Wishes At First Light. Joanne Rock

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      “Right,” Amy confirmed. “Remy. I haven’t met him yet either, but Erin wrote me all about it.”

      “There’s a face I remember,” Daisy Spencer called, gesturing them to come closer. “Gabriella Chance, it’s good to see you again, honey. Do you remember coming out to the farm with your mother to buy jelly?” She laughed merrily, twisting the daisy pin on the lapel of her pink running jacket while the Pekingese wagged its tail. “Oh me, you were just a little one then and I had a whole lot less gray.”

      They reminisced for a minute while Amy caught up with her sisters. And in the warmth of that shared memory with the older woman, Gabriella forgot to be an introvert. She was glad she came. Glad to remember she’d been a part of all this once. In the same way that being at the Owl’s Roost had reminded her of happier times with her mother, Daisy Spencer brought back more pleasant flashbacks to her youth before things took a nosedive. She remembered sitting in the Spencers’ big farm kitchen with an ancient stove unlike anything she’d ever seen before. With the wrought-iron apple peeler clamped to a wooden counter and the scent of pies baking in that huge oven, the Spencer home was firmly ingrained in her memories.

      Over the course of the next twenty minutes, she was introduced to Tiffany McCord, Bailey’s mother and Jeremy Covington’s former girlfriend who’d turned evidence against him, as well as Kate Covington, Jeremy’s wife, who—Kate confided—was soon to be his ex-wife. Gabriella noted that the two women remained on opposite sides of the room. No doubt this was an awkward collection of women assembled here, including several people she hadn’t met yet, but it impressed her that so many of them had shown up, united in a common cause.

      “If I can have your attention, please?” Nina Spencer Finley’s voice interrupted as she moved to the center of the room. Her cupcake basket gone, she addressed the more than twenty women. “Welcome to Salon Night and thank you to Trish for hosting us at The Strand.” She paused while everyone clapped for the hair salon owner. “I’m not much of a public speaker, so I’ll make this short. I wanted to do something for you all tonight to thank you for the role each and every one of you is playing in the trial of Jeremy Covington.”

      The room quieted even more. It seemed even Daisy’s dog stilled at the mention of the man’s name. Gabriella swallowed hard, looking around at the women whose lives had been hurt in one way or another by him. Amy, too?

      Gabriella wondered if her old friend had given some kind of testimony that she didn’t know about.

      “I’m sure there are some of you who don’t consider yourselves public speakers, either, and yet you’re raising your voices to point out a monster in our midst to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else. Thank you for being brave enough to do that.”

      Erin Finley cheered and slung an arm around her sister Heather. Amy silently rubbed Heather’s back. Maybe Amy and Erin were just here to support their sister.

      “I read a book recently,” Nina continued, her expression grave. “And the author wrote that it only takes one voice—at just the right pitch—to start an avalanche.”

      “Amen,” Daisy Spencer said softly.

      “I want to thank you ladies for starting the avalanche that’s putting away Jeremy Covington for the rest of his days,” Nina continued. “Now, go get your nails done, have a cupcake and some champagne to celebrate your awesomeness.”

      Gabriella ended up doing all those things. Over the next hour she had her fingers and toes painted in rose-petal pink since she wasn’t the artsy type like Erin, who painted a checkerboard on her index finger and all the other nails in alternating white and red.

      But as Gabriella finally retrieved her coat to go home, she had to admit that she liked how her fingers looked with the pink nail polish. She’d had fun tonight. She liked hearing about what was going on in Heartache recently. And she even took a bit of pleasure learning how her brother had beat up Jeremy Covington when he and his son, J. D. Covington, were trying to kidnap Heather. Zach had downplayed his role when he’d shared the story with Gabriella, but Heather’s version was far more exciting.

      Maybe she’d find healing here during this trial after all. If she wasn’t called to take the stand, she would benefit from being here when her attacker was convicted. And she’d promised herself she would speak to Clayton privately in the hope that confiding in him about the role he’d unknowingly played in that night would ease some of her old phobias about men and sex. It had taken her a long time to lose her virginity after that night, and her counselor had explained that her brain had associated sensual feelings with pain. She’d been too young to have positive sensual feelings prior to that awful night.

      Although she’d successfully had sex—nice, normal, not painful sex even if it wasn’t anything to write home about—she still dealt with a strange and sickening mental cross-wiring of the sensual and the terrifying. If clearing the air with Clayton had any chance of helping her to heal fully, it was worth the embarrassment of wading through those old chats to untwine his real messages from the ones her stalker had sent.

      Making quick work of her goodbyes, she edged through the salon door and out into the empty street. She’d parked a few doors down and by now, the only cars out here belonged to the women who’d attended the salon night. So it wasn’t like she worried about walking that short distance alone in the dark.

      There were streetlights and she’d gotten over those old phobias about strange men launching themselves at her from dark corners just beyond her peripheral vision. Truly, she had. It’s just that she was back in Tennessee. And she’d been talking about Jeremy Covington. And Clayton.

      Gulping in deep swallows of night air, she hoped some yoga breathing would settle her pulse rate. Maybe she should see if Clayton was still awake. It would be easy enough to spot his bike in front of one of the motel cabins.

      She reached for her car door, pausing long enough to look up at the stars overhead in the cold night. A streak of light flashed through the sky almost as soon as she tipped her head back. A shooting star.

      She made a wish on it without thought. Wishing for the first thing that came to mind.

      Opening her eyes, she had to laugh. She could have wished for healing herself. Or a good trial outcome. Peace of mind for all the great women she’d visited with tonight.

      Instead, she’d wished for a single, uncomplicated kiss from Clayton Travers.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      CLAYTON SAT OUTSIDE his motel cabin long after sunset, ignoring the fact that his fingertips were going numb in the cold night air. It wasn’t good for his guitar, he knew, to play in this kind of weather. Changes in temperature caused the wood to expand and contract. But banging out a tune was more for relaxation than anything. He liked to think his two-hundred-dollar pawn shop purchase helped him avoid the shrink’s chair, mellowing him out when he was wound too tight. His foster mom had helped him find ways to regulate the frenetic energy that churned through him after he’d gone nuts at his guidance counselor’s suggestion he try medication.

      In theory, he knew the meds helped some people. But as a kid, he’d been scared spitless that any drug would be a gateway to turning into his parents. What kind of chance did he have of avoiding addiction given his genetics?

      Guitar picking was safer. If a little tougher on the ears of unsuspecting neighbors.

      Holding the last note of a sixties folk tune that Bob Dylan made famous, Clay debated going inside for the night. With his feet propped on the narrow porch rail and his back jammed into a corner on the wooden chair he’d borrowed from the dinette set inside, his joints had gone stiff from staying in one position for too long. Or from the cold. He pulled his feet off the railing just as a car turned off the interstate and into the parking lot.

      The white Ford sedan had out-of-state plates. A rental, he guessed. And since there weren’t many guests staying in the motel cottages, he