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He pointed to my arm. I looked down. “Oh. I brought you eggs.”
He smiled. “You did?”
“Only if you want them,” I said, back-pedaling. “I can’t possibly eat them all.”
He ambled toward me, then peered into the basket. “Thanks—I’ll have these for supper.”
Was he hinting that he cooked for himself because he lived alone?
“By the way, Coleman at the grocery will be happy to buy your extras. Fewer people around here fuss with chickens these days.”
“They are noisy,” I offered. “And dirty. And mean.”
He laughed. “They just need to get used to you, and you to them.”
But the way he said it made me think he wasn’t talking about chickens. “I won’t be around long enough for it to matter.”
“I heard you’d be here through the end of the year.”
I frowned. “Who told you that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember. Does it matter?”
To change the subject, I looked past him. “What’s all this?”
“Ah, so you do want to watch.”
At his self-satisfied tone, I smirked. “I’m just curious about your hobby.”
He walked back to the wood tripod and pointed to the wheel and cable hanging from the center. “This winch helps me lift and move the stones safely.” Then he grinned. “I understand you work with a different kind of wench altogether.”
At the outdated reference to the female characters in my historical books, my tongue lodged firmly in my cheek. “You Googled me.”
“I’m more of a DuckDuckGo guy, which I figured you would appreciate since you like your privacy.”
My cheeks flamed at the thought of this man reading the recent salacious headlines attached to my name. I handed the basket to him. “Enjoy the eggs.” Then I turned to walk away.
“Hey, I was kidding,” he called. “I read somewhere that your books are funny.”
I frowned harder and didn’t respond. My books were funny—that was the problem. After months of being the punchline of bawdy jokes, my funny had gone on hiatus.
And I was afraid it wasn’t coming back.
July 8, Monday
WHAT WAS good for the goose was good for the gander, I decided. Into the search engine I typed “Sawyer King Irving Alabama” and hit enter.
Several pictures popped up, all candids taken by someone else. In some, he was identified as Captain Sawyer King in dress blues performing in the color guard or in fatigues assisting after regional disasters. In others he was photographed or filmed in civilian clothes preserving or restoring historical headstones, especially for graves of veterans, as far back as the Revolutionary War. Twice he was attributed as being a sculptor. I dug deeper and found an Instagram post of someone who’d purchased one of his pieces, a hawk on a tree branch made from white marble.
I frowned. The man was legit.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down to see another text from my friend Frida.
If you don’t call me this minute I’m contacting the FBI.
I sighed and reluctantly hit the call button. She answered before it could ring.
“Are you dead?” she demanded. “Because it’s impossible that you’ve been there a week and haven’t returned my calls. You’d better be dead.”
