Out of Eden. Beth Ciotta

the store every day, Tuesday through Saturday at 9:00 a.m., he’d be broadening his horizons while hers flat-lined. “I know the store’s in Spenser’s name,” she grumbled, “but he saddled me with the responsibility.”

      “Temporarily,” Faye said. “Although I admit his idea of ‘temporary’ differs from most folks. Still, if I recall, you’re supposed to run things status quo. Knowing your brother, I don’t think he’d be keen on pink walls and weird posters.”

      “Spenser can kiss my—”

      “Ashe sent this over.” Wanda, Boone’s wife, who usually manned the kitchen whipping up her locally famous kick-butt chicken wings, seasoned mozzarella sticks and other assorted yummies, was currently working the floor due to a server shortage. She set another cosmo on the table. “Be warned, the silver-tongued dog paid Boone for a double shot of vodka.”

      “Happy birthday, Kylie,” Ashe called from his bar stool.

      He probably thought that winking thing was sexy. Smarmy was more like it. “Thanks.” She saluted the cocky car dealer with a dismissive smile. Ashe Davis had been trying to score with her since her almost-fiancé, make that ex-almost-fiancé, fled paradise last year. At no point in time had she suggested he had a snowball’s chance in hell, but the man was persistent. Handsome and successful, thirty-six and never married, he was considered by some the perfect catch. Only thus far he’d proved too slippery for any of the eligible women in Eden and even a few of the not-so-eligible. With Ashe it was all about the hunt. Once he bagged his prey, he lost interest. If Kylie wanted a brief, hot fling, he’d be the perfect choice. That is, if she could stomach sleeping with a self-absorbed womanizer.

      “He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.

      “I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”

      “Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.

      Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”

      “I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”

      “That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”

      “Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.

      “Giving you blisters?”

      Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.

      Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.

      “These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”

      “You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”

      “Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”

      “Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.

      “They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”

      “I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”

      “No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”

      “You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.

      “Yes, but—”

      “Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”

      “They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”

      “I’ve worn them three times max.”

      “Are you sure you want to give them up?”

      “Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”

      “Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”

      They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.

      “Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.

      “An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”

      “You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.

      “I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”

      “Probably because your taste buds are numb.” Faye pursed her cherry-red lips. “Good thing I’m driving.”

      “Wash those hands before you handle my wings!” Max yelled when Wanda disappeared into the kitchen.

      “I wouldn’t mind seeing dingy’s Max,” Kylie said, tripping over her words. She pinched the end of her tongue. Also numb. Dang. “I mean Max’s dingy.”

      Her friend groaned, then leaned forward. “You have got to be kidding. I know you’ve been sexually deprived since the asshole split town, but you cannot be that desperate for a thrill.”

      “Actually, I am.” Although, it was spurred by lack of zest, not sex. She’d felt melancholy and hollow since Spenser’s phone call this morning. She wasn’t a stranger to disappointment, and usually she sucked it up and moved on, doing what she had to do, doing what was best for all involved even if it didn’t feel best for her. But today she hadn’t been able to wrangle the disappointment, and as the day crawled by, depression had given way to desperation and uncharacteristic behavior. She mentally kissed her nurturing, passive self goodbye. Time to take action. Time to shake up the life she was stuck with.

      “At least it would cause a sensation,” Kylie said, shocked at the vehemence in her tone. “Can you imagine the headlines?” She mimicked a newspaper barker, shouting her concocted news just as the song ended and the noise level dipped. “Max Grogan drops his pants in protest of tardy service!”

      “I ain’t flashing my willy just because you’re bored, Kylie McGraw.” Max grunted as he dealt a new hand. “Kids.”

      “Kids who don’t know when they’ve had enough,” said the mayor. “Even worse.”

      “Maybe you should switch to soda,” called Mr. Keystone.

      “Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” said Kylie.

      J.J.