Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

“I’m sure the animals appreciated it.” I lean against the counter again, my load a little lighter. After a quick sweep of my mother’s face, I shake my head. “I’m going to be fine. I promise.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she says, lifting her tea. Her tone is soft. It’s the one she always used when she’d come into my bedroom late at night right after my father left us and whisper to me that everything would be all right. “I worry. You know that.”

“I’m not going to be homeless. There are people looking over my résumé as we speak. Besides, like Grace says, when is the last time I took a few days off? Maybe this is a good thing.”

“I’ll never argue with getting to spend more time with you.”

“Right.” Despite the resoluteness in my voice, my spirit feels less convinced. My pride stings. “I put my life into that company,” I say before I can think twice. “I did everything right. I worked my butt off. I went out of my way to find gems of stories, the ones that resonate with readers. I had little girls sending me letters. Those things are . . .”

I don’t know how to summarize what those things are to me. Looking at my mom, I shrug.

“Those things are what make your world go ’round,” Mom whispers.

“It’s why I wanted to do this in the first place,” I say, my shoulders dropping. “That was my dream. Is my dream. To make a difference. To matter. To feel like I have a role in the world, and now . . .”

Mom sets her mug down, dabbing at her eyes with her fingertips. “This door closed, but another will open. It’s how life works. As much as you loved it there, it’s not where you are meant to be.”

With a half laugh, I pick up a napkin off the table and touch it to my cheeks. “I could just take a job today at some random magazine, but I don’t want just another job. I want to be needed. I want what I thought I had. The opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Give it time,” she says. “And who knows? Maybe a door will open here in Tennessee.”

I laugh. “I love your optimism, Mom, but I think that’s a stretch.”

“Never know.”

My growling stomach calls notice to the unattended pasta on the stove. Talk of work behind me for the time being, I want to move on. To anything. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

She looks at the stovetop, then back at me. She takes in my cues, and a slow smile stretches across her pink-lined lips. “Let’s go for margaritas.”

“Really?” I laugh. “What’s happened to you? I come home, and you’re drinking decaf and tequila.”

“Oh, the tequila isn’t for me, sweetheart.” She leads me into the dining room, where our purses sit on a little table my grandfather made when Mom was a child.

“Who’s it for, then?” I ask, grabbing my purse.

“You.” She looks at me and grins. “I feel like it’ll help you tell me about seeing Dane at the café today.”

“Dane,” I whisper.

His name tastes like strawberry wine and balmy summer nights. As weird as it sounds coming out of my mouth, there’s something so familiar. His name just rolls off my tongue like I’ve practiced it a million times. Probably because I have. And my tongue probably wonders why this time isn’t followed by a curse word.

“I saw him in the bank last week. He’s so handsome, Neely.”

Rolling my eyes at the dreamy way she says it, like it’s the epitome of her life’s ambition to see the two of us together, I sigh dramatically.

“Well, I’m sure there’s some kind of scandal brewing under all that handsome,” I mutter, kind of hoping it’s true. I don’t want him to be nice. Or kind. Or anything reasonable that will make me not dislike him.

“I believe he lives a very boring life,” Mom says. “You know, he spends all of his time—”

“No.” I cut her off unapologetically. “I don’t want to know how he spends his time or what he looked like in the bank or what he’s doing with his life . . .”

I don’t want to know anything about him. Not because I’m not curious, because I am. I’ve wondered about his life a thousand times since I saw him today. It’s because I’m happier living with the little story I’ve created for him in my head than with any sort of reality that might be better.

“Let’s go for margaritas, but there will be no talk of Dane Madden,” I say firmly. “Deal?”

She laughs and almost dances toward the door. “Deal.”

“Since when did you become a decaf-loving socialite liar?”

She just laughs some more.

CHAPTER FIVE

NEELY

There are no organic strawberries.

A little petulant, I eye the produce in front of me. Graber’s is this town’s only grocery store, and their fresh produce section is lacking. I’m not entirely sure Graber’s even meets the definition of a true grocery store, but it’s all I have to work with. After two giant peach margaritas last night, I have no desire to drive to the next town over for anything.