“I can’t even remember the last time I made s’mores,” Erin commented.
“I think I was about ten,” the other woman said, laughing.
“Are you with the library?”
“No, I teach English at the high school here in Lake Stevens. Oh, and I coach basketball.”
“Really? I…used to coach girls’ softball and volleyball at the college level.”
While they shared their experiences, George Carlson handed out sharpened sticks. In no time, they were all roasting marshmallows—or burning them to a crisp, in a few cases—then squishing them between graham crackers and chocolate bars.
She and Cole should have done this. He’d uncovered an old concrete and rusty metal grill out in the backyard that Erin had forgotten was there. Once she saw it, she remembered how much fun cooking outdoors, over an open flame, had seemed to her when she was a little girl. He might have enjoyed it.
Looking around, she tried to imagine him here. Would he have fit in? Did it matter? The answer was no, it didn’t, not for her, but she thought he would’ve been fine. This was an eclectic crowd, with ages ranging from midtwenties to George’s late fifties. Another high school teacher had visible tattoos on his brawny arms. There was also a librarian who’d transferred from West Fork to the library headquarters in Marysville before Erin started. She was a quiet woman who watched more than she spoke, like Cole. He would’ve had no reason to feel uncomfortable.
And why was she even thinking about this? He knew where to find her, but he hadn’t stopped by, hadn’t called, in the six weeks since their encounter at Safeway. Message received.
She pushed thoughts of him out of her mind and joined the increasingly lazy conversation. This felt like days’ end at summer camp, with the glowing coals, the circle of contented people, the darkness beyond.
Suddenly uneasy, Erin stiffened. She’d meant to be home before dark. Which was totally silly, but she’d developed a sort of phobia about Highway 9. She felt as if she was breaking some rule when she had to take it. Plus, the scenery had a way of giving her flashbacks. Really, she hadn’t had that many reasons to drive there since she’d given up her speeding hobby, but in a rural county like this, there weren’t always a lot of choices. The Carlsons lived closer to Lake Stevens than to West Fork. She’d asked one of the women earlier, and learned that Laura had accepted a promotion to branch librarian in West Fork only a couple of years ago.
Erin hadn’t minded the drive so much this afternoon, but in the dark, with her headlights spearing the road ahead… She hid her shiver and said, “I’m afraid I need to be going.”
Monique went with her into the house, where they both collected dishes that had held their contributions—in Erin’s case, a coffee cake made from Lottie’s recipe. Both said their goodbyes and thanks.
Walking back out, Monique suggested they have lunch someday, and they exchanged phone numbers. By then, others were leaving, too. In fact, she followed two other cars along the narrow country road until they reached the highway. By then, she’d almost convinced herself she could relax. She’d be part of what was in effect a convoy.
She concentrated on the taillights of the car in front of her. The highway wasn’t deserted like it was in the middle of the night, anyway. There was a surprising amount of traffic. Saturday night, no wonder.
Duane—whose last name she couldn’t remember, only that he was the high school band director—turned off well before she needed to. As she accelerated again, she had to squint. An oncoming driver needed to turn down his brights. Or maybe it was one of those pickups high enough up that the headlights always blinded anyone approaching. Irritating.
Suddenly, another set of oncoming lights was in her lane. Really? Somebody was that desperate to pass? She eased her foot from the gas to give the idiot more space, but… Were the superbright lights approaching faster? Panic started to elevate her pulse, and Erin glanced in her rearview mirror to see that a big SUV was riding her bumper, too. Steer to the shoulder, she decided, hoping she didn’t get rear-ended.
She tapped her brakes, flicked on her turn signal—and felt the jolt of being bumped from behind. Her Cherokee rocked. Blinded by the oncoming headlights, all she knew was that she’d lost control.