One True Thing. Marilyn Pappano

Ginger said, “but I always thought it would be cool to write a book. Of course, I just barely squeaked through senior English, and I don’t have a clue what I would write about, and really I don’t think I have what it takes. I can’t even bring myself to write a letter from time to time, so I think a book is pretty much out of the question.”

      That was something else Cassidy had learned in her brief “career”—not only was everyone planning to write a book someday, but they equated completing a four-hundred-page novel with writing a one-page letter to Grandma. It was as if they defined write in its simplest form—putting words to paper—and never acknowledged the difference between that and telling a logical, compelling, cohesive story.

      She had learned the difference all too well in her past few days at the computer.

      Ginger read out the total of her purchases and Cassidy handed over three twenties. She glanced up as Jace moved to her side again, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead his gaze was on her open wallet. The wallet where a Wisconsin driver’s license was half revealed behind an old photograph. Abruptly she snapped the wallet shut, accepted her change and dropped it, coins and all, into the bottom of her purse.

      “See you, Jace,” Ginger said, then added to Cassidy, “Nice meeting you.”

      Cassidy murmured something appropriate—she hoped—then followed the bagger toward the door, Jace right behind her. Her jaw was clenched as she waited for him to say something about the license, but when he finally spoke, the subject was harmless.

      “You like to fish?”

      The relief that rushed over her was enough to weaken her knees. It must have been the photograph he’d seen and not the driver’s license, or surely he would be questioning her about it. He’d never hesitated yet to ask whatever came to mind, and surely a license in a different name from a different state would rouse a curiosity too strong to resist.

      “I don’t know,” she replied, hoping her tone was as casual as the question deserved. “I’ve never tried.”

      Naturally that wasn’t entirely true.

      There had been the time with her dad, when she’d impaled a fish hook in her foot and required a trip to the emergency room to remove it. And the time with her brother, David, when she’d knocked his precious hand-tied lures overboard and he’d tossed her after them. And the time with Phil, trying to impress him by removing the ugly creature she’d caught quite by accident from its hook. It had latched onto her finger the way Liza Beth had claimed Jace’s, and in her resulting hysteria, that time it had been Phil who’d gone overboard. Not surprisingly, none of the three had ever invited her fishing again.

      “It’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon. We’ll give it a try sometime…when you don’t mind being distracted.”

      She frowned at him and saw he was giving her a sidelong look and grinning. He was entirely too handsome when he grinned, with all the mischievousness of a boy run wild…and all the sexiness of a man full grown. It made her want to blurt, How about now? Thankfully she managed to keep the words inside and politely said, “That sounds like fun.”

      And for once, she thought as she climbed into the truck and turned the air-conditioner vents her way on full blast, that was the honest truth.

      Chapter 4

      “You lied to me.”

      Jace backed away from the door the next afternoon as Neely opened the screen door and walked into the cabin as if she had a right. Technically, since her husband was half owner, she did have that right. He kept backing, not stopping until the sofa was behind him, then folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her. He knew it wasn’t a very good scowl—he loved her too much to ever get really annoyed with her—but he pretended anyway. “About what?”

      “Your neighbor. You remember, the one who’s this tall, round, old enough to be your mother and not your type?” She copied his position, then added a tapping toe to it. “I happened to stop by Shay’s yesterday and the waitress said you’d been in for lunch with your new neighbor. Then I went to the grocery store and Ginger said you’d been in there, too. They said she’s pretty, blond, about her age, and Ginger said you looked… How did she phrase it?” She raised one hand to tap a fingertip against her chin, then feigned enlightenment. “Smitten. She said you looked smitten with her.”

      “Smitten. That’s a good old-fashioned word. Sounds like something my dad would use, or maybe Uncle Del, but not Ginger. I’m kind of surprised that she even knows it.”

      The hand belonging to the chin-tapping finger smacked his shoulder lightly. “You must be smitten, or why would you lie to us about her?”