Page 52 of A Song for Another Woman

EMMY

The first person to tell me Cade Tyler has moved to Harmony Ridge is Mrs. Jameson at the pharmacy, which feels unfair. There are certain sentences a woman shouldn't have to receive while holding saltines and a box of ginger tea while secretly pretending to be anything other than pregnant.Cade is in townis one of them.

Mrs. Jameson rings up my purchase with the slow attention of a woman who has never once let a receipt leave her hand without also releasing a piece of news. "Well," she says, sliding the tea into a paper bag, "I guess you heard."

My hand stills on my wallet. "Heard what?"

Her eyes flick up. Too eager. "Cade Tyler rented the Hanley cabin off Mill Creek Road."

For one second, the pharmacy lights go sharp around the edges. I put my card into the machine the wrong way.

Mrs. Jameson politely looks at the register instead of my face. "No press, from what I hear. No big cars. Mr. Hanley said he came with a duffel and a guitar."

A duffel and a guitar. That's worse than a tour bus. Worse than a billboard. Worse than a banner dragged across thesky behind a plane with some expensive apology printed large enough for God and local traffic to judge.

A duffel and a guitar isn't Cade's playbook. Cade's playbook is light, sound, and a stage big enough to hold an entire lifetime of mistakes. Cade knows how to stand beneath a spotlight while everyone and their mother looks on. But a cabin? Quiet? Ordinary?

I sign the little screen with a finger that doesn't feel attached to the rest of me.

Mrs. Jameson pushes the bag across the counter. "You all right, honey?"

There it is again.Honey. The word people use when they already know the answer.

"I'm fine," I say. And because I've apparently learned nothing from the last year of my life, I make sure my voice sounds exactly fine.

"He rented a cabin," June says, like the words taste bad.

We're in the back office of the Dogwood Diner, where the walls are thin, the filing cabinet sticks, and June keeps a jar of emergency peppermints in the bottom drawer. I sit in her desk chair with my knees pressed together and one hand wrapped around my paper cup of ginger tea. The nausea has been worse in the mornings this week. Also at night. Also whenever someone fries onions. Also whenever I remember my husband exists. So, constantly.

"I heard," I say.

June paces three steps, turns, and paces three steps back. "Mr. Hanley rented to him. Mr. Hanley. A man I've personally served breakfast to for fifteen years."

"You can't punish him with food."

"I can, actually. That's between me and the Lord."

I press the cup to my lips and don't drink. The smell helps, but the taste doesn't.

June stops pacing. "Has he called?"

"No."

"Texted?"

"Blocked, remember?"

"Shown up?"

"No."

Her face shifts, and I hate that I know what it means. It means she's trying very hard not to be impressed.

"Don't," I say.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're thinking loudly."