Page 114 of Tender Heart
Owning her.
Never before was a man so delusional.
Thirty
EVIE
Sherry stares at me like I’m the one who has her wires crossed.
“You said the carton of books arrived before the festival?” I ask.
“Yes, from the publishing house, I assumed, although there was no sender details. I thought it was some kind of promo you arranged.”
“I didn’t, no. And I haven’t heard from Livvy, my editor, for weeks.”
“Oh, well. I guess no harm, no foul. They all sold. One young man bought ten copies. Nice young chap, around your age.”
I look around the library like he could still be here.
“Was he a local?” I ask.
“No, just here for his sabbatical. A few months, I think he said. Not sure if he’s still here.”
“Okay.”
Dammit.
None of this feels right. The fact that someone set up a signing that wasn’t approved by the publishing house, that Livvy didn’t know about, puts me on edge.
“Will you tell me if he comes back?” I ask.
“You’ll want to sign all those copies he bought, I suppose,” Sherry chirps.
Yeah, something like that.
Shit.
“Thanks for your help with the research last month, it was really helpful.” I wander toward the loans desk as Sherry slips behind it.
“That’s wonderful. But what were the Gaelic reference books for? Is your novel set in a fantasy version of Scotland? Oh, that would be something!”
“No, not exactly. But they were helpful. I’ll make sure to return them next week before I go.”
“You’re leaving already? Gosh, we will miss having a writer in residence in our little library. Make sure you come back to visit sometime, okay?”
I huff out a chuckle. “Sure thing, Sherry.”
She shoots me a smile and turns to a patron with an armload full of books to check out. My phone buzzes, and I dig through my bag. Finding paper, I pull it out. And almost drop it when I realize what it is.
The letter Iris gave me on the night of the festival.
I’d been so busy with the signing and with trying to soak up every little experience with Cal before my days here are over that I completely forgot about it. I wander outside to the bench seats in the garden, the colorful blooms hedging the town center’s water fountain and grass area we sat on at the festival popping from behind the seat.
Flipping the envelope in my hands, I brace for the contents. The emotions that follow opening one of these letters. A prickle of fear washes down my spine as the wind changes. Something like cedar carries on the wind. I slide a finger under the envelope flap.
It sticks and I rip it, wanting this over and done with.
The envelope tears in half. The burned ash of a tiny insect body and tattered wings, now greyed and singed, flutter from the paper tomb.
