Her last books had used a couple California prisons as a backdrop and she knew some people in the system. After making a few calls, she got through to a contact who thought he might be able to get her in for a midweek visit. Pleased, she opened her Word program and prepared to work.
But the second she saw the blinking cursor on the blank page, she found her thoughts straying from her plot to Ethan. He’d been beyond pissed with her and still was. She’d meant what she’d said—he would have to learn to let it go or he would never have a decent relationship with Tyler. Anger had a way of taking over everything. She should know. It had taken her months to get over what Ethan had done to her. In fact, she didn’t think she’d fully let go of her feelings until she’d written that first short story where he’d died a painful death.
Later, when she’d expanded the short story into her first novel, she’d moved beyond the need to punish Ethan. She’d hoped for at least a calm, adult relationship—one that put Tyler first. It was the reason she’d returned five years ago.
She closed the computer and stood. Apparently this wasn’t going to be one of those days when the work went quickly and easily. Maybe she’d been trapped inside for too long.
A quick glance at her watch told her that Ethan would arrive any second to take Tyler to the game. She could go for a walk while they were gone. Clear her head.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d gotten through yet another awkward meeting with Ethan, confirmed when he would bring Tyler back, done her best not to notice how great he looked in jeans and a sweatshirt, then watched them drive away.
And then it hit her. She wasn’t Tyler’s only parent anymore. Suddenly it wasn’t just going to be her and her son ever again. There would be someone else involved. Someone else in on the decisions.
A worry for another day, she told herself. After shoving a few dollars, a credit card and her cell phone into her pocket, she locked the front door of the house and started toward town. Three blocks later, she was walking through Fool’s Gold, noticing the new businesses and old. Morgan’s Books was still there. She remembered the owner from when she’d been growing up. She’d spent hours scanning new titles, writing down which ones she wanted the library to order.
Morgan had been a kind man who’d never minded the time she’d spent, despite the fact that she hadn’t bought a single book. Driven by guilt and maybe a little curiosity as to whether or not he stocked her books, she crossed the street. Before she could step into the store, she saw a window display of her latest hardcover. There was a poster of the cover, a good-sized picture of her, a list of several flattering reviews and a banner proclaiming her a “local author.”
Liz blinked at the display, not sure what to make of it. She’d never hidden where she’d grown up, but she’d never mentioned it, either. There hadn’t been any special events here in town, no book signings. Still, Morgan was treating her like a star.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The space was as light and bright as she remembered. There were books everywhere and immediately her fingers itched to hold and open every volume.
She loved books—the weight and smell of them, the feel of the paper against her skin. While an electronic reader took up less room than a stack of books, she had never been able to make the transition. She was a book person.
Morgan’s had a big table displaying new books. Hers sat in the middle, the new hardcover and all four of her backlist books. Several customers browsed. No one seemed to notice her.
If this had been any other bookstore, she would have walked to the information desk and introduced herself, then offered to sign any stock. But this was Fool’s Gold and somehow the regular rules didn’t apply.
Before she could decide what to do, an older woman glanced up and saw her. The woman’s eyebrows went up.
“You’re Liz Sutton,” the woman said in a loud voice. “Oh my God! Morgan! You’ll never guess who just walked into your store.”
Morgan, a tall older man with dark skin and warm brown eyes, stepped from behind the counter and paused at the sight of Liz. A moment later he winked at her. “I have three new books on horses.”
She laughed. The summer she’d turned twelve, she’d been obsessed with horses. Probably because being on one meant the illusion of freedom and being able to ride away. She’d come into his store nearly every day to ask if he had any new books on horses.
“I’ll have to check them out,” she said and crossed to him.
She’d meant to offer her hand to shake, but somehow she found herself hugging him.
“Welcome back, Liz,” he murmured, squeezing her, then holding her at arm’s length and smiling. “You’ve made us all proud. Your books are really good.”