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He hesitates, throwing an uncertain look behind his shoulder, at his truck.
“So, um, please feel free to say no. But, I was wondering, if maybe, since you’re back, and I’m here, and this town hasn’t got a lot to offer in the entertainment sector in comparison to Manhattan . . .” He sucks in a breath, laughing awkwardly. “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me? Maybe? Sometime?”
I take his hand and squeeze it. “I would love that, Rhyssy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ARSÈNE
I arrive in Nashville, Tennessee, ready to commit capital murder. The only thing stopping me is the fact that the woman I’d like to strangle will be missed by many, including, to my great fucking shame, myself.
Nashville is busy and colorful and entirely too cheerful for a big city. The sun paints everything in a buttery-yellow filter.
I slip into a taxi and hand the driver the Mulberry Creek address I’ve been given. Arya made me promise not to give Winnifred shit, a vow I wholeheartedly intend to break. She was the one who gave me Chrissy’s number. And Chrissy? She only asked me to keep her posted.
I haven’t seen or heard from Winnie since she took a flight back home. Please, if you go there, tell me how she’s doing.
It was her one and only request in return for her client’s address. But now, as my phone flashes with her name, I can’t help but send her straight to voice mail. In a way, I partly blame her for this blunder. She should’ve kept her client on a tighter leash. Should’ve stopped her, through blackmail or reason, from leaving New York.
What kind of woman ditches a leading role at a Manhattan theater without so much as a two-week notice? And what kind of person lets her?
It’s a one-hour drive from Nashville to Mulberry Creek, and a whole lot of open fields and nothing between them. Wide-open spaces spark an uneasiness in me. Though I largely spent my youth in a boarding school in a mansion on the outskirts of New York, there is a certain state of mind, a quietness to the endlessly stretched fields, which I find disconcerting.
I arrive at Winnifred’s childhood home when the sun dips behind ancient red oaks. It’s a small white cottage with a sagging front porch, rocking chairs, a swing, and potted plans. There’s a pink toddler bike tipped over on the front lawn.
“Wait here,” I instruct the driver before getting out of the car. I’ve very little faith that I can change this stubborn woman’s mind. Much less that I can appeal to her common sense. First, because I came here without a plan. Second, because Winnifred (since when do I call her Winnifred and not Bumpkin?) never valued common sense very much. This is what makes her unpredictable, different, and fresh. Her ability to easily and happily choose the road less taken.
I go up the steps to her house and knock on the door. The telltale noises of a family dinner in progress assault my ears.
“Georgie, aren’t you going to eat any of the crawfish? For goodness’ sake, you’re not on one of your vegetarian spells, are you?” I hear Winnifred’s mother.
“It’s not a spell, I’m on Lent!”
“It’s not even February.”
“Winnie hasn’t eaten any, and I don’t see you complaining about her. And at least I’m being a good Christian.”
“The bleachers of our local high school would beg to differ,” Winnifred sasses back to her sister. I grin despite my best intentions.
Just fucking admit it, idiot. You don’t hate this woman as much as you want to. Not even close. Not even close to close.
“Are you ratting me out?” Georgie gasps. “Because while we’re on the subject, Ma and Dad may want to know about your little meet into the night with—”
“Are you ratting me out?” I hear my employee retort. “You haven’t changed at all, Georgie!”
“Of course I have. I’m now skinnier than you are!”
I rap the door again three consecutive times and step away. It doesn’t sound like Winnifred is having a terrible time. Her family seems to be nice. But she still owes me a show, and I do not like to be robbed of things.
The door flings open, and in front of me stands a woman who must be Georgie. She appears to be exactly Winnifred’s age, only taller. Her hair more rusty red than Winnifred’s vivid shade of orange blonde, her bone structure less refined and pleasing.
“Heya.” There’s a piece of string bean tucked into the corner of her mouth, like a cigarette. “How can I help you, you strange, good-looking city boy?”
So Winnifred got the personality and beauty. Poor Georgie.
“I’m here for Winnifred.” The words, although true, surprise me. It occurs to me that I’ve never stood in front of a girl’s door before, asking for her to come outside. I’d rarely dated before Grace, and when I did, I limited my communication with the said dates to sordid liaisons. Then Grace happened, and we either lived together or had our own apartments. There was no mystery, no added stress or value to pursuing her. Throughout my life, I had been spared the basic embarrassment of standing in front of a complete stranger, asking to see their beloved relative.
