I was going to The Star. A very nice but not fancy (I was told) steak joint about ten miles out of town that Deanna and Charlie had been rhapsodizing about for years.

Deanna demanded all her birthdays be celebrated at The Star and Charlie hogged her birthdays, letting people celebrate it with her on the weekend (or the next weekend day if her birthday fell on a weekend), so I’d never been there.

And instead of continuing to mope about coming to terms with the fact that I would not ever be my sister or mother and thus be able to grab on to life and take what I wanted without giving too much in return, simply enjoy myself and what life offered without wanting more, I was going out to have a nice steak.

In other words, continuing to mope about the fact that Johnny and I had ended something that could never begin.

Or precisely, moping about the fact that what I wanted with Johnny could never begin.

The last steak I’d eaten, Johnny had cooked for me.

I didn’t allow myself to think about that.

That said, I knew part of me was breaking that seal or I’d get to the point I’d never eat steak again.

My mother would smile down from heaven at that.

But as much as I wished I didn’t, I loved steak.

So I needed to break the seal.

In the time since it happened, I also hadn’t allowed myself to spend too much time in town.

I’d been in Matlock for months, but steaming into summer, it was waking up. People were out and about, the big square was setting up to have what Deanna and Charlie had explained were nearly weekly weekend events of bands or festivals or open air plays, or whatever (I’d even been to a concert in the past, and their Memorial Day food festival, which was happening that weekend). And if he happened to be one of those people waking up, out and about, I didn’t want to run into Johnny.

Instead I’d caught up on my chores and planted my big garden and given up on the idea of a chicken coop, because Johnny was right. I should save up to build a garage. I’d be happy I had one for a variety of reasons and chickens just offered up fresh eggs.

I was nearly at the restaurant when it came on the radio.

And it was just my luck it would.

Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”

I pulled into the parking lot of The Star, my fingers on the steering wheel adjusting to change the channel or completely wind down the volume.

Something made me not do that.

Instead I parked and sat in my car with goose bumps on my arms, staring unseeing out my windshield toward the rough, unpainted clapboard at the side of The Star, listening to the whole song.

When it was done, I switched off the car and said to the windshield, “It was two breakfasts, two dinners, one phone conversation, one text exchange and lots of sex. Get over yourself.”

With that, I grabbed my clutch, my journal and got out of my car.

I went in.

I asked for a table.

I got one.

I selected a seat with my back to the door so I could focus on my journal and not people watching.

I perused the menu and ordered a glass of Malbec.

I put my journal on the table and pulled out a couple of the pens.

I opened it up to the crazy doodles and wonky writing that slanted this way, then that, or went straight across, or curled around word for word from a circle in the center. Short notes, long meanderings and drawn flowers or balloons or whatever sprang to mind.

My journal was the only thing I allowed to be truly disordered in my life.

My mother’s journals had looked like that. Just like that. Except without all the colored pens because the only pens we had were ones she picked up wherever they gave out free pens, and she didn’t have the luxury of bringing color to her innermost thoughts.

The wine was served, I ordered my filet with no potato but instead steamed broccoli and roasted asparagus and had been bent back to my journal for maybe two minutes before I heard an achingly familiar, “Izzy?”

My head shot back and I stared into Johnny’s black eyes in his beautiful face staring down at me looking stricken and searching and gentle and gorgeous.

Those eyes slid to the empty chair opposite me then back to me and he asked, “Are you here alone?”

Was he?

Oh God.

Or was he there with Shandra? She was back and they were celebrating their reunion with steak at The Star.

“I . . . uh . . .” I stammered.

“Who’s this?”

My attention zipped to a woman who appeared at Johnny’s side.

She was in her sixties, maybe seventies. Hair dyed a light, becoming red and set in a lovely, soft style that suited her immensely. She had makeup on even though the battle against wrinkles the rest of her put-together-self told me she’d valiantly fought was the inevitable loss it was meant to be. Regardless, her makeup was subtle and attractive. She was wearing a pretty shirtwaist dress with a full skirt in a green and white pattern with a fabulous rectangular bag with a short strap on her forearm.

And she was wearing pearls, real ones it seemed to my inexpert eye. A string of them at her throat and one at her wrist with plain but large and magnificent pearl studs in her ears.

Her eyes were locked on me.

“Leave it to you to find the prettiest lady in the place.”

This came from a man who materialized at the woman’s back. He was bald on top, his gray hair cut very short on the sides. He was wearing a shiny blue golf shirt and nice trousers. He was also in his sixties or seventies, very tall and quite good-looking. Sharing that, shave a decade or two off him, he’d been exceptionally handsome.

And speaking of exceptionally handsome, Johnny was wearing clothes I didn’t even imagine he could own. Black on black—a delectably tailored black shirt over deliciously tailored slim-fit black trousers that made my mouth water more than anything I saw on the menu (way more).

“Johnathon, darlin’, who is this fetching creature?” the woman asked.

“Margot, Dave, this is Eliza,” Johnny rumbled.

“Iz or Izzy, my friends call me,” I whispered, sounding like someone was choking me.

Johnny’s gentle gaze came back to rest on me.

First Bonnie Raitt and now this?

Bonnie was hard enough but Johnny in that shirt (and those trousers) might be the end of me.

All right.

I was never leaving my acres again.

“Izzy. Now isn’t that sweet? Unusual. But sweet,” Margot declared.

“You know this gal?” Dave asked Johnny.

“Yeah, we—” Johnny started.

“We’re friends,” I put in firmly, straightening my spine and finding my inner Daphne, the piece of my mother she left me that could make it through anything. “I’m kind of new to town. We met at On the Way Home a few weeks back and Johnny kept me company helping me break in the local tavern.”

Both Margot and Dave turned speculative eyes to Johnny.

Unfortunately, Margot got over her speculation way too quickly and looked back at me.

And when she did, she declared, “No girl as cute as a button as you are wearing a dress that pretty eats alone. You’re joining us for dinner.”

Oh God.

No!

“I’ve already ordered,” I told her.

She turned directly to the tall man behind her. “David. Find someone and tell them to hold this pretty girl’s dinner and serve it with ours.” She turned back to me. “If you’re hungry, darlin’, we’ll order you an appetizer.”

“I—” I started.

But Margot now had her attention on the hostess who was hovering with them, holding their menus. “You can take us to our booth now.” Her attention came back to me. “We always get a booth. They’re roomy.”