“I’m gonna make it up there,” Kendrick promised. “Someone has to make sure you don’t go crazy from the isolation. It’s a vacation house, not The Shining.”
Shea usually liked a good movie reference. The promise of a friendly face evoked enough sentimental emotion to head off what might have been a smile.
“I’d love that,” she replied only after she’d modulated her voice to sound normal.
“It won’t be for another month or two…” Kendrick warned.
“It’s your house.” Shea tried to make light. “Come whenever you want.”
Only after Kendrick promised that he would, and Shea promised to name a badass character after him did they hang up. Only then did she let herself wonder whether she could survive that long. She would have been crazy not to meticulously orchestrate her divorce from a man like Keenan. But had it really been better to move 1,800 miles away than to hide in plain sight?
Ten-minute limit, she scolded herself. That had been the deal. She’d wallow in self-pity for a maximum of ten minutes a day, then remind herself: Sapling was just a way station—her gateway to all the things she wanted. She’d be happy here because happiness was a choice and her joy didn’t belong to him. She’d be happy if she stuck to the plan.
2
The Plan
Shea
The plan was ambitious—audacious, some would say. Others might call it crazy and complex for all she was trying to achieve. Some people left bad marriages first and figured out the rest of their lives second, but Shea didn’t need all the Eat, Pray, Love. Living every day with what she didn’t want had her clear on what she did. The plan was her roadmap to get all of that and more.
Step one was reprogramming: breaking bad habits, getting his voice out of her head, building new muscle memory that reminded her she was autonomous and free, navigating the mundanities of life organically rather than orbiting him—remembering she was a grown-ass woman who could do whatever the hell she pleased.
Today’s “whatever the hell she pleased” would involve driving into town to get her morning bun from Delilah’s and taking another crack at her script. Then, she’d see a matinee of the new action flick a second time at the Grand Lake. She would smuggle in a flask of red wine, eat too much buttered popcorn and maybe some of those little ice cream bites. But none of that before she hit The Freshery. Sure, she’d pick up a few things to stock her cupboards if it would make her seem less creepy about her real purpose: to get an eyeful of the hot grocer.
That related to step two: Shea wanted to feel like a woman again, even if dating was out of the question. Getting too close to anyone ran the risk that she’d reveal too much about who she was. But she needed something just a little sweet and sinful to tide her over until things could be different. It didn’t seem like a terrible idea to dip her toes in by flirting a little.
She plucked her keys off of the kitchen counter, walked to the staircase next to the front hall and descended to the garage. The living spaces, office and bedrooms were all on the ground floor. An enormous rec room, a guest bedroom, utility rooms and a three-car garage were below. Passing the hidden-away bedroom that sat empty and waiting reminded her she needed to move the money.
Shea didn’t know trucks, but Kendrick kept a pristine one in the garage. It was off to one side and Shea’s own vehicle straddled the two spaces in the middle. Also in the spirit of “whatever the hell she pleased,” Shea had bought herself her first new car. She’d dreamt of owning a crimson Mustang since she was sixteen.
Just as Shea didn’t think she would ever get tired of the clean, Colorado air, she knew she would never get tired of the deep, reverberating growl of her engine. Twelve years in New York had done nothing to cure her of her love for the road. At first the Town Cars and limos and even the yellow taxis had felt exotic. But “whatever the hell she pleased” had already begun to involve long drives around Grand Lake and through the mountains with Lucille. Because of course Shea had named her car.
The drive down the hill was pleasant, a meandering descent to the valley, through forests of evergreens and aspen trees down to Sapling proper. Even the wooden bridge that crossed high over Elk River had a certain beauty. You could see on its legs how high the water rose after the snow melt, but it flowed like a creek at this late stage of summer.
The road she came in on became halting with stop signs as soon as she reached downtown. Her eyes scanned for a parking spot after the turn on to Oliver Street. The Freshery stood on that first block in a building that had been spruced up—the same old-western style of architecture shared by the other buildings on the street, only newer and in better repair.
Act natural, Shea instructed herself after she’d parked, slammed shut her car door and taken measured steps toward the entrance. People go to the market every day in a lot of cultures.
Only, Shea doubted that most people who went to the market every day cared so much about looking cute. She liked looking put together, regardless of where she was going, but hoping to see him made it different.
“Oh, hey, Dev,” she said breezily, casting him a slightly lingering smile after grabbing a cart from near the front of the door. He was almost always near the front behind a computer at the customer service desk. Stevie Wonder songs floated over the sound system whenever he was working. The large, semicircular area was on a raised platform that reminded her of an open DJ booth. It sat adjacent to the leftmost register.
Weekend mornings aside, the place stayed pretty dead. It wasn’t uncommon for her and Dev to be the only ones in the store. Frankly, she didn’t know how the place stayed afloat. But being alone with him was A-Okay with her. Sapling was a place where people stopped to greet one another. When it came to Shea, Dev’s prevalent emotion seemed to be amusement. And far be it from her to disown her own quirks.
“Mornin’ Shea.”
Dev’s warm baritone made her as melty as Nutella on oven-fresh brioche. She’d come to crave it like sugar. As expected, he sat in front of his laptop and the desk was littered with papers. Apart from Tuesdays and Thursdays—when the deliveries came—he tended to be glued to his seat, unless he was helping a customer.
Half the fun for Shea was being that customer. Seeking his guidance had become addictive. At the beginning, it had been legitimate to confirm whether he carried things like prepared guacamole, MCT-enhanced cold brew coffee and manuka honey. But she knew the store so well by then, most new requests were pure theater.
The exception were her special orders, which Shea could admit must seem bizarre. She was certain Dev thought she was a little weird. She didn’t dress like anyone else in Sapling; though, by New York standards, she was quite toned down. If not for Dallas Eaton—the guy who wore 80s track suits and walked with his macaw on his shoulder—Shea could win an award for most unusual fashion sense in town.
Dev pushed back in his rolling chair in a single, smooth motion and rose to his feet to stand. Shea was ridiculously charmed by the gesture. Men who walked on the outside and who rose when a lady walked into the room were a dying breed. Sure, she could chalk it up to attentive customer service, but her intuition told her Devon Kingston was a real gentleman.