“And the uncle?”

Christy-Lynn didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “Reverend Rawlings is far too pious to dirty his hands with Stephen’s money. He’s more concerned with distancing himself from his sister’s sins.”

“Don’t be so sure, Christy-Lynn. Money changes things. Especially people. Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. It’s your decision. All I’m saying is don’t rush into it while your emotions are still raw. Take some time and think it through before you pull the trigger.”

Christy-Lynn nodded somberly. “That’s why I asked you over tonight, to be my sounding board. But right now my head is starting to throb. Do you think we could talk about something else?”

“For instance?”

“I don’t know. Your book. We’ve never really done that.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Anything. How long have you been working on it?”

“Twenty years, give or take.”

Christy-Lynn’s eyes went wide. “Twenty years?”

“Give or take. I started it back when I was in college and then—” He paused, clearing his throat roughly. “Let’s just say I decided to go in another direction.”

“Stephen said you got bored and switched to journalism.”

Wade felt the familiar pulse begin to tick along his temple, the old anger flaring to life. “Did he?”

“That isn’t what happened?”

“No.”

“Then tell me what did.”

“Let’s just say I became . . . disillusioned.”

She nodded, pausing to peer out at the steadily falling rain. “I hear that a lot from my writers, particularly after a fresh rejection lands in the in-box. You need thick skin, no doubt about that. But you’re back at it now, and you seem pretty focused. What’s it about?”

“Not sure really. Over the years, it’s sort of gotten away from me. I was nineteen when I started the damn thing.” He laughed, a harsh sound that sent Tolstoy scurrying. “I was a dreamer back then. I was going to write the great American novel.”

“What happened?”

“That change of direction I mentioned.” He drained his mug then dangled it between his knees. “Back in college, the words used to pour out, but journalism uses an entirely different set of writing muscles. I had no idea it would be so hard to find my fiction chops again.”

“And have you?”

“Maybe. But they’re still pretty flabby. Something’s not working, and I can’t get past it. I’m stuck.”

“At the risk of sounding condescending, I’d be happy to take a look at it, maybe make a few suggestions. Sometimes fresh eyes are all you need. Though given our history, you might feel weird about it.”

“I think we’re past that, don’t you? We’ve eaten each other’s cooking, and I think your cat has a crush on me.” He paused, grinning down at the floor where Tolstoy had reappeared and was now turning circles around his ankles. “We’re practically family.”

She smiled grimly as she collected their empty mugs and headed for the kitchen. “It’s ironic, don’t you think, that after all these years you’d be the one I’d end up dragging into this thing with Iris? I know you think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. It certainly feels like I have.”

“You haven’t lost your mind,” he assured her as he gathered the remaining utensils from the table and dropped them into the sink. “You’re human. And much stronger than you think. Maybe the next time you feel like beating yourself up you should remember that. Now,” he said, grabbing the dish towel, “whose turn is it to dry?”

Neither spoke as they worked, Christy-Lynn wielding the sponge, Wade the towel, and yet there was a strange comfort in the rhythm, a kind of domestic ballet he found pleasing, the accidental brush of hips, the touch of wet fingers. Not a sensual connection—not exactly—but intimate somehow. It was about a simple moment shared, the comfort of another person standing beside him. It made him realize just how isolated his life had become over the last year. Safe but empty. But wasn’t that what he’d been looking for when he came running back to Sweetwater? Now, suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

When they finished, she walked him to the door and out onto the porch. The rain was coming down hard now, billowing in ragged sheets across the yard. The ride home was going to be tricky, but first he had to get himself off the porch, and suddenly his legs didn’t want to move.

“So . . . thanks for dinner,” he said awkwardly.

“Thanks for coming. And for listening.”

“What are friends for?”

“Yeah, well.” She was shifting from foot to foot, staring down at her bare toes. “I’m still pretty new at the friend thing.”

He studied her a moment in the dim porch light, her face nearly lost in shadow. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that before—they’re new at the friend thing.”

“I guess it would sound funny to most people, but I learned to keep my distance at an early age. A survival mechanism, you might say. I’m working on it, though. Another thirty years and I should about have it mastered.”