting the results. If she couldn’t stop him, she could at least make sure the family got a good story out of it.
“Actually,” she continued, “I was going to tell you about our last campground. Your father—”
“Hang on a minute.” Dad’s voice came closer, followed by a rustle that suggested he’d taken the phone from her. “Before your mother tells you her version of events, I think you should hear what actually happened.”
