Fiona studied the manuscript before her, eyeing the gold leaf embellishing the script with a frown—
No. Actually, that was Staci eyeing the words with a frown. Would Fiona really study a manuscript? Young ladies in those days did not do nearly as many things as modern-day authors liked to suppose. Historical accuracy had always been important to Staci, and while she knew she had occasionally got things wrong (thanks to some very assiduous readers who seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out such things), she knew such inconsistencies were far less than some authors and editors allowed for. Why, once she’d read a Regency novel where the heroine had said, “Wow.” Imagine Elizabeth Bennett saying such a thing! Staci simply couldn’t, which is why she simply couldn’t read the rest of the novel.
No. Fiona wouldn’t be reading a manuscript. Perhaps she could be studying her nails? Too boring. Perusing the view from the window?
Oh, what did it matter? Staci stretched, heard the muscles in her shoulders crack and pop as they protested the hunched position of the past hour. She needed out of here. Her brain was turning to mush.
“Gran, did you need anything at the store?”
Her grandmother sat at the kitchen table, and for once Penny was nowhere to be seen. Gran seemed a little pale. “Gran? Do you feel okay?”
“I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
That made two of them. Staci had barely caught a wink as she tossed and turned over the conversation with Mitch and Jenny Wells. What if she was to write a different type of story? What would it look like? She’d wondered before about writing something more sweet. Could she write it without the racy elements she was now known for? What would Bronwyn say? What would her publishers say? She’d even dared pray and ask God for His opinion.
Not that she heard any reply. But she had felt a mite reassured, that if God did care at all about her future, that He now knew she would like His involvement. At least regarding what to do next. And honestly, the idea of creating a page turner without the salacious content did hold a measure of interest. It would be a new challenge, a good challenge. Something more worthy of the wordsmith tag than the authors she was usually associated with. And perhaps, instead of merely offering a happy ending, if she could offer something of hope, something of real commitment—something like what she’d seen modeled in her grandparents’ or the Wells’ marriage—then maybe she could feel her writing was more than just a sop to bored housewives.
“Is there anything I can get you? A cup of tea?”
“I just had one, thanks dearie. I think I’ll be fine, just sitting here for a while.”
Staci worried her bottom lip. Should she go out, or stay here and watch over her grandmother? Anxiety rose. What would happen if Gran was to get sick—or worse?
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Did I hear you say you were going to the store?”
“I don’t have to go if you would rather have me stay.”
“No. That would be helpful. I was thinking I need to go but just can’t summon up the energy to do so today.”
“I’ll go. What do you need?”
Gran pointed to a notepad on the refrigerator. Staci ripped the list free and stuffed it in her purse. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Gran chuckled softly. “I don’t know how quick that will be, with Christmas getting ever closer. The stores seem so busy now.”
“Then it’s best to not put it off any longer.” Staci eyed her with concern. “Is there a friend you want me to call? Someone to be with you while I’m out?”
“I don’t need babysitting, Annie.”
“Okay.” Staci grabbed her sweater. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“See you soon.”
Staci pressed a kiss to Gran’s cheek and hurried out into the frigid air.
In the car, on her way to the grocery store, she muttered a prayer for Gran. God keep her well, God protect her, help her to rest, keep her safe—
The car almost skidded into another. Stupid snow. If she was back home she wouldn’t be having to face such things, one of the benefits of city public transport.
But then if she were home she would not be spending time with her grandmother. Or getting new ideas about her story.
She must be halfway through the manuscript now, thanks to Gran’s hospitality. Guilt gnawed. Had Staci being here proved too much? She’d never really regarded her grandmother as frail, but there had been something in her features this morning that spoke of great weariness. “God, be with Gran,” she muttered.
The grocery store loomed, and she pressed on the brakes and veered to the parking lot. Beeping the car closed, she hurried inside, relishing the relative warmth as she grabbed a shopping cart and attached the sticky note grocery list to the cart’s handle. Milk, eggs, bacon, fruit, bread, dog treats. Maybe Staci could buy Gran her favorite imported tea, and some of those fancy English biscuits she only ate at Christmas. Digestives, she thought they were called. Not the American sort, but the proper English kind.
A few minutes later she was hunting through the cookie aisle, the plethora of choices amazing as always. Quadruple choc chunk cookies? Yes, please. Although, maybe with a job that involved sitting down much of the time wouldn’t be the way to maintain her weight. Or stave off diabetes. Maybe it was best to leave them on the shelf.
A brunette about her own age stooped to snag a package of the death cookies. She glanced up, noticed Staci watching her and gave an apologetic grin. “They’re for work.”
Sure they were. Eating a pack of those cookies would provide plenty of work alright—in the gym. Staci gave a polite smile and said, “Do you happen to know where the digestive biscuits are kept?”
The other woman’s brows rose. “Do you mean the imported cookies?”
“I guess. They’re for my grandmother, and she’s part Irish, and I thought it’d be a nice treat for her.”
Why was she saying all this? This poor woman didn’t need to know her life story. But chatting with people her own age in Muskoka Shores had proved slightly problematic. Most people had kids, or at least were coupled up, and she’d met few singles she could identify with at all. Not that she needed a friend, not when she was leaving soon anyway. But it would be nice to occasionally have the opportunity to talk with someone who might enjoy Coldplay more than the Beatles.
But the woman didn’t seem to mind; in fact, was offering a nice smile of her own. “The imported foods section is down the next aisle. It’s not really an aisle, more like a quarter of one, but you should find what you need there.”
“Thanks.”
“Excuse me, but you look a little familiar.”
Staci’s gut twisted. Was she a fan? Someone who had heard Muskoka Shores’s slightly infamous author was back in town? She glanced at her clothes, worn for writing comfort not promotion duties, that looked baggy and drab in comparison to the woman’s business attire. Was she someone who had read Staci’s books, and would judge both on her content and her dowdy appearance?
“That’s right.” The slight furrow in the other woman’s brow cleared. “You were a year ahead of me in school. Annie, Anna something right?”
“Anastacia Everton, but these days I go by Staci.”
“Well, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Jackie.” She gave a self-deprecatory smile. “Oh, I remember now. You were a good runner, weren’t you?”
“Once upon a time. Back in the day.”
“That’s right, I saw you at church the other day, too. Well, that’s nice you are back for the holidays. I bet your grandmother is pleased.”
“Yes.” Understatement of the year. Speaking of… “I really should get going. It was nice to see you again, Jackie.”
“You too. See you around.”
Staci hurried to the checkout, adding a pot of African violets from a nearby display. Gran loved African violets; her kitchen window held numerous pots. This mauve would be a pretty addition to her collection.
She shoved the bags into the car, then glanced at the coffee shop across the street. She could really do with a cup of coffee. Maybe it was time to finally give The Coffee Blend another go. Suzy might have a different barista serving today.
Staci pushed open the door, the scents of caffeine and baked goodies slapping her senses alive.
“Well, lookee, she’s back! I was sure I’d scared you off last time, so I’m relieved you’re here again.” Suzy beamed. “Staci, isn’t it?”
“Hi again,” she said weakly.
“What’ll it be this time? Another pumpkin spice latte? Another pastry? Remember, it’s on the house.”
“Sure, that’d be great, thanks. The same as last time. To go,” she added, as the coffee machine roared to life. Although perhaps she could take Gran home a piece of lemon slice. Gran had always enjoyed any baked goods containing lemon. “I’d like a lemon tartlet instead of the croissant, this time, please.”
“No problem.”
As she had last time, Staci surveyed the scene, but this morning there were no unnerving encounters with handsome men with intense dark green eyes, nor overly helpful older gentlemen. She turned to study the picture on the wall. What was it that seemed so familiar?
“Here you go. One pumpkin spice that you can actually enjoy yourself this time, instead of sharing it with one of Muskoka’s most eligible bachelors.”
The sip she’d been enjoying suddenly spurted up her nose. So her mystery coffee guy wasn’t taken?
“Careful, Staci. I have a reputation to uphold, and the way you keep choking on my coffee makes me think you’ll never truly appreciate its quality.”
Suzy’s eyes held a twinkle that suggested tease. Staci’s shoulders inched down as she relaxed. Maybe this would prove a nice choice of venue for a break. Better than McDonalds, anyway. But she still wasn’t completely convinced by the pumpkin spice flavor. It tasted kind of…dirty.
Offering a farewell she hurried back to the vehicle, taking care not to slip in the snow. After settling the coffee snugly in the cupholder, she started the car, thanked God aloud for the seat warmer, and steered back onto the road. She took a different course home, one that followed the same route she’d used for her run last week. Something she probably should get back into doing—if it wasn’t for the blessed snow.
She finished the coffee as she drove; probably not a flavor she’d try again. Maybe a simple chai latte might prove a better bet. There was the architect’s office, there was the medical clinic. Was that the one where Jenny’s son worked? Of course—mental head slap—that was his name listed. Weird she hadn’t realized that before. A few more turns and she was back on Maple, was pulling into Gran’s drive, and was tugging out today’s purchases. She beeped the car locked, then hefted her packages to one hip as she balanced the African violet with her keys. A twist of her hand and she stumbled inside to blessed warmth.
“Whew! It’s getting cold out there.”
No answer.
“Gran? Hello?”
A barking sound suggested Penny was trapped in the laundry. Good. She could stay there.
“Gran?” Where was she? Maybe she was in the bathroom or something. “Hey Gran, I’m back. I brought you something.”
But the something Staci had brought slipped from her nerveless grasp with a loud crash as she spied the slumped figure of her grandmother on the kitchen floor.