Page 7 of Outspoken Hearts
Her observation startles me. Have I been that transparent?
"Is it that obvious?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Only to someone who schedules your life." Her tone is gentle. "You've been running on autopilot for months now."
The truth of her words hits me harder than expected. I have been going through the motions, giving people what they expect from James Adams while feeling increasingly disconnected from myself.
"Well, maybe this project will shake things up," I say, aiming for lightness.
"I hope so. I've blocked Thursday evening for the first meeting."
"Thanks, Diane. Have a good night."
"You too, James. And maybe try to relax a little before then?"
I chuckle. "I'll do my best."
The call ends as I pull into my driveway. My house stands alone at the end of a quiet street. It's a Craftsman-style home I spent a year renovating myself. It's beautiful, comfortable, and often feels like another stage set for the James Adams show rather than a home.
Inside, I loosen my tie completely and drape it over the back of a chair. My shoes come off next, then my jacket. Small steps toward shedding the day's performance.
In the kitchen, I find the lasagna Caroline mentioned, neatly labeled with heating instructions. My sister knows me too well—knows I'd forget to eat if left to my own devices. I follow her instructions precisely, setting the microwave for two minutes.
While waiting, I open my laptop and go back to Eva Miller's website. There's no photo of her, just her work, which is unusualin a field where personal branding matters. I find myself curious about the person behind these designs. Someone confident enough to let their work speak for itself.
The microwave beeps. I eat standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through more of Eva's portfolio. The food is good—Caroline is an excellent cook—but my mind is elsewhere.
Thursday's meeting feels like a crossroads somehow. A chance to step off the path I've been following automatically for years and try something new. Something real.
I close the laptop and bring my plate to the sink. Through the kitchen window, I can see the lights of Meadowbrook spread out below. My hometown, filled with people who think they know exactly who James Adams is.
But maybe it's time they met the real me. Maybe it's time I figured out who that is.
CHAPTER FOUR
I check my reflection again, fixing a rebellious hair strand. Despite arriving fifteen minutes early, the Town Hall parking lot is already half-full.
"You're just rebranding a town," I tell myself. "Not donating a kidney."
My stomach knots anyway as I collect my portfolio. I've spent days researching Meadowbrook's history and preparing materials I'm already second-guessing.
The imposing brick Town Hall with its white columns looks quintessentially New England. I adjust my blazer and take a deep breath.
Inside, I follow signs to Conference Room B, my heels announcing my arrival with each step. Outside the door, I hear comfortable laughter.
You could leave. Claim a flat tire. Food poisoning. Spontaneous combustion.
I enter before I can reconsider.
Six people turn to look at me. The small conference room features an oak table, blank whiteboard, and sad coffee station.
"You must be Eva!" A silver-haired woman approaches. "I'm Margie Henderson, Town Council secretary."
"Thanks for having me," I reply, surprisingly steady.
She introduces everyone: Harold from the historical society, Margaret from the bookstore, Tom from the Chamber of Commerce, Lisa from tourism, and Betty who's lived here "since dinosaurs roamed."
"And our chair should be—ah, perfect timing!"
