She wanted to rush home at once, to gather her parents and her brother together, to set the gift in front of them and declare: See, see! Not every Wright woman is cursed to heartbreak at the hands of a Moss man.
4
I t was always apparent from the shingled front of Tides Natural Foods what season it was. On the first day the thermometer rose above seventy degrees, a pair of umbrella café tables would appear outside, where customers would enjoy mugs of French roast and crumble-topped cranberry muffins. Hanging pots of begonias flanked the doorway. Two water bowls were always stationed—and continually refilled—in a shady nook beside the front door for canine guests. The window display would lure indulgent summer visitors with playful setups of organic wines and gourmet trail mixes for beach and bike excursions, shade-grown coffees, and herbal sunscreens.
Lexi always loved that first inhale when she’d step inside the store, a cool, smoky blend of fresh herbs and nutty grains. As much as the interior and the inventory had changed in the ten years that Kim had owned the store, the smell never had. Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey” played low. Lexi slipped past a shaggy-haired young man in a blue Tides T-shirt stocking the dairy case and found Kim behind the store’s café counter.
“The place looks great,” Lexi said, sliding onto one of the counter’s stools and running her hands over the porcelain-tiled surface—Owen’s handiwork four years earlier.
“Okay, so out with it,” declared Kim, setting down a cup of coffee in front of Lexi. “What’s he like now?”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Cooper.”
Lexi picked up her mug and blew across the top, the memory of Cooper’s dimpled smile forcing its way to the front of her thoughts. “He’s exactly what you’d expect. Well-mannered. Well-spoken. Cordial.”
“Oh, please. Who cares about all that crap? Is he hot?”
“Kim . . .”
“He must be,” Kim said with a teasing grin. “You’re turning bright red.”
“I am not,” Lexi defended sharply. God, was she? She downed a fast sip of coffee.
“It just seems strange that Hudson wouldn’t come too. Maybe Laurel didn’t let him,” Kim suggested. “She always felt so threatened by you.”
Had she? Lexi had once hoped so, desperately.
Kim sponged the counter. “So you don’t think it’s weird?”
“What?”
“There we were, talking about Cooper Moss, and out of the blue, he calls you? You know what this is, don’t you?”
“A coincidence.”
“A
sign
.”
For Kim, every coincidence was a sign, a cosmic signal that could—and usually would—change a person’s life.
“A sign of what,
exactly
?” Lexi asked warily.
“I don’t know.” Kim smiled, looking utterly pleased as she tossed her sponge into the small prep sink behind her and dried her hands on her hips. “I guess we’ll find out.”
• • •
T he first time Lexi heard of Laurel Babcock was when she was sipping the foamy head off a dark beer.
It had been late spring. She was visiting Hudson at his dorm, one of three visits she’d get in the four years he was at Duke, and he’d taken her downtown for burgers. A friend of his, Timmy Watson, an angular med student with flame-red curls, had been their chauffeur.
“Oh, you know Pearl Pizza, Hud,” Timmy had insisted during one of their debates on the best local food. “The place with the purple booths. The one around the corner from Laurel’s apartment.”
Laurel
. The name had been thrown out like a comment about the weather, inconsequential, neither prefaced nor lingered upon, and yet Lexi had seized on it, the way only a woman might. Something in Hudson’s eyes, something fleeting yet unmistakable—a flash of panic, a blink of interest?—had given the comment roots, and those roots burrowed deep into the soil of Lexi’s thoughts for the rest of the visit. That night, she and Hudson made love, and even then, even as she’d lain
4
I t was always apparent from the shingled front of Tides Natural Foods what season it was. On the first day the thermometer rose above seventy degrees, a pair of umbrella café tables would appear outside, where customers would enjoy mugs of French roast and crumble-topped cranberry muffins. Hanging pots of begonias flanked the doorway. Two water bowls were always stationed—and continually refilled—in a shady nook beside the front door for canine guests. The window display would lure indulgent summer visitors with playful setups of organic wines and gourmet trail mixes for beach and bike excursions, shade-grown coffees, and herbal sunscreens.
Lexi always loved that first inhale when she’d step inside the store, a cool, smoky blend of fresh herbs and nutty grains. As much as the interior and the inventory had changed in the ten years that Kim had owned the store, the smell never had. Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey” played low. Lexi slipped past a shaggy-haired young man in a blue Tides T-shirt stocking the dairy case and found Kim behind the store’s café counter.
“The place looks great,” Lexi said, sliding onto one of the counter’s stools and running her hands over the porcelain-tiled surface—Owen’s handiwork four years earlier.
“Okay, so out with it,” declared Kim, setting down a cup of coffee in front of Lexi. “What’s he like now?”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Cooper.”
Lexi picked up her mug and blew across the top, the memory of Cooper’s dimpled smile forcing its way to the front of her thoughts. “He’s exactly what you’d expect. Well-mannered. Well-spoken. Cordial.”
“Oh, please. Who cares about all that crap? Is he hot?”
“Kim . . .”
“He must be,” Kim said with a teasing grin. “You’re turning bright red.”
“I am not,” Lexi defended sharply. God, was she? She downed a fast sip of coffee.
“It just seems strange that Hudson wouldn’t come too. Maybe Laurel didn’t let him,” Kim suggested. “She always felt so threatened by you.”
Had she? Lexi had once hoped so, desperately.
Kim sponged the counter. “So you don’t think it’s weird?”
“What?”
“There we were, talking about Cooper Moss, and out of the blue, he calls you? You know what this is, don’t you?”
“A coincidence.”
“A
sign
.”
For Kim, every coincidence was a sign, a cosmic signal that could—and usually would—change a person’s life.
“A sign of what,
exactly
?” Lexi asked warily.
“I don’t know.” Kim smiled, looking utterly pleased as she tossed her sponge into the small prep sink behind her and dried her hands on her hips. “I guess we’ll find out.”
• • •
T he first time Lexi heard of Laurel Babcock was when she was sipping the foamy head off a dark beer.
It had been late spring. She was visiting Hudson at his dorm, one of three visits she’d get in the four years he was at Duke, and he’d taken her downtown for burgers. A friend of his, Timmy Watson, an angular med student with flame-red curls, had been their chauffeur.
“Oh, you know Pearl Pizza, Hud,” Timmy had insisted during one of their debates on the best local food. “The place with the purple booths. The one around the corner from Laurel’s apartment.”
Laurel
. The name had been thrown out like a comment about the weather, inconsequential, neither prefaced nor lingered upon, and yet Lexi had seized on it, the way only a woman might. Something in Hudson’s eyes, something fleeting yet unmistakable—a flash of panic, a blink of interest?—had given the comment roots, and those roots burrowed deep into the soil of Lexi’s thoughts for the rest of the visit. That night, she and Hudson made love, and even then, even as she’d lain
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