I grinned. "So where is the other Future Business Leader of America now?"

"Hopefully, rotting somewhere in the seventh circle of h.e.l.l," she snorted. "Brock -"

"Brock? Oh, come on, his name was B rock?"

"Do you want me to tell this story or not?" Maya demanded. I threw up my hands. "Once upon a time, there was a sweet, simple girl named Brooke who had dedicated her whole life to keeping her parents happy. Brooke majored in marketing, because her father wished that he had majored in marketing. Brooke joined a sorority because her mother had always wanted to pledge a sorority. She wasn't particularly interested in either of these things, but she was interested in making as little fuss as possible. Telling her parents she'd rather major in graphic arts would have caused a large fuss. When Brooke arrived in that magical land known as college, she met a handsome prince named Brock in her freshman seminar. Brooke's parents approved of Brock, which meant no fuss."

"So... Brooke and Brock? I mean, the names alone would be reason enough not to get married," I observed drily. She glared at me. "Which is entirely beside the point."

Maya cleared her throat and started again. "They had the perfect, all-American courtship followed by a perfect, all-American engagement their senior year. Little did Brooke know that her prince was following that all-American tradition of banging a prettier, better-endowed girl who had no qualms about hooking up with her roommate's fiance."

"Your roommate?!" I exclaimed. "So instead of stealing your Hot Pockets, she stole your future spouse? That b.i.t.c.h."

"Oh, yeah, Joanie was my maid of honor." She shrugged. "I should have known something was up when she said she didn't care which bridesmaid dress I chose, she just wanted me to be happy."

"That was definitely the guilt talking," I agreed. "So I take it that when Princess Brooke figured out what was happening, she broke the spell and made one h.e.l.l of a fuss?"

"I came back to the dorm earlier than expected from spring break to find them going at it on my bed. I tossed Brock's clothes out the window and made him do the walk of shame buck naked down the hail. Joanie ran after him and refused to come back to our room without a campus police escort. She was always a bit of a drama queen. And Brock just didn't get why I was upset. He told me he didn't love Joanie. It was just that he was able to do things with her he couldn't do with me."

"Because he could only think of you as his future wife?" I asked. "I think Mike had the same problem."

"No, because I refused to do those things with him," Maya said primly. "Along with the 'no fuss' principle, Mama drilled the 'men don't buy the cow' philosophy right into my brain stem. And Brock told me he respected that. Of course, he respected that because it meant I wouldn't screw around on him while he was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around on me. Anyway, he informed me that I had no right to be angry. That it was really a compliment to me, that my s.k.a.n.ky roommate was the girl you snuck around with, but I was the girl you brought home to Mom, the kind of girl you marry."

"And I take it you didn't see his philandering as the romantic gesture it was intended to be?" I asked.

"No, I told him to take his grandmother's ring and choke on it," she said. "This was about three months before the wedding. I'd just had my first shower, thrown by said s.k.a.n.ky roommate. I had to return all of the gifts. I had to take my dress to a resale shop. I had to cancel the four-tier cake, the caterer, the hall. And he didn't have to do any of it. He didn't have to deal with people feeling sorry for him or making the 'aww' face."

I sent her a questioning look. She tilted her head, made a sympathetic noise and crooned, "Awwww."

I winced. "Yeah, that one sucks."

"My mom sent me down to the printer's to send out cards announcing the cancellation. I was standing there at the counter, in this shop where they hadn't changed the stationery samples since 1983, and I couldn't come up with the wording. I had to be so polite about it. I had to find a nice way to put it, to make sure that neither one of us came out looking bad. The poor engraver couldn't help me. He'd never had to deal with something like that. He had this helpless look on his face and kept saying that most people just call everyone on the guest list and inform them personally. But I wasn't up to that and neither were my parents.

"They didn't want me to embarra.s.s Brock or his family by telling people what a lowdown dirty snake he was. And I kept wondering why? Why protect him? Why sugarcoat it? So I wrote my first card. It was plain white card stock, nothing fancy. Lucida Handwriting font. On the inside, it said, 'Our wedding has been called off because Brock ____' and then it had a big blank. The next sentence was, 'If you want to fill in the blank, call Brock at 555-236-8367 or my former maid of honor at 555-236-1924.' The engraver got a big kick out of it. I think he thought I was kidding at first. And then I ordered about two hundred of them."

"How did it make you feel?" I asked. "Because when I sent out the e-mail, I mostly wanted to throw up."

"About the same," she admitted. "But I went home that night and slept like a baby. My conscience was clear and I knew that Brock couldn't say the same. His family was mortified, and once they figured out that it wasn't a joke, so was my family. My grandma wrote me out of the will."

I shrugged. "Well, I don't see you as a sterling and china girl anyway."

"Oh, I was," she said, shaking her head. "For about five minutes, it was devastating. I didn't know how to handle people being mad at me. Pre-engagement me would have done anything to keep people happy. But then, after Nana stopped crying, I felt sort of powerful. I was done being polite. Not having to worry about keeping people happy was like this huge weight being lifted from my chest. I told Nana I loved her, but I didn't care whether I ever used her silver gravy boat on my very own table. I told Mama that I was moving out and I didn't know where, and I would call her when I was ready. And I finally told Uncle Herb that if he used hugging as an excuse to touch my a.s.s one more time, he would draw back a b.l.o.o.d.y stump where his hand used to be."

I barked out a laugh. "That's a variety of subjects in one rant. Uncle Herb was lucky you didn't turn that one into a card."

"I can't believe I've never thought of that. It could be a whole new product line," she exclaimed, taking out a notebook and scribbling while she muttered. "Creepy Uncle Cards. When you care enough to say, 'Stop touching my chest."

"Your ability to find the incredibly disturbing silver lining astounds me," I said drily.

"Anyway, on the very long drive to my new hometown, which I hadn't selected yet, I came up with the idea for Season's Gratings, sketched ideas for cards on truck stop napkins. I chose a new name, Maya. I figured a Maya wouldn't bother being polite. And I used the money Brock's parents had given us for a honeymoon as investment capital."

"They didn't mind?"

"I think they were just glad to have the family diamond back. There was a rumor circulating that I planned on throwing it in a garbage disposal, I don't know where they could have gotten that kind of crazy idea," she said, making an ineffectively innocent face.

"And why do you carry around a pocket-sized Brock with you?" I asked, picking up her key chain.

"To remind me of how far I've come," she said. "The girl in this picture worried way too much about what people thought. It's no way to live 4 life, Lace."

"What about your parents?" I asked. "Because my dad seems to think the silent treatment will make me fold like a cheap chair."

"Well, they don't have any pictures of me from the last five years in the house. And when 'Brooke' comes home for Christmas, they ask if I wouldn't mind dyeing my hair a 'natural' color. I think they have as much of a relationship as they want with me, and vice versa."

"But you're happy now, right?" I asked. "You own your own business. You're a productive member of society. You obviously have a unique fashion sense. You're not still consumed by anger-slash-bitterness, right?"

"Well, not all of the time," she conceded. "I still have twinges, every now and again. But for the most part, yeah, living my own life makes me very happy. You're going to be okay, Lacey, I promise."

I'm pretty sure my expression was somewhere along the lines of disbelieving, because Maya let me have the last egg roll out of pity.

"So what does the future hold for me?" I asked. I cracked open my fortune cookie and read aloud, "Your true love could be closer than you think."

"Sorry, you're not my type," she said, breaking open her own cookie.

"Thanks."

"You will share an incredible moneymaking opportunity with a new friend." Maya read, grinning at me.

"It does not say that!" I laughed.

"You're right," she turned the slip of paper in my direction. "It actually says, 'Those egg rolls were frozen."

14 * Olive Branches.

I couldn't sleep. I read. I watched endless movies. I stared out the window into the darkness, but I couldn't close my eyes.

Three days before, Maya had departed, promising to give me a month or so to think about Season's Gratings. She gave me her e-mail address, her cell number, her business phone, and her other e-mail address, just in case I wanted to contact her. I was torn. I liked Maya. It was comforting to see that someone in my situation had emerged relatively normal. Well, functional, at least. But I didn't want to rush to a decision just because I was grasping at the beginnings of an adult friendship. Also, she wasn't subtle enough not to pressure me in "friendly" communication.

The proposal package she e-mailed to my account that night was slick and impressive. Her designs ran the gamut from elegant pinstripes and monograms to her a.r.s.enic and Bold Face package, which featured a skull-and-crossbones motif. And her prices were not cheap. If Maya's clients wanted to effectively humiliate their significant others, it was going to cost them. And as a shareholder in Maya's venture, I could work from home and be comfortable. Of course, that was a.s.suming the whole thing didn't blow up in our faces.

Foolishly going to bed with a bellyful of doubts and Chinese food, I had a dream that I was standing at my stove in my house in Singletree, scrambling eggs for Mike's breakfast. It was like someone had hit the great cosmic rewind b.u.t.ton and everything was back to the way it was. Breakfast, a review of our schedules, and then adjourn until dinner. I was right back where I started, only now I knew exactly how much my life sucked. I bounced up from my pillow, drenched in sweat. Furious, I swatted the bed next to me, to a.s.sure myself that it was empty. And if it wasn't, at least Mike would get a good smack I could blame on night terrors.

So for the past three days I'd been afraid that if I slept, I would wake up and find that I'd been dreaming all this time. In some sort of weird Bobby Ewing-style regression, the last few weeks had been a prolonged hallucination and I would have to go back to living my life as it had been. I'd be left wondering if Mike really loved me and live the rest of my life following him to work and looking through his e-mail and credit-card statements.

I watched every movie in Grandma's collection, and when I'd watched The Ghost and Mrs. Muir for the umpteenth time, I even delved into Emmett's movie collection. I got as far as watching the trees come to life in Evil Dead and used the remote to turn the TV off from the other room.

As soon as I could, I was going to put a serious hurt on Emmett.

I stretched, rubbed my eyes, and went into the kitchen to grab a c.o.ke. Outside my window, I saw Monroe's lights on.

Because I had very little to otherwise entertain me, I'd decided to follow Emmett's advice and give Monroe a downright icy shoulder. If nothing else, it seemed to confuse and disorient him. And it cut off his opportunities to be rude.

For instance, the morning after the Chinese-food nightmare, a very sleepy yours truly stumbled out onto tie driveway in sweats and sneakers, ready to take on the a.s.s-busting hills of Cove Road. Thanks to the ice cream and all those d.a.m.n grilled cheese sandwiches, I was having a hard time b.u.t.toning my jeans. I was definitely missing my gym time. But the closest thing in town was... well, there was nothing close to a gym in Buford.

I padded out to the end of the driveway, carefully stretching, as I could not remember the last time I'd exercised. Cove Road was a barely paved two-lane winding through thick trees for miles before it reached the main highway to Buford. It was easy to imagine you were the only person on the planet. There were no houses, no traffic. Just miles and miles of silence.

Running was the only sport I'd ever been good at considering it requires no hand-eye coordination. If this were the gym, I'd set the treadmill to random and zone out to my run playlist, occasionally taking time to snicker at the guys who took weight lifting way too seriously. But I'd forgotten my iPod in my flight from Mike's house, so I didn't have the elegant techno of E. S. Posthumus to keep me company as I loosened my legs on those first small dips in the road.

I had hit my stride, my legs stretching on in front of me, long and powerful. I loved that feeling, before the fatigue sets in and you feel that intangible pull of the road in front of you. The hypnotic rhythm of my feet pounding on the pavement filled my head. There was nothing but my newly sh.o.r.e hair bouncing against my head and the sun warming my cheeks. No angry future ex-spouses. No s.l.u.tty secretaries sleeping in my house and, most likely, listening to my iPod.

As I rounded the bend toward the highway my footsteps seemed to echo. I snapped my attention away from the road in front of me and looked up. Mr. Personality was running about fifty yards ahead of me. Monroe's T-shirt was soaked dark gray between the blades of his shoulders as he huffed and puffed along the edge of the pavement. His stride had a bit of a hitch but he was making good time, considering the limp. I guess he heard me, too, because as he looked over his shoulder at me, his eyes narrowed and he seemed prepared to make some disagreeable face.

Well, screw you very much, cranky neighbor man. I increased my pace, pushing my stride even longer. Hearing me getting closer, Monroe picked up his own speed, even though it seemed to cause him some discomfort.

I was on his heels in just a few minutes. I saw his shoulders tense, as if he was antic.i.p.ating actually having to socialize with someone. I let myself fall into step with him for a few beats. He watched me out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressed together. He increased his pace. I matched it. We ran full throttle until we reached the incline of one of the road's steepest hills. I grinned, for his benefit as much as mine, and pulled ahead of him.

"Your shoe's untied," I panted.

Monroe stumbled slightly as he looked down to check his laces. I heard his heavy breathing and slowing footfall behind me. I streaked ahead. As I climbed the hill, I called "Made you look!" over my shoulder. Actually, it was more along the lines of, "Made" (huff, puff) "You" (wheeze) "Look!"

If I wasn't mistaken, I heard a wry chuckle behind me as I reached the crest.

Since then, I'd enjoyed myself thoroughly by pretending he didn't exist. Was it immature and more than a little petty? Yes. But it also annoyed him, so ultimately it was a wash.

At the moment, Monroe was hunched over his laptop, scrubbing his hands through his hair and looking vaguely Christopher Lloyd-ish. And he seemed to be talking to himself the computer.

c.o.ke can in hand, I grabbed a sweater from the couch and padded barefoot to the dock-all the while muttering to myself, "I am not afraid of evil trees. I am not afraid of evil trees." While fifty years of use had left the dock a little rickety, it had also worn the planks down to satiny softness. Gammy Muldoon taught me to bait a hook on this dock, refusing to take me fishing before I could. Of course, Gammy's version of fishing was one of us grandkids rowing her rusty old rowboat while she drank daiquiris out of a thermos and threw cork floaters in the water.

In an entire childhood of fishing, I think I caught a grand total of three fish.

But the point of fishing was our talks. Gammy would tell me about the adventures she had before she got married, sneaking away to Memphis for weekends with her high school friends, serving as a nude model for art cla.s.s at her college, singing in a piano bar under the name Georgia Lutece. There was an episode involving her dating identical twins from a military school up the road, but given Mama's expression when I repeated it, I don't think that I was supposed to know about it. When Gammy died, her will dictated that her whole family gather at the dock, drink daiquiris, and tell funny stories about her. It was my job to row her ashes out to the middle of the lake and "scatter her at sea." So much of the part of my life when I knew myself, when my life made sense, was spent sitting right there, watching the water swell.

So even if I didn't still have my husband, at least I kept the dock. It was nice to feel that continuity and connection as I floated unfettered on a sea of s.h.i.t.

"Floating unfettered on a sea of s.h.i.t?" a voice behind me mused. "That's good. Mind if I use that?"

I turned to find Monroe standing behind me with two beers.

"That was out loud? d.a.m.n it," I groused. "Look, I promise I'm not going naked swimming or boating or waterskiing or anything that will in any way place myself in danger, so you don't have to worry about jumping in and 'accidentally' feeling me up in the course of saving me."

"I just came by to apologize," he said.

I did not expect that, which was evidenced by my spluttering, "I - I'm sorry?"

He grinned, even white teeth glinting at me full force now. "No, I'm supposed to say that."

I resisted the magnetic pull of those teeth, the wide-set hazel eyes. This was obviously a trick, meant to lull me into complacency so he could mock me again. "I thought we were each going to pretend the other didn't exist. It's been working out so well."

He grimaced. "I'm sorry about that. I've been rude. I justYou have no idea how many times I've had to escape from an apartment in the dead of night because a newly divorced person has moved in next door."

I groused, "We're not diseased, you know. It's not contagious."

"No, but the drama is," he said. "I've been threatened by angry ex-husbands just for living within a mile of their exes. One woman told her kids that I was going to be their new daddy-before they even finished unpacking their stuff. But the worst is when they decide to make you their replacement husband."

At my confused expression, Monroe's voice rose to a flirty soprano. "I just don't know anything about garbage disposals and I was hoping you could come over and take a look at it. In return, I would be willing to cook you a nice candlelit dinner." He groaned, his voice returning to normal. "Next thing I know, I've got some woman breaking into my apartment with a baseball bat to tell me that if I don't appreciate her sorting my sock drawers for me, she'll go find someone who will."

I giggled, tried to stop, and ended up giggling more. I hadn't laughed like this since, well, a long time before the Beebee revelation. It felt so good, like I was using muscles I hadn't stretched in months.

"It's not that funny!" he rumbled, drinking his beer.

"How many times has this happened?" I asked.

"Four!" Monroe exploded. "One of them was sixty! She kept mixing me up with her husband and calling me Herbert."

"So that certainly explains why your entire face shut down when I said the words 'newly separated," I said, wiping at my eyes. "And why you've been, well, sort of a p.r.i.c.k."

"I shouldn't have reacted that way. And I shouldn't have yelled at you the other night. I just saw you in the water and thought it was some bizarre nude Ophelia thing. And I thought, 'Oh, G.o.d, it's starting again."

I sniffed, giving my eyes one last swipe. "But you still jumped in after me. So you do have a little bit of a rescuer's complex."

"I debated it for a few seconds," he admitted.

"Well, that's because you hate people."

Monroe seemed offended. "I don't hate people."

"Well, you do a remarkable impression. Okay, so you're not a misanthrope. Then why the seclusion? Why live up here in the middle of nowhere? I mean, I'm up here because I'm not fit for interaction with normal people. What's your story?"

"I live up here because it's quiet, the rent is cheap, and I like the view."

I waited a beat to let him say more, and when he didn't, I said, "That is disappointing. I had this whole ex-con, p.o.r.n addict, possible serial killer persona built up for you." At his aghast expression, I added, "I have a vivid imagination."

"I thought maybe if I was rude enough, I could just destroy any romantic chances you thought there might be between us. And then you'd move out and leave me alone in peace."

"You really do think a lot of yourself, don't you?" I said, shaking my head at him.

He leveled his gaze at me. "Four times, Lacey."

"You really thought you could chase me off just by being rude? What was your backup plan? Rattling chains in my attic and making me think the cabin was haunted?"

He shrugged. "I thought about something like that, but infestations of flies are too hard to round up at the last minute. Plus, there's no outside access to your attic."

"I'm going to choose to believe you're just joking and that you didn't actually check," I told him. "So what has changed your mind about me not being a total pariah?"

Monroe took this as an invitation and sat next to me, easing his feet into the water. "Well, beyond the nude swimming, you seem pretty normal. You've had visitors and they haven't commanded me to take care of you, threatened me to stay away from you, or otherwise approached me. And you don't seem to want anything to do with me."

"So because I don't want anything to do with you... that makes you want to get to know me?"