“Tomorrow will be fine. Here’s your key. Your room is at the top of the stairs. Breakfast is served until eleven in the room right off the stairs. There are no TVs in any of the rooms, but if you really want to know what’s going on in the world, there’s a television in the business center. Oh, I almost forgot—” She paused, wrapping several cookies in a napkin, and passed them to Christine. “To tide you over until dinner. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

Christy-Lynn’s legs felt leaden as she mounted the stairs and made her way to the end of the gallery. She experienced a profound rush of relief as she locked her room door behind her. Safely and blessedly alone, she let her bags slide to the floor, too weary to do much beyond surveying her accommodations.

It was a bright, spacious room filled with period antiques, including a glorious four-poster bed dripping with vintage lace. And Missy hadn’t exaggerated about the bookshelves; they were gorgeous, shelf after shelf stocked with classics bound in worn, jewel-toned leather. Defoe nestled beside du Maurier. Longfellow beside Kerouac. Unlikely friends standing shoulder to shoulder.

The thought brought a smile until she caught her reflection in the bureau mirror. With her stringy hair and rumpled clothes, she looked like a bag lady or an escapee from the local women’s prison. What would Stephen say if he could see her now? Nothing good, that was certain. As his wife, her image had been his image, which meant no sweatpants at the market or messy ponytails at the drugstore. But then he wasn’t around to criticize anymore. Still, she couldn’t walk into a restaurant looking like she’d just crawled out of a dumpster.

Thirty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom blissfully clean and smelling of the lavender bath gel Missy provided for her guests. The plan had been to dry her hair, pull on fresh clothes, and head next door for dinner, but the effort required to carry it out suddenly seemed Herculean. Instead, she fetched Missy’s napkin-wrapped cookies from the pocket of her coat. They might not qualify as dinner, but she didn’t have to get dressed to eat them.

She devoured them in minutes, still wrapped in her towel, then lay back against the creamy lace counterpane. Missy’s words drifted through her head as she closed her eyes.

Tomorrow will be better.

She hoped so.

Christy-Lynn Parker. Christy-Lynn Parker.

The name seemed to throb like a drumbeat in her head as she strolled Sweetwater’s downtown streets, a reminder that yesterday she had stepped out of one life and into another. It was a strange feeling to suddenly find yourself unmoored from your own life, to open your eyes in the morning and not know where you are, where you’re going, or even what happens next. But it was liberating too, in a way, the delicious anonymity of simply blending into the scenery of a small town street. It had been years since she’d been able to blend into the scenery back in Clear Harbor.

She was heading for the corner deli, humorously named the Fickle Pickle, when her fingers began to cramp. She paused, shifting her shopping bags from one hand to the other. Hippie clothes, Stephen would have called her recent purchases. And maybe they were. They were certainly nothing like the sleek designer labels he preferred she wear, or even the cheap working girl separates she had worn in her early days at Lloyd and Griffin. In fact, now that she thought about it, she was surprised he’d bothered to give her a second look back then.

She’d been working as an editor’s assistant, still brown-bagging it and driving an old Ford Tempo with wind-down windows when they met—hardly trophy wife material. Stephen had been on his way to a marketing lunch with his editor when she literally ran into him in the hall with an armload of cover posters. He had spoken first, apologizing when the collision had clearly been her fault. It irked her to think of it now—one flashed smile, and she’d gone all tongue-tied. He had canceled with his editor, inviting her for sushi instead, which she secretly hated but pretended to love. Six months later, they were married, and the pretending had become more complicated.

Christy-Lynn shook off the memory, redistributed her shopping bags, and continued on to the deli. She was reaching for the door when she spotted a sign for the Hair Lair next door and changed direction.

An entry chime sounded as she entered the shop. Other than the gum-chewing stylist leaning against one of the shampoo bowls the place was empty.

“Hey there. What can I do ya for?”

Christy-Lynn ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m thinking about going short, maybe adding some highlights. Can you do that?”

“Honey, I can do whatever you want if you’ve got the time.”

“I mean now. Can you do it right now?”

The woman looked around the empty salon and grinned. “I think I might be able to squeeze you in.” She stepped closer, running a hand through Christy-Lynn’s hair with an assessing eye. “You’ve got good hair. Color shouldn’t be a problem. Have a seat.”

Two hours later, the stylist, whose name turned out to be Rena, snapped off her blow-dryer and spun the chair around to face the mirror. Christy-Lynn experienced a moment of confusion as she faced her reflection. It was like looking at a stranger who resembled someone she used to know but had lost touch with. She ran a hand through her hair, shook her head back and forth, savoring the feel of the soft, springy curls against the nape of her neck.