Page 18 of The Worst Possible Plan

The divorce had taught me a few things. Mostly that peace was underrated. People liked talking about passion and chemistry and grand gestures. What they didn’t talk about was the exhaustion. The arguments. The compromises that never seemed to stop. The way two people could slowly wear each other down without meaning to.

I’d done all that already.

Once was enough.

I didn’t need another complicated woman in my life. Didn’t want one. Certainly not one who collected disasters the way other people collected coffee mugs.

I got out of the truck and headed toward the house.

It sat back from the road, tucked between towering pines and old maples that had probably been there longer than the town itself. Most people driving by wouldn’t even know the place was there unless they were looking for it. That was one of the reasons I’d bought it two years ago.

After the divorce, the last thing I’d wanted was neighbors peering over fences or asking questions I had no intention of answering.

The old craftsman had been built sometime in the early sixties with cedar siding, massive timber beams, and a deep covered porch that wrapped around the front. Thick wooden posts supported the roof, and a pair of handcrafted rocking chairs sat near the front door, permanently facing the trees.

It wasn’t fancy or modern or trying to impress anybody, which suited me just fine. The place felt solid and quiet, like it had been built by a man who believed wood solved most problems.

Halfway to the front door, thunder rolled again through the trees. The sound echoed across the property, rattling the leaves overhead and bouncing between the pines that surrounded the house. A storm was coming. A proper storm that would send tourists scrambling for cover and make old dogs start looking nervous.

A few drops of rain hit the driveway. More quickly followed, tapping softly against the porch roof and darkening the cedar planks one spot at a time. The smell of wet pine drifted through the air, mixing with damp earth and fresh-cut grass from somewhere down the road.

Hartwell’s face flashed through my mind again. I smiled, remembering her flushed cheeks, the glare she’d aimed my way, and the panic she kept trying to hide behind a smile. It hadn’t fooled anybody. Least of all me.

Which was irritating because I’d specifically moved out here to avoid complications.

Hartwell looked like one.

If someone told me she’d accidentally started a parade involving livestock before breakfast tomorrow, I wouldn’t even question it. I’d just ask where it was happening.

My eyes drifted toward town, the festival grounds, and the temporary fencing we’d thrown together in a hurry while daylight disappeared. I thought of the livestock currently being supervised by people who probably had no idea what they were doing either. Then again, compared to Hartwell, they might’ve been experts.

The smart thing would’ve been to stay out of it. Stay home. Let the festival committee handle their own problems. Let Helen deal with the event planner she’d hired. Let the volunteers repair fences and figure out where the petting zoo was supposed to go. None of that belonged on my plate.

Let somebody else clean up whatever happened next. Because there was definitely going to be a next. With Hartwell, there was always a next.

Trouble seemed to find her. Or maybe she found it. I wasn’t sure which.

The problem was, I already had a feeling I wasn’t going to do the smart thing.

5

SOPHIE

Idragged my feet to my door, wincing at my newly formed blisters the size of golf balls because no one told me to wear proper footwear since I’d be chasing livestock for hours nonstop. Event-planning brochures really failed to mention that part. They showed smiling women with clipboards and headsets, not exhausted idiots sprinting after animals while trying not to cry in public.

I might have cried in the car.

Twice.

Fine. Every time I hit a stop sign.

Now, every step felt like I was walking on hot marbles. Or Legos. Possibly flaming Legos. At this point I would’ve happily traded my dignity for a pair of sensible orthopedic shoes.

Putting the key into the lock, I twisted, pushed open the door, and wobbled inside. I was too exhausted to eat or stop by to chat with Sarah and Dottie in the dining room. Which was saying something because Dottie was probably making something incredible right now. Normally the smell alone would’ve dragged me over like a cartoon character floating toward a pie cooling on a windowsill.

I just wanted peace and quiet. And maybe a medically unnecessary amount of sleep.

I heard the familiar sounds of dishes clinking through the wall. Home. Well, it was just a room and a separate bathroom. Still, it was better than sleeping outside on a park bench.