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Chapter 1
Nora
Ifyoudon’thaveanything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. That was the rule. And, quite frankly, if you’re wrist deep in someone’s vagina, that rule ought to apply double. Apparently, my gynecologist did not agree.
Geriatric.
The memory of it made me growl as I stomped up the porch stairs to my Victorian farmhouse, my pamphlet-filled purse smacking against my hip with every furious step.Geriatric. There should be a law against that word referring to vaginas at all, much less vaginas that were only thirty-five years old.
Once inside, I heaved a sigh of relief and flung myself down on my emerald green velvet fainting couch to pout. My spite couch, I called it, because the second I had clapped eyes on it I was certain of two things: one, I loved it with every fiber of my being, and two, Grant would hate it. The truly glorious thing about your husband leaving you for his non-geriatric girlfriend was that you could do crazy things like plonk down two grand for a green velvet fainting couch that your ex-husband would detest and no one could stop you. The resulting month of cereal and ramen had been totally worth it.
I stared at the ceiling, feeling lonely. I might not ever be able to have a baby, and I didn’t even have my fur-baby to comfort me. It was Colonel Brandon’s week with Grant, a custody arrangement that I was pretty sure he had insisted on just to fuck with me. Congratulations to him, because it worked. I wouldn’t get to see my German Shepherd for another two days.
But I wasn’t much for wallowing, so after approximately thirty seconds of pouting, I rolled off the couch to sit cross-legged on the floor. I turned my purse upside down and dumped the literature in front of me. It was a lot. I had walked into Dr. Forrester’s office for a pap smear and renewal on my birth control prescription and walked out with a dozen pamphlets on fertility options. Egg freezing. IVF. I would have been offended, except I really wanted a baby.
I really, really did.
And that was the downside of your husband leaving you for his non-geriatric girlfriend. He had taken all my best child-bearing years with him. Asshole.
I gingerly selected the pamphlet on egg freezing, saw a price tag that made the room spin, and set it down again. No way could I afford that on my salary. My income working for a non-profit law firm specializing in disability claims provided me with a comfortable life here in Hart’s Ridge, North Carolina, but even with the low cost of living a small-town life, there wasn’t much room for expensive extras. By the time I saved up that kind of cash, my eggs would be decayed husks.
My phone dinged, a reminder that I was meeting friends for happy hour at Goat’s Tavern. I scooped up my wallet and lipstick, which had fallen out of my purse with the fertility pamphlets, and headed out the door, jiggling the knob to make sure it locked behind me.
I bypassed my red SUV in favor of walking. I had bought the SUV five years ago for the spacious backseat that could accommodate both a large dog and a car seat. God, I had been such a naïve fool. Gas prices being what they were, I now walked when I could. It was a warm September evening, the sun hadn’t yet set behind Hart Mountain, and Goat’s Tavern was no more than a fifteen-minute walk.
Anyway, I intended to get rip-roaring drunk.
Goat’s Tavern was a quintessential dive. Located on the outskirts of town, it was half watering hole for locals and half pit stop on the Appalachian Trail for thru-hikers. The owner, Luke Buchanan, had christened the place for his pet goat, named, appropriately if unimaginatively, Goat. Goat had a nasty habit of headbutting people at the knee and, true to form, he was standing guard in the parking lot when I arrived.
I spread my arms, curling my fingertips in invitation. “Try me,” I dared. My eggs might be geriatric, but I wasn’t about to take shit from a goat.
Goat eyed me speculatively before apparently deciding I meant business and casually ate a paper bag next to the trash can, as though that had been his purpose all along. It was a small win, but I would take it.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go on, now.”
I moved past him, careful not to turn my back and give him an easy opportunity, and heaved open the heavy wooden door. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but then I spotted my friends in a booth by the Christmas tree that was currently sporting Fourth of July decorations. I paused at the bar to put in my drink order and then joined them.
“Hey.” I slid in next to Suzie Barnett, who grunted theatrically as she scooted over to make enough space. Suzie’s fourth baby was due in two weeks. Herfourth. It was simultaneously envy-inducing and appalling.
“Tell me you’re drinking red wine,” Suzie said by way of a greeting. “Let me live vicariously through you. Kate is having a lemon drop martini and Emma is having her usual IPA. Please, please, tell me you want a cab. I just want to sniff it.”
“Nope, sorry.”Geriatric. Wine wasn’t going to cut it. “I got—”
“One shot of tequila and a whiskey on ice,” Luke said, setting my drinks on the table. “And a basket of fries and onion rings, on the house, because I don’t want you passing out on the floor. Suzie, here’s your cheesecake. Let me know if you ladies need anything else.”
“Thank you!” we chorused.
“You should let him know you need orgasms,” Kate muttered under her breath as he walked away.
I downed the shot in one quick gulp. “Already did that. He was very accommodating.”
Suzie turned so fast her red ponytail whipped me in the cheek. “You did? You never told me that!”
I shrugged. “It was before we were friends.”
I had moved to Hart’s Ridge from Asheville a year ago, fresh from signing divorce papers and absolutely determined to live life exactly as I pleased. I hadn’t known a single soul in a town where everyone seemed to have grown up together. Luke had proved to be the perfect post-divorce fling. He was about as eager to tie himself to a committed relationship as I was—which was to say, he would rather roll around naked on a bed of fire ants—but he knew his way around a woman’s body andmybody had appreciated that about him.
“You can’t be surprised,” Emma said. “Everyone sleeps with Luke. It’s practically a rite of passage in Hart’s Ridge.”
