Page 67 of Total Jane Wreck

“Yes, please.”

She slides my mug across the counter, then adds a scone on a plate beside it.

“I didn’t order that.”

“On the house.” The look she gives me is gentle and knowing, the look of a woman who has seen some mornings.

Her kindness shoots straight to my heart.

“Thank you.” I leave it at that, because if I say anything else, I’ll start crying here in this coffee shop at six in the morning. But I have some dignity left. Not much, but some.

I find a table—not hard, since it’s just the two of us in here—and pull out my phone. I sip. I nibble. I type “Colorado horse ranches hiring” into the search bar and stare at the results like they might rearrange themselves into a plan.

“Jane?”

When I look up, there’s Marigold, standing in front of me. Strange. I didn’t hear her come in.

She looks even more vivid than usual—plum-colored athletic leggings, a blue shirt (the type that wicks away moisture), and fancy running shoes. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and her cheeks are pink, even though it’s not cold out.

“Hey,” I say. “Sit with me.”

Marigold slides into the other chair at my table. She glances at my tear-streaked face and then at my shaking hands. “You okay?” she asks, her voice soft as fleece.

“No,” I reply. “But I can’t tell you what’s wrong. It’s too complicated. Besides, it’s not my story to tell.”

“Now, how can that be?” Her expression quizzical, she tilts her head. “Whatever upset you—it’s part of your story. But if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”

“Thank you.”

We sit in a hush, Marigold fiddling with her shirt sleeve, me crumbling the scone into tiny bits I can’t bring myself to eat. The purple-haired barista floats over, tops off our mugs, and disappears, leaving us in a bubble of silence.

My eyes drift over to my purse. Sticking out of it is my copy of Escape from the Springs. I reach for the book and show it to Marigold. “Funny coincidence, huh?”

She raises her eyebrows but otherwise seems unsurprised.

“Was this . . .” I wave the paperback ever so slightly “. . . your story to tell?” Instantly, my cheeks turn hot. “Sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No, no,” Marigold cuts me off. “I appreciate the question. Usually, people either round-aboutly imply that I didn’t write the book, or they fling gotcha questions at me, trying to trap me in a lie. Not to mention all the gossip, things said behind my back. It’s been well over thirty years, and somehow, people can’t let go.” She smirks. “But that’s partly my fault. I figure that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. So sometimes I say cryptic things just to feed the rumor mill.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Here’s what I don’t get. By now, everyone knows that your first husband, James, disappeared while hiking. But he’d been declared dead for two years before you published Escape from the Springs. Which means he would’ve had to write it from the grave.”

“Unless . . .” Marigold leans forward and gives me a conspiratorial wink “. . . James is still alive, and he sent me the manuscript.”

“Seems far-fetched.”

“Mmm.” She sips her coffee. “Yes. But according to many, not too far-fetched. It’s easier to believe that could happen than a young widow would process her grief by writing a happily-ever-after for her dead husband, from his point-of-view”

I bite my bottom lip. For some reason, my tears are threatening to resurface. “Yeah,” I manage to say. “Well, no matter what, you wrote an excellent book. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Thank you, Jane.” Marigold volunteers a relaxed smile.

We sit in comfortable silence for a bit.

“You remember when I told you that I was engaged before?” I ask suddenly.

“Of course, hon,” Marigold answers.

I let out a soft chuckle. “At our engagement party, I asked my soon-to-be ex if he believed in fate. He laughed it off, but that’s something I used to think about a lot. Like, are we in control of our destinies, or are all our choices predetermined?”