Page 3 of In a Word, Yes

Savannah’s eyes widen. She shoots me a discreet wink pregnant with meaning.Ack. She’s wrong about Ian where I’m concerned. Way wrong. This place that smells of cardamom and the pages of old books may be one of my happy places, but the owner is a friend to all. Although his slight British accent and the early silvering of his temples wouldn’t hurt his case, if I were looking for that sort of thing. Which I’m definitelynot. But Savannah will always see what Savannah wants to see, bless her.

Let it go, I lip silently, although her boss is no longer anywhere in view. She flashes a cheeky grin as I move to the pickup area. Whatever. The girl can’t help it that she’s duty bound to sprinkle me with some of her giddy-newlywed glitter.

A whiff of chai spices escapes as I secure the lid. Something tickles my bare ankle. “Louie!” I reach to give the shop cat a scratch, and he winds between my legs. The orange tabby is one of my favorite things about Sweet Reads, along with the sign hanging over the entrance to the adjacent reading room that reads “Once you have read a book you care about, some part of it is always with you.” A quote from the cat’s namesake, Louis L’Amour.

Thanks to Sun Country Apartments’ cruel no-pets policy, I make do with other people’s animals. And if L’Amour is right, I’m carrying parts of many, many books around with me every day.

Yep, I’ve come to the right place. My heart now ticks imperceptibly, just the way I like it.

Ian reemerges carrying a slip of paper folded in half. “Funny you stopped by, Lucy. I was just thinking about you—I mean, thinking of giving you a ring ... at theMessenger. Phoning in an advert, I mean.” He really does have one of the most likable faces in town—kind, yet also distinguished. A two-legged Scottie dog.

“Here,” he continues. “My mobile’s on there. I mean, in case you have any questions. I mean, is this okay? Do you mind if I just give it to you since you’re here? I can totally phone it in, if that’s bet—”

“Of course not. No problem,” I say, waving off his over-the-top consideration. If only everyone were so polite. “It’ll run on Wednesday.”

“Oh, good.”

“So, it’s a classified?”

“No, it’s actually a—oh, blast, what do you call it?” He snaps his fingers, stumped. “I’m hoping it can go on that public announcements page.Actually, maybe you’d be interested. I mean,interested in the ... inthat.” He gestures to my canvas bag. Today I’m sporting the one I earned in the library’s summer reading challenge that proclaims “My Weekend Is Booked.” But what is Ian babbling about? Oh right—the paper. The one I tucked away without even a glance.

Okay. I’ll admit things are occasionally awkward between Ian and me. That’s the trouble with being over thirty and single in a postage stamp of a town, where everyone’s aware of everyone else who’s over thirty and single. You’re forever walking the fine line of friendliness so neither person mistakes the other. Is Ian into me? I prefer to remain uninformed. In fact, just once I’d love to navigate the town without being made to feel self-conscious. Is this too much to ask?

“Just let me know,” he says. “Cheers, Lucy!”

Is he ... blushing?

Outside, the soft air’s familiar embrace reminds me that enjoying some level of recognizability in this community is better than obscurity. Leaving Salem in the rearview mirror and starting over here means I’m not known for past mistakes.

Nor associated with my mother’s fame, hallelujah.

No shame.

No fame.

In Charity Falls, I get to be plain old Lucy Montgomery, classified ads girl. Mousy brunette. Chase’s mom.

For a long time, this has been more than enough. For five years, I’ve been swimming in an ocean of freedom.

This weird new ennui is just an anomaly. Bound to pass soon.

I linger, admiring Sweet Reads’ window display. Under a sign that says HOT SEPTEMBER READS, long wire skewers with marshmallows affixed to the ends lean against a fake campfire. Camp chairs have been artfully arranged with stacks of the newest releases, among them novels by John Grisham, Jane Kirkpatrick, and Steph Stoneback. S’cute!

Oh, to be relaxing by a lake with a good story!

It takes restraint not to play my audiobook for the last two blocks of the journey. Instead, I tiptoe to the edge of the question burning hot in my gut. What comes next inmystory?

When I turn down Main, theMountain Messengeroffice comes into view, its weathered wood porch opening its arms to me in a hug. Fisting my latte, I amble past the row of historic cottages now occupied by wellness professionals and real estate teams, where honeybees sip from bright clusters of lavender and black-eyed Susans. Ginger tickles my nose and tingles at the back of my throat.

So what?So what if I’m not breezy and daring? Who says every seed that wings its way out of the graveyard has to spawn a resplendent garden? Not that I wouldn’t mind a bit more color in my life. Less bearing up and more bloom. But I rebuke this pesky restlessness.

Shouldn’t it be enough just to survive?

Two

pine(v.): to yearn intensely or persistently, especially for something unattainable

The beginning-of-the-week hush still hangs over the news office’s dark-paneled interior. Out here alone at my station, I rather imagine myself captain of a very small ship. I key in new help wanted ads for Blue Lake Resort and Trading Post Café. Servers are ever in short supply in a tourist town. A flick of the wrist. A click of the mouse. The design program bows to my whim.