“Thank you,” Sable managed. “But I’ve never been close to cool my entire life. And the social media stuff? My publicist—” well, not hers, her ex’s “—put most of that together. Ninety-nine per cent of it isn’t really real.”
Ha! laughed her subconscious. If only she’d figured that out years ago.
“Do not deny me my fervour,” said Janie. “You’re the most famous thing ever to have come from this place. Apart from Carleen McGlinty, of course. But she’s locally famous. And only during the Pumpkin Festival.”
“Carleen. Isn’t she the one who—?”
“Runs naked through town after imbibing too much pumpkin spice wine? The very one.”
So, some things hadn’t changed.
Janie followed Sable’s not so surreptitious glance over her shoulder into the belly of the caravan, then gave her a look—direct and calculating—that was so very Rafe, Sable’s heart tripped and tumbled so hard she winced.
Janie said, “So, it’s not me you’ve come to see after all these years, fancy suitcase in hand. Big shock.”
Sable glanced down at the hand now white-knuckling her luggage handle and released her fingers one by one. “Is he... Is Rafe around?”
Janie shook her head and Sable’s heart dropped.
Till Janie seemed to soften, just a smidge, before saying, “He’s in town, I think.”
Sable’s heart jumped. If she didn’t get control over the thing, and soon, she was going to do herself a damage.
“I can call him,” said Janie. “Let him know you’ve arrived—”
Sable reached out a staying hand. “Don’t. Please.”
“No? Then I take it my big brother has no clue you’re back. How interesting. Do you think he’ll be delighted? Or will he cut and run?” Janie clicked her fingers. “Right, no, that’s your move.”
Sable flinched.
She hadn’t expected her return to be easy. But then neither should it be. The things that had come her way without effort had disintegrated just as swiftly.
Janie flapped a hand her way. “I’m just messing with you. I honestly have no clue how he’ll react. But, oh, to be a fly on the wall!”
No flies would suit Sable best. Or witnesses of any kind.
Being a person of interest in LA was bizarre. Strangers butted into her conversations at lunch. Posted pictures of her walking, talking, eating. They direct messaged from the safety of their phones with questions, suggestions, professions of love and outright vitriol because to them she was a construct.
But being a person of interest in a small town was a different kind of hell. They talked about her right in front of her. About her mother, about Sable’s ragged clothes, about her connection with the Thorne boy. It had been harder because they did know her.
Which was why—when all this was said and done—she’d find a place big enough to disappear, where nobody knew her name. Nobody knew her business. A place she could live freely, where any decisions she made would be hers alone.
“I’d better head home,” Sable said.
After a beat, Janie looked at her suitcase and said, “So this was your first stop? Interesting. Very interesting. Don’t be a stranger!” With that Janie gave her a wave before heading back indoors.
Leaving Sable to stare at the closed door.
Well, she’d just jumped the first hurdle of her return to Radiance without tripping and falling on her face, which after the past few months was a huge win.
Sable headed back up the dirt path. Her stiletto heels sinking into the packed dirt of the driveway. And for the first time since she’d stepped off the plane, Sable felt herself fully breathe out.
Rafe’s backside hadn’t even hit the stool at the counter when Bear—owner of The Coffee Shop on Laurel Avenue, Radiance’s main street—said, “Did you hear the news around town?”
Rafe sat. Grabbed a napkin to wipe his already clean hands, a habit built on years of living beneath the bonnet of a car. Ordered coffee. And waited for Bear to go on.
For there was no stopping the spread of news in Radiance, whether you wanted to or not.
Bear was big, bearded and gruff, like a Hollywood biker. His eyes gleamed as he slid a glossy long black and a small jug of milk over the counter and, in his rusty baritone, announced, “She’s back.”
Napkin balled up ready to toss into the bin behind the counter, Rafe’s hand stilled mid-air. Only one person he knew of from around these parts who would garner that level of ominous expectation.
Rafe tossed the napkin into the bin, damned delighted it didn’t miss. As if not appearing jarred meant he wasn’t. To push the point home, he lifted off his seat, pilfered a doughnut from the glass case on the bench, put the lid back into place. Took a bite. Chewed slowly.
And said nothing.
Bear, looking fit to burst, boomed, “It’s Sable freaking Sutton! You know—the Aussie photographer. Used to live around these parts, before my time. Dates what’s-his-name—the ice-cool chef from that TV show. Though, hang on, that all went kaboom a couple of months back. Affairs...plural. Can’t remember who strayed. Scandalous stuff though.”
Rafe didn’t as much as blink.
“Come on,” Bear protested. “You know who I mean, right? Even if you’re not a photography buff. Blonde? Wild-eyed? Bohemian beauty?”
Rafe poured in a dash of milk, cupped the black glass in his palms, took a long leisurely sip of the steaming hot brew and gave the guy nothing.
Bear muttered about the sincere lack of pop culture knowledge from the straight men in this town.
Leaving Rafe to brood over the fact he hadn’t known she was back. A scent on the wind, a rustle of leaves, a ripple in the space-time continuum—surely
