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“He was!” Mia squeals.
“You need to sit still if you want nice nails,” her beautician warns, waving the blue-tipped polish brush in her direction.
“Sorry.” Mia flicks a glance at her stylist before leaning toward me. “Tell me everything.”
I shake my head. Aaron would kill me if he found out I was conversing with his daughter about my indiscretions. I’m more than happy to hear about her love life, but it seems wrong to share the antics of a forty-year-old woman with a teenager.
“Aunt Penny,” she whines.
“His name is Linc McArthur. And yes, Mia, he is hot. Too old for you, though.”
My gaze shoots to my beautician,Jasmine,who’s thinks now is a good time to share her opinion. “Oh, my goodness. Does everyone know?”
“Like your niece said, it’s a small town.” She gives a shrug, as if the topic of my kiss is as common as discussing the weather.
“And people shouldn’t gossip.” I straighten my shoulders, leaving my hands splayed out for my nails to dry. Yes, it might be the latest thing to talk about, but I don’t want Mia to get the wrong impression of me, as if I’m some floozy who makes a habit of kissing random men in public places. I want to be a positive role model in her life. Hopefully, by the time Aaron gets back from his honeymoon, the focus will shift from me to something else and all of this will be old news.
“So, are you going to see him again?” Mia asks as we pull up in front of her house a short time later.
“Who?” I feign innocence as I peer out the windshield. Blake’s truck is parked in the driveway, but there’s no sign of him over at the barn. We’re all taking turns at looking after Mia while Aaron and Jenna are away. And for the next few nights, it’s Blake’s turn.
“Linc. That’s such a cool name.” She sighs.
“I’m interviewing his gran.” I narrow my gaze and gesture for her to open the door. This conversation needs to end. I only hope word hasn’t gotten back to Clarissa that I threw myself at her grandson. I don’t want my opportunity to interview her to end before it even begins. “And not a word to your uncles, okay?”
“Okay.” Mia climbs out of the car and slings her backpack over her shoulder before flicking a grin in my direction. “But they already know.”
As she skips across to the porch, I grip the steering wheel and huff out a breath. Is nothing sacred in this small town? Why do people think it’s their business to know? Why do they even care? I thought Los Angeles was the gossip capital, but the grapevine in Autumn River is proving me wrong.
Moments later, I pull up in front of Clarissa’s house and smooth over the front of my blouse.I’m a professional, I remind myself as I run some lip gloss over my lips. I’ve interviewed people from all walks of life. I’ve been face to face with intimidating people and those with egos large enough to fill a stadium. I know how to portray a calm facade while my insides tremble. But for some reason, this is different. I am terrified that Clarissa will find out and tell me to leave, forgoing any opportunity to bring her story to life and ruin any chance I have of reporting on more than Mavis Higgins’ perennial blooms in the garden show.
At least my nails look good after my morning at the salon. It’s a minor consolation for the nerves bouncing around in my stomach.
A bead of sweat trickles down my spine, forcing me to get out of the car. I grab my satchel and purse and make my way through the neat garden beds with my heart hammering against my ribs.Just act normal. Why does it matter that you kissed her grandson? It doesn’t seem to have bothered him at all.
“Come in, dear.” Clarissa ushers me inside a few moments after I ring the doorbell.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. McArthur,” I chirp, perhaps a little too brightly.
“And you, too, dear. But, please call me Clarissa.”
“Okay.”
Cinnamon and something sweet fills the air as I follow Clarissa inside. She gestures for me to wait in the living room while she disappears into the kitchen. I take some deep breaths, hoping to calm my nerves and regain my professional composure. With Clarissa out of the room, I peruse the photographs on the side cabinet. There are some black and white ones featuring a younger woman, who I assume is Clarissa. With dark hair styled in soft curls, and a wide smile sparking joy, she was a stunner back in the day. There are a few photographs of the same woman posing with different men, all very handsome and distinguished-looking, which immediately intrigue me. Who are they? What was her relationship to them?
The last frame is tucked at the back of the display. A photo of her standing next to Linc, who is holding a Lucy Landon book and wearing a grin that spreads from ear to ear. Wow.Is he hot?Mia’s question flits through my mind.Why, yes, dear niece, Linc McArthur is gorgeous.
Lowering onto the edge of the sofa, I pick up Lucy’s most recent novel from the coffee table and smooth my hand over the cover, an alluring beach scene, complete with bicycle and seagrass and a muted sunset on the horizon. Lucy’s covers evoke a sense of calm and wanderlust. And the stories never disappoint. She has a knack for entwining emotion and romance and making the characters seem so real that I’m always left wondering if I actually lived the story. Which is a welcome escape from the craziness of my life in recent months.
Clarissa returns with a tray of coffee, iced water, and a plate of apple and cinnamon muffins.
“Cream? Sugar?” she asks, pouring coffee into the china cups.
“A dash of cream, please.” I thank her as she hands me a cup.
“You know, I never used to drink strong coffee. But now I wouldn’t have it any other way. I gave up sugar way before it was a fad.” Clarissa lowers onto the opposite armchair and crosses her legs at the ankles.
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it seems to be working. I was looking at some of your photographs.” I tilt my head toward the sideboard. “You haven’t changed at all. What’s your secret?”
