by Katy Paige
Sliding her glance to her right shoulder, she found another tattoo: a small cross with a date underneath in a soft, elegant cursive. Running her fingers over the older tattoo, she felt tears gather and closed her eyes against the unwelcome sorrow that had been her constant companion for almost two years. She was so goddamn sick of feeling sorry and sad.
Her stomach gurgled uncomfortably and she took a shaky breath, turning to survey herself in the mirror. Her dyed, jet-black, bobbed hair spiked out in ten different directions, and her eyes had dark black rings from a night spent sleeping in mascara. She had dyed her hair black last year as it grew back in and she’d gotten used to the darkness, wryly believing that it matched her low spirits better than her natural blonde.
The twelve-inch scar that ran from her hairline over her right eyebrow down the side of her face was more pronounced than usual because her makeup had gotten stuck in the jagged, lavender crevasse in her sleep. It would take one more round of plastic surgery before it could heal completely into a thin line of translucent white. She had another scar, three times as long, on her right leg running from mid-thigh to ankle that, despite the doctors’ best efforts, would never heal completely. The leg had been mangled too badly to repair, leaving her permanently disfigured and causing a mild limp they promised would improve over time with regular physical therapy.
She took out the dark brown contacts she’d started wearing last year and noted that her blue eyes, which used to be so bright and open, were flat and bloodshot, accusing her from their cerulean depths.
Her gaze dropped lower and she smirked, unable to keep from admiring her full breasts in a black, satin push-up bra, the black a harsh contrast against the white of her chest. Despite the twenty-five pounds she’d packed on her small frame over the past two years—or probably because of it—they had a real va-va-voom effect. She squinted, looking more closely in the mirror, and noted a fairly obnoxious hickey taking up a good bit of real estate over her left breast. She shook her head in disgust, unable to even conjure one detail of the face attached to the lips that had given it to her. Great, Zoë. Real classy.
The mirror cut off the lower half of her five-foot-four-inch figure but she knew what was there: a smallish waist and a biggish ass. With her white skin, short, voluptuous stature and black bob, she was a life-sized Betty Boop.
“Zoë Holly Flannigan! Show yourself!”
Her aunt Sandy, who was only ten years her senior, called from the top of the stairs. Zoë rented the apartment over Sandy’s garage and pop-in visits from her aunt were often and welcome.
“In here,” she grated out in a gravelly voice.
Sandy stuck her head into the bedroom just as Zoë peeked her head out of the bathroom door, leaning against the doorframe as the room spun for a moment.
“Hey, Sand,” she moaned uneasily, steadying herself. She flicked off the light and limped to the bed, sitting down carefully with a soft groan. “Refresh my memory…”
“The tattoo or the hickey?” asked Sandy, gesturing to Zoë’s chest with a derisive flick of her eyes.
“Let’s start with the hickey.”
“Some friend of Rob’s. He was all over you at the bar and you seemed okay with it at first, but then he asked about your face and you pushed him away, yelling that your boyfriend in Montana would kick his ass if he asked you about it again. I don’t know why you’re so touchy. You can barely see it anymore, Zo. I mean it. It’s really fading.”
She’d just stared at it in the mirror. It was far from faded.
Zoë rolled her eyes at her aunt and Sandy continued. “After I finally convinced you that you didn’t actually have a boyfriend in Montana to kick anyone’s ass for you, you stormed out of O’Byrne’s and informed me that you were getting a tattoo and screw me if I didn’t like it.”
“Sounds like I was pretty charming.”
“You were something, all right. Rob and I followed you to Shenanigan’s and you pushed your way in front of two people and insisted your turn was next. Rob talked Max out of calling the police and into taking care of you.”
“Rob could talk a bee into buying honey.”
Sandy’s face softened at the mention of her husband. “Yeah. He’s smooth, that guy.”
“And then?” Zoë crossed her arms over her chest protectively, ignoring the way her boobs spilled over the barely-there cups of her black bra.
“Max did the little lambie on your shoulder while you lay facedown on the table telling me all about your make-believe Montana boyfriend, Paul. Then you started crying, threw up on my shoes, and Rob drove us home.” Sandy’s face soured and she wrinkled her nose. “Tossed the shoes in the trash. You owe me fifty bucks.”
“Sorry, Sand.”
Sandy, who’d been a surrogate parent to Zoë since her teenage years, sat down on the bed next to her niece. Zoë put her head on Sandy’s shoulder.
“You’re outta control, Zo.”
“Yeah,” murmured Zoë, fresh tears stinging her eyes as she swallowed back some latent nausea.
“I promised my sister I’d look out for you, but you’re making it hard.”
Zoë loved the way Sandy pronounced “hard,” with a strong New England accent, dropping the “r,” just as Zoë’s mother had.
Zoë’s mother had passed away when Zoë was only sixteen years old, leaving her under the guardianship of her—at the time—twenty-six-year-old aunt. Sandy had stepped up to the plate with love and sympathy and spirit, never resenting the grieving teenager.
“Don’t give up on me, Sand.”
“Zoë, you gotta move on. Brandon and the accident? That was almost two years ago.”
Zoë lifted her head, clenching her eyes shut.
“I can’t—”
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” said Sandy gently. “But you can’t keep doing this either. Hooking up with random guys? Blacking out? Getting tattoos when you’re wasted? I barely recognize you anymore. You’re losing yourself, Zoë. You’re losing everything good about yourself.”
Zoë looked at her hands. She still wore her mother’s silver Claddagh ring on the fourth finger of her left hand with the heart out, which meant that her heart was available. What a joke. Something that was broken wasn’t available. Not to her. Not to anyone. Which was just fine, because who would want some physically and emotionally damaged girl anyway?
“You didn’t mean to hurt anyone that day, Zoë. It was an accident, hon. You’re too hard on yourself. You’re both still alive, right? That’s all that matters. When are you going to stop punishing yourself?”
Sandy meant well, but she conveniently sidestepped important details pertaining to the accident, in her goal to help Zoë move past it. Details Zoë couldn’t forget, not for one second or one moment every day. Zoë had done something wrong—so very, very wrong. And she would never, ever forgive herself for it. Not as long as she lived.
Zoë swallowed, rubbing her hands together, wishing Sandy would stop talking and leave her alone, but after what she’d put Sandy through last night she could hardly kick her aunt out of the apartment she rented from her.
“I’m sorry about making a scene. And your shoes.” Zoë stood up and walked to her bureau to fish some bills out of the messy depths of her black leather purse. She had a sudden flashback to a bright, lovely, hot pink floral handbag, perfectly neat and tidy, right down to the matching grosgrain wallet and sunglasses case. It felt like a lifetime ago. She shook her head and turned around, offering the bills to Sandy. “Here’s sixty.”
“You have to get yourself together, Zoë Holly Flannigan. Enough is enough,” said Sandy, taking the bills and folding them in her hands. “How about seeing that therapist again?”
Therapy wouldn’t help. Nothing would help. Nothing would take her back in time to that day to make better decisions. Nothing would change her face back to the way it was. Nothing would bring her nephew, Brandon’s, legs back, and her sister Thea would never forgive Zoë for their loss. That was the heart
breaking truth, the root of her guilt and shame.
Zoë shrugged, giving Sandy a sad smile. “I should take a shower. Got to get to work.”
Sandy reached out to put a hand on Zoë’s cheek, over the scar she so hated. “How about we lay low for the rest of the week? Häagen Dazs? Bad reality TV? No more benders?”
Zoë nodded, blinking back tears.
Sandy smiled gently and turned to leave, but stopped as she got to Zoë’s bedroom door.
“By the way…what’s this sudden obsession with guys from Montana?”
Zoë felt the heat in her cheeks and turned away from her aunt, heading to the bathroom.
“Probably just the beer talking,” she said over her shoulder, closing the bathroom door behind her as Sandy headed back downstairs.
***
The sun streaming in through Paul’s bedroom window woke him up bright and early. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 6:35 a.m. His body didn’t seem to realize that high school principals didn’t need to be up at the crack of dawn in the middle of the summer. Whether it was the peak of the school year or the last week in July, he was up at the same time every day, but this morning he was extra tired. He’d ended up staying at the Prairie Dawn until almost midnight last night.
Luckily, he had nowhere to be for hours. He had promised to keep Lars company as he scouted out some Yellowstone locations for an upcoming fashion shoot, but otherwise his day was empty. He rolled over, bunching the pillow under his head, an unexpected feeling of anticipation—of excitement and promise—making his heart feel lighter than it had in ages.
As soon as Maggie had turned her laptop around, Paul’s heart had skipped a beat and he’d been unable to pull himself away. Miss Mystic, aka Holly Morgan, was everything Paul Johansson was looking for.
In her picture, she was wearing a white sundress with a V-neck that managed to be innocently tasteful, while highlighting her full breasts and small waist. Her skin was very light, even with a subtle tan, and she was holding a hot pink flowered purse over her shoulder. She was petite, no more than five-foot-five, if that, with long, wavy, blonde hair and rosy lips that smiled into the camera. He’d have to take Maggie’s word for it when she said those eyes were blue because Holly wore Jackie-O style sunglasses, which covered a good bit of her face but lent a little glamour to the simplicity of her outfit. Her legs were long and shapely for someone so small and she wore hot pink shoes on her feet. God’s honest truth, she was the prettiest thing Paul had ever seen, and that included Jenny Lindstrom and Princess Buttercup.
He must have stared at her for twenty minutes as Maggie upended chairs on table tops and started sweeping the wooden floor of the café. She finally called to him, resting her chin on the broomstick.
“There’s more to the lass than a bonnie photo, Paul!”
He turned around, looking at Maggie in a daze, straightening his tortoiseshell glasses. “Her profile won’t come up.”
“She took it down, along with a close-up of her pretty face. Said she was gettin’ too many…er, fresh emails. But, I managed to take a screen shot of her profile before she did. She’s an art teacher. She’s smart, and nice too.” Maggie walked over to him with her broom trailing behind. “I felt bad after settin’ you up with Ms. Phillips. I made sure that I screened Miss Mystic first. We’ve written back and forth a few times over email.”
“Where—Where are the emails, Maggie?”
She chuckled at his impatience, shaking her head at him as he hunched over Holly’s picture. “Still mad at me?”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you and called you crazy. Will you please show me the emails?”
“No,” said Maggie, saucily. “Waitin’ makes the heart grow fonder, wee lamb.”
“Maggie,” Paul said, doing his best to keep his voice controlled and even. “I was a bastard for yelling at you. You and Nils are very complicated and I have no right to judge. I trust you implicitly and thank God every day for your sisterly pushiness in my quiet life. Now, please. Show. Me. The. Emails.”
“Well, since you asked me so sweetly…” She closed the browser and clicked on an icon titled “Miss Mystic.” A grouping of three emails suddenly opened and Maggie clicked on the first one.
Paul spent the next half hour reading the three emails, smiling and laughing, reading bits out loud to Maggie, who rolled her eyes more than once, even though Paul could tell she was pleased with his reaction.
Holly Morgan was a twenty-four-year-old middle school art teacher, never married, devoted to her sister and young nephew after losing their parents years before. She lived in the same town as her sister and aunt, who had stepped in as her guardian after the loss of their parents. In fact, the picture of Holly in her white sundress had been taken at her aunt’s wedding. She liked Chinese food, painting with acrylics and Jason Mraz. She drank way too much coffee, like most of the teachers he knew, and had her favorite students, though she said she tried not to let it show.
Paul’s breath caught when he read that her favorite vacation spot was Moosehead Lake in Maine, because it was the very place he had spent many summers as a child. What were the chances that a girl from Montana would have spent summers in Maine? But it was Holly’s answer to Maggie’s final question that had made Paul’s heart stop for a second: Holly’s favorite movie was The Princess Bride.
That was the moment Paul fell in love with Holly Morgan.
He ended up re-reading all three emails twice more before he finally figured out that Maggie was ready to say good night.
“So?” she asked, sidling up to the bar in the dim light of the café, her bag over her shoulder.
He smiled at her, his hopeful heart full of gratitude for his meddling friend. “Miss Mystic is right. She’s magical, Maggie. Do you know where she is? I’m assuming somewhere up around Mystic Lake in Custer? That’s not such a bad drive. I mean, we can definitely exchange a few more emails to be sure she’s comfortable meeting face-to-face, but I’d be ready tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’re both teachers, so maybe we could even get in a few summer dates before the start of the school yea—”
Maggie fidgeted nervously with her keys as her face progressively turned as red as her hair.
“Maggie? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll forward the emails and log-in information tomorrow mornin’. You can take over from here.”
She turned away, putting away the broom and shutting off the last light.
“Maggie. Is there anything you’re not telling me? Any more confessions?”
She shrugged sheepishly. “Distance is nothin’ if you really like someone.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Well, there might be one wee, tiny snag. It’s um, it’s just that I misread the question. Where, um, where you live. I clicked on where you’re from instead.”
“What are you talking about?”
She grimaced, backing away from him, toward the back door that led upstairs to her apartment, as though making an escape.
“I should have clicked on Montana, but I clicked on Maine. The website sorted the girls regionally so Holly’s not from Montana. She’s actually from…New England. Miss Mystic isn’t about her bein’ magical or livin’ up near Custer. It’s about her livin’ in Mystic, Connecticut.”
He watched as she slipped through the door, bolting it behind her, and he heard a muffled “Sorry!” through the door as her footsteps sprinted around the corner and up the stairs to the relative safety of her apartment.
“Connecticut!” he exclaimed to the empty café. “Aw, Maggie, COME ON!”
But his nemesis was long gone.
Paul headed out the front door, pulling it closed behind him and listening for the lock to catch, his head spinning on the short walk home. No wonder she vacationed in Maine. She was from Connecticut. His previous elation mixed with deep disappointment and later, at home, sleep certainly hadn’t come easily or lasted very long.
Paul rolled over and glanced back at the clock
. 6:47 a.m.
He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Unbidden, the picture of Holly Morgan flashed before his eyes and he growled, clenching his eyes shut. What was the point of pursuing a woman who lived in Connecticut, for heaven’s sake? He lived in Montana and had no intention of returning east for anything but an occasional visit. From what he had learned about Holly, she was deeply attached to her aunt, devoted to her sister and adored her nephew. That sort of woman wasn’t going to consider a move out to Montana!
The smart thing to do would be to forget he’d ever seen the photo of Holly Morgan, forget he’d ever read her smart, funny words, forget he’d ever found out that the prettiest woman in the world with the sweetest smile, most luscious body and most impeccable taste in movies actually existed somewhere on the earth. The smart thing to do would be to delete the emails and forget that Holly Morgan existed.
But the thing about principals in the summertime?
They don’t have to set an example for anyone. And they don’t have to be smart if they don’t want to be.
CHAPTER 2
Zoë’s phone buzzed and she glanced down at it on her desk, wishing she could keep the inevitable butterflies at bay. No luck. At the sight of his handle, PrincipalPaul, on the notification banner, her heart leaped, sending a wave of anticipation and excitement throughout her body and making goose bumps pop up all along her arms.
PrincipalPaul has sent you a message.
She took a deep breath, staring at the notification. Would this message be from his friend Maggie again or finally from him? It was only eleven o’clock but she couldn’t wait to find out and she certainly didn’t want to pore over every detail of the message with Stanley staring over her shoulders.
“Going on my lunch break, Stan,” she said to her boss, who worked at the desk beside her.
“A little early for lunch,” he said in the same dry tone he used for every boring, utilitarian website he created.
“Just means I’ll be here working all afternoon without a break.”
