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  It had been years since thoughts that wanton had sneaked past her ramparts. Most men in town were too polite, or maybe too lazy, to continue attempting to scale the slippery wall of her reserve. Mostly that was okay with her.

  She’d learned at a young age how dangerous it could be to see men in terms of their component parts. A man showed you who he was inside pretty quickly if you were willing to pay attention, but even then, sometimes it was too late.

  “Last we see of him,” Giorgio predicted, gesturing with his chin. Which might be his longest sentence of the day.

  God, she hoped so.

  God, she hoped not.

  “I don’t know. Glenn’s hamburgers really are the best,” Britt said. “He may not be able to help himself.”

  Glenn beamed at her, his magnificent brush of a mustache twitching in pride.

  She smiled back. She was reminded that making someone else happy was always the quickest, best way to get a little hit of happiness when she needed some.

  She exhaled. Simplicity, contentment, love. She liked being near it. It was like a refreshing vast ocean she could dip a toe into, even though she’d grown afraid to wade on in.

  CHAPTER 2

  Not from here.

  He could practically hear everyone drawing that conclusion with a single glance. He’d been born in an even smaller town, if you could even call that collection of shacks stuffed full of poor and bitter people a town, and he’d assessed people in just that way, too. He was an island amid the customers eddying around him and filling in all the tables while he devoured his hamburger, which was surprisingly as exceptional as advertised.

  He glanced back and his view was butts on stools arrayed before the surly cook, mostly clad in Wranglers. Clearly a popular spot, the Misty Cat. He intercepted a few searching looks—­a lingering one from a guy with a badge, to whom he nodded politely, a hard one from a good-­looking red-­faced blockhead, which he met with utter disinterest—­and other kinder, more curious ones. Over the years he’d grown accustomed to every imaginable kind of stare, but no one here seemed to precisely recognize him. These days this was mostly a relief.

  He’d learned over the years that some people just needed to classify the whole world as “better than me” or “not as good as me” or “just like me.”

  He wasn’t one of them. He’d simply waited for his first opportunity to get the hell out of Sorry, Tennessee, and grabbed it in both hands. He hadn’t looked back.

  As it turned out, however, you could never quite take the country out of the boy.

  A lot had happened since then. A wedding. The army. Triumphs. Failures. A long stretch during which he’d done nothing much but suffer the whipsaws of his ego, drink, philosophize, read, fight, and seduce. Every last thing that had happened to him had somehow become useful.

  And nobody with any sense fucked with him anymore.

  While the diner watched him, he watched the waitress. Not overtly. More the way you’d rest tired eyes on something lovely, a bird flitting from tree to tree, maybe.

  He left a big but not obnoxiously big tip, writing “This is for saying ‘enigmatic’ ” on the bill, and slipped out, daydreaming about her eyes. A clear pale green with tawny flecks floating in them, they made him think of panning for gold in Sierra Nevada rivers. He’d liked her delicate nerviness, the fine shoulder blades exposed by skinny straps of her camisole, the tiny tattoo on one of them he couldn’t quite make out because she’d been darting like a hummingbird among the customers. She had streaky gold-­brown hair twisted and fastened up off her neck with a filigree barrette and a soft mouth at odds with that hard expression she’d clearly perfected in order to shut down men. He’d wanted to lay a hand on her arm and say, Shhh, honey. It will all be okay, but he didn’t know why, and he suspected she’d deck him if he did. He smiled. Wouldn’t be the first time a woman had decked him.

  But there was a sweet jolt when their eyes met. A kind of recognition. He’d known a lot of women, in nearly every sense of that word. The jolt was pretty rare.

  Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “Taking Care of Business” erupted from his phone. It was his agent’s ringtone, though lately he thought the funeral march might be more appropriate.

  “And?” was how he answered it.

  “They went with someone else for the House of Cards guest spot. It was close, though. They told me to tell you that.”

  J. T. went silent. Damn.

  He had just turned forty. He knew how to take a “no.”

  He was just too much of a fighter to ever like it.

  He knew better than to ask the next question, but that had seldom stopped him from doing anything. “Who’d they go with?”

  Don’t say Franco Francone Don’t say Franco Francone Don’t say Franco Francone.

  “Franco Francone.”

  J. T. said nothing.

  His agent laughed. “It’s a testament to your acting skill, J. T., that you didn’t say a word but I heard ‘fuck’ loud and clear.”

  “Pardon my language,” J. T. said dryly.

  “Ah, shake it off. They loved you and et cetera. It’s not a big deal. Francone doesn’t have your chops. He isn’t going to head up a cable series, for God’s sake, and The Rush is going to be fantastic. And other agently stuff I always say to you. Did I miss anything?”

  “I think that about covers it. And yeah. I know The Rush will be great.”

  “Where are you, by the way?”

  “Hellcat Canyon, apparently. Truck started making noises. I got hungry. I stopped.”

  “Where the hell is Hellcat Canyon? I thought California had two cities. L.A. and San Francisco.”

  “California Gold Country. Where The Rush will be filmed. Had a few weeks before my schedule starts winding up again and it’s more or less on the way to Napa. Thought I’d get a sense of the place, maybe find a place to stay. Gorgeous here,” he said absently. “Long way from L.A.”

  He didn’t tell Al he’d got in the truck last night and just started driving because waiting on news of Last Call in Purgatory was going to make him crazy and he couldn’t stay cooped up in a house. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared this much about a role.

  He didn’t ask about it. If there was news, Al would tell him.

  “All right, then. If you can’t be good, be newsworthy,” Al said dryly. “See you at Nicasio’s wedding in Napa?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Al.” J. T. was supposed to give a toast there, and for many reasons, he still had no idea what he was going to say.

  “You bet, J. T.”

  J. T. ended the call and was just about to stuff his phone back into his pocket when a text chimed in.

  He sighed gustily. He knew exactly who it was from.

  Better Luck Next Time, McCord.

  Franco must have fist-­pumped when he thought of that. It was a brilliantly horrible thing to say for a lot of reasons. J. T. almost laughed.

  He did what he always did whenever Franco sent him a text about anything.

  He sent back a photo of one of his Emmys.

  It made Franco nuts.

  It was just one of the things J. T. had that Franco claimed J. T. had stolen from him.

  Franco was wrong on every count, of course. But it wasn’t as though J. T. was entirely innocent.

  He finally put his phone away.

  He got a few feet closer to his truck and paused to crouch and scratch a black-­and-­white cat drowsing in front of a florist’s shop.

  It arched and stretched to greet him, then ecstatically rotated its head so he could reach under its chin.

  A little girl, nine, ten years old, peachy skinned, hair bound in two ruthlessly symmetrical strawberry-­blonde braids, pushed open the door of the shop and paused to stare at him.

  “Isn’t my cat soft? His name is Peace and Love.”

/>   “Peace and Love, huh? Why Peace and Love?”

  “Because he has a paisley on his side.”

  “So he does.” J. T. scratched the black paisley shape.

  “And my grandma is kind of a hippie and she wishes my mama was one, too. She thinks my mama needs to loosen up.”

  “What’s a hippie?” he asked gravely and wholly mischievously.

  “Oh, you know, they have long hair and their houses smell good. It’s the sense.”

  “The . . . incense?”

  “Yeah! It’s nice!”

  He laughed. Peace and Love the cat rolled over shamelessly so he could scratch the white bib on his chest.

  He looked up at the girl and then past her. He’d parked his truck down the street, across from what appeared to be a palm reader, judging from the huge painted hand swinging from two chains over the sidewalk. He was worried about that god-­awful sound the truck was making. He had a hunch about what it was, because he’d fixed it before. He could have bought fifteen trucks just like it, if he wanted. Instead, he’d fixed nearly everything on that truck twice.

  Suddenly the little girl’s eyes went huge, her jaw dropped, and he watched her face go brilliant with astonished elation.

  J. T. knew exactly what was going to happen next.

  “WOOOoow,” she exhaled.

  Damn.

  And then she threw her head back.

  “MOOOOOOM!” she screamed.

  Foof! The cat shot straight up in the air, every hair erect, and it disappeared in a blur of scrambling legs, like a cartoon. J. T. staggered backward, blinking, his eardrums shriveling.

  The little girl began pogoing excitedly all around him, her pigtails flapping. “MOM MOM MOM MOM OH MY GOSH MOM YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHO’S PETTING PEACE AND LOVE MOM HURRY COME SEE!”

  Hurry? Now that was funny. As if he’d bolt, or evaporate in this heat if her mother didn’t get there fast enough.

  A woman hurtled out of the shop, the bells on the door jangling frantically.

  “For the love of God, Annalise, what on—­”

  She stopped short.

  He straightened slowly to his entire height, as unthreateningly as possible, as if he’d been caught in the act of something.

  Which he had, in a way. He’d been caught in the act of being himself.

  The woman’s dark red hair was bundled up on her head in a big ponytail, and he could see where her daughter got her eyes. Same color, same shape, and they got big and round and awestruck in just the same way when she saw him.

  She spoke wonderingly. “Good heavens. Is it really you? Mr. John Tennessee McCord? What brings you to our little town?”

  He liked the “Mr.” Women who were about to get hysterical didn’t often add a “Mr.”

  “About to start filming a new series about the California Gold Rush on location nearby. Called The Rush. Thought I’d get a sense of the place. Pretty town, Hellcat Canyon. Just ate the best burger of my life at the Misty Cat.”

  He knew that would be all over town in a heartbeat.

  She glowed. “My parents own that place. Glenn and Sherrie Harwood. I’m Eden Harwood.”

  Ah, small towns. “You should be proud.”

  She tore her eyes from him briefly.

  “Hush, you. I know you’re excited, Annalise, but you’re being very rude. Apologize to Mr. McCord for screaming. He has ears, just like you do, and you’re going to deafen him. And stop pointing. I can see him.”

  “Enthusiasm is good for my career, ma’am.” His ears were still ringing. He resisted an impulse to twist a finger in one to see whether the eardrum was intact.

  “I’m sorry for screaming, Mr. McCord,” said young Annalise.

  “What?” he teased, cupping his ear.

  Mother and daughter laughed. Albeit a little giddily.

  “We often watch repeats in the afternoon of your show, Mr. McCord. That’s how Annalise knows you.”

  It was how nearly everybody knew him, if they did. Repeats of a show that lasted seven outrageously popular years and had ended a decade ago but lived on in quite a few markets at various times of day. He thought he looked quite a bit different now; but then again, when millions of people had stared at you week after week for quite a few years, anonymity was kind of out of the question. His eyes, anyone would tell him, were unmistakable. An indie band out of Minneapolis had even scored a minor hit with “Eyes Like Tennessee.”

  “Say the thing you always said on TV, Mr. McCord. Will you please please pleeeeease?” Annalise folded her hands and implored him.

  “Sorry, sweetie, I’ll get in trouble from my bosses for saying that word outside the television.” He winked.

  He invented new reasons not to say “that thing” every time he was asked.

  He would die happy if he never had to say that word again. For so many reasons.

  Annalise was apparently satisfied with this explanation. Kids always related to getting in trouble for saying the wrong thing.

  “Would it be rude to trouble you for an autograph?” her mother asked. “It’s just that we enjoy your show so much. We’ll hang it on the wall in the shop.”

  “No trouble at all. That is, if I can trouble you for the name of a mechanic, and maybe the name of a local hotel. My truck made some ominous noises on the way and I don’t think it’ll be smart to drive it.”

  “Ominous. O-­M-­I-­N-­O-­U-­S,” Annalise said triumphantly.

  “Wow!” He held out his fist and Annalise bumped it enthusiastically with her own little fist. “Impressive!”

  “Impressive. I-­M-­P-­R—­”

  “That’s enough spelling for now, Annalise.” But her mother was glowing. “Um, Ernie Di Giulio is probably your best bet for a mechanic. He’s way out on Kilburn Road, but the bus goes right by his garage and service station.” The woman squinted and pointed down the street; near the swinging palm of the palm reader was a pretty little bench and a post with a sign on it, which was clearly the bus stop. “And the Angel’s Nest is the only bed and breakfast in town. It’s actually just a block away from ­Ernie’s, straight up the hill from it.”

  The hill she meant was apparent; the street wound up and up into the mountains—­if he squinted, he could make out the rectangle of a white highway billboard. A guy was clambering over it in preparation of changing its message. Heaven forbid a moment should pass without advertising.

  “I don’t suppose this town has a taxi service?”

  He was pretty sure he knew the answer. He was just curious about what she’d say.

  “Of course we do!” she said. “But I think he’s taking Mrs. Gordimer to the grocery store right now. There’s a sale on chicken thighs. She doesn’t have a car and she just got her Social Security check.”

  This was pretty much the answer he’d expected. He smiled. “Guess I timed it wrong.”

  “I don’t know if they’re full up at the Angel’s Nest, but I’m afraid that’s your only option right in town. If you intend to stay awhile.”

  He followed the direction of her pointing finger, still aimed toward the hills, but his eye was drawn up and beyond it, up past the canyon woolly and dark with pines and redwoods and oaks and manzanita and other California trees he intended to learn the names of, and several rugged peaks. He knew, he could almost smell, the way country boys could, that all of that was threaded through with the Hellcat River and creeks and streams.

  He could imagine hidden swimming holes and magical clearings and vistas that were nearly impossible to hike to but were worth it, because when you stood there to watch the sunset it was better than church.

  A broken truck, a pair of green eyes and a waitress who used the word “enigmatic”—­J. T. had never needed much of a rationalization to check out a gut feeling about a beautiful woman, but it was all starting to feel a little portentous t
o him.

  A man, even a man like him, could probably still get lost up there in the hills of Hellcat Canyon.

  “I might just stay awhile, at that,” he told Eden Harwood.

  When J. T. reached the bus stop, a pair of women sporting the sleek, glossy tresses of the freshly blow-­dried were waiting there and chattering in Spanish. Across the street a sign featuring a single, huge flirty eye fringed in luxurious sparkly gold eyelashes swung on chains. The Truth and Beauty must be a beauty salon.

  They went abruptly silent when he appeared and turned big, admiring, wary eyes on him.

  He knew that expression well. It translated roughly to, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  He offered them an unthreatening “I’m not a vagrant” smile and stood at a polite distance.

  “Cuánto es la tarifa de autobús?” he asked.

  Thanks to movie tours and the army and all the various foreign versions of Blood Brothers, he’d picked up a hodgepodge of languages, and he’d wrestled a few of those into fluency during his downtime.

  They beamed at him like indulgent aunts. They looked like sisters in town for a day of beauty, maybe. “One dollar fifty,” one of them told him.

  “Gracias.”

  They picked up their conversation again. “Oh! Louisa!” One of them grabbed her friend’s arm and turned her. “Look, Look! Mi actriz favorita! Ella es muy hermosa!” She pointed at the advertisement on the bus bench.

  The day someone said, “Look at that beautiful woman,” in any language and he didn’t look was the day J. T. was in his coffin.

  So he looked.

  A famous actress was ecstatically clutching a new handbag with both hands and her knees were bent in what looked like the beginning of a jump for joy. “Spring into savings with Macy’s!”

  Oh. Hell.

  He could have told them he’d heard that woman fart in her sleep and he’d held her while she sobbed over losing a part she wanted, and that he’d ducked when she’d hurled a shoe at him during their first big fight but she’d still managed to wing his cheekbone. And millions of other little things, because J. T. was a guy who paid attention. Including the very last words she’d said to him. Which were, “Don’t wait up.”