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“I’m loving your apartment. And your bed linens—girl, what kind of thread count are those sheets?”
“Fifteen hundred,” I said longingly. I did miss those sheets. “Any mail?”
“A couple of things,” she said vaguely. “Bills, mostly.”
I winced.
“And a couple of things with Curtis’s name on them. Should I toss them?”
“Better not,” I said miserably, “in case it’s something I’m responsible for.”
“Okay, but I don’t like it.” She sighed. “And you got a postcard from your mother.”
My pulse blipped. “From where?”
“Greece, I think.”
I exhaled. My mother, the famous British literary novelist, Vanessa Vanguard, was on an around the world tour with her new husband. I was hopeful she didn’t know and wouldn’t ever know about my scandal. She already thought I was throwing my life away writing romance novels. She didn’t need another reason to disapprove of me.
“Send it when you can,” I said, then gave her the mailing address of the Whisper House.
“Meanwhile, answer your damn phone,” she admonished.
“I will,” I said. But when I ended the call, I turned off the ringer.
July 9, Tuesday
I WALKED into Coleman’s Grocery with a basket of eggs, feeling self-conscious. The busy little grocery looked shabby around the edges, but the floors were shiny clean, and the produce was better than anything I could buy in Manhattan, and at much lower prices.
An older man sweeping the floor noticed me. “Can I help you?”
I pointed to my basket. “I was told the grocery buys local eggs?”
He smiled. “I sure do. I’m Coleman. Are you new in town?”
“I’m staying at the Whisper House for a few months.”
His expression changed for a few seconds, then he recovered. “Okay. Let’s see what you got.”
I followed him to an office the size of a closet and watched while he examined the eggs with his big fingers.
“How many?”
“Three dozen, and six are double yolks.”
He nodded and seemed impressed with my YouTube-garnered knowledge. “Okay. How does three dollars a dozen sound?”
I smiled. “Sounds fine.” It occurred to me I hadn’t been this happy about making nine dollars since I was a teenager.
“Cash or credit?”
“Credit, please. I need to pick up a few things while I’m here.”
He pulled out a receipt book and wrote me a credit slip for the amount, then tore it out.
“How are things out at the Whisper House?”
“Okay, I suppose.” I angled my head. “Did you know the family?”
