Page 109 of In a Word, Yes

Okay, weird. But whatever.

I find Mighty Meg in her office, hurriedly zipping up her down jacket as if she’s about to head out. “Hey, cubby,” she says distractedly.

Ever since our Smith Rock adventure, Meg and I are on new footing. Meaning, most days she actually acknowledges my presence. Dubbing me a cub reporter? High praise, coming from her.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Meg snaps to attention. She comes around to my side of her desk, grabs me by the shoulders—a little roughly. “Seriously, Lucy? Are you available? I mean, I’m totally buried, and there’s some kind of hokey thing going on over at the library. Puff piece. You know ... the kind of thing you dig.”

Up my alley indeed. Not to mention within walking distance. “Sure, I’ll handle it.”

Within minutes, Dot has taken over the reception desk and I’m one foot out the door when Meg calls after me. “Lucy, wait! My bad. The thing at the library got moved.”

“No problem. Where is it now?”

“The sheriff’s substation.” She says this without a hint of undertone. Which makes sense, considering that Meg steers a wide berth around water-cooler conversation. She couldn’t care less about my history with Lieutenant Hayes. Not her cup of tea.

No hidden subtext here. Just a simple change of venue.

Dot, on the other hand, cough-laughs, then shoots me an apologetic look.

“Dot?” I say, turning to her. “Is something going on here?”

“Don’t look atme, heartbreaker. First I heard of it.”

I narrow a look at Meg. “Seriously, though, the sheriff’s station? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, so? That a problem?”

“No. No problem.”

“Good. Because they were expecting one of us ten minutes ago.”

So I aim my car in the direction of the last place I hoped to visit today. Some kind of “hokey thing” that got moved from the library to the sheriff’s office? Curious.

***

Is this even the same station? The vibes are way different than on my first visit. That moment when Wyatt and I first connected over C.S. Lewis, word nerdiness, and middle school memories.

For one thing, today there’s a strange comingling of floral scents, baked goods, and—I follow the jangle of voices and laughter into a conference room—grandmothers?

Around the long table is the oddest assortment of people. Uniformed deputies of both sexes are interspersed with women of a somewhat mature vintage. The table is littered with scissors and sodas and fabrics in bold colors and patterns.

“Lucy! I was hoping they would send you!”

“Billie?” What is my writing group sister doing here, holding court at the head of the table? “What’s going on?”

“Meet the Heartwarmers! We’re full of chatter and sass, but we also make tie-blankets for good causes. Our beloved sheriff’s lieutenant over there volunteered his crew to help us knock out enough blankets so that every foster child who attends summer camp next year will have one. Ain’t that sweet?”

Of course he did.

From the far end of the table, Wyatt smiles at me through gritted teeth.

Fiddlesticks. Mock chagrin looks way too cute on him. He appears to be receiving blanket-making instruction from a large woman with a very tall white updo who’s enjoying her tutoring role immensely.

“They’re sewing?” I ask Billie.

Billie sets down her scissors. “Not exactly. Pull up a chair, darling.”