All the Way Home by Wendy Corsi Staub

that this stranger has so aptly managed to put her muddled emotions into words. “You must be a good writer.”
    “I am.” He rocks back on his heels, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Can I come in? I won’t stay long. I promise.”
    “You can’t. I’m busy.” She waves the paintbrush at him, and for some reason, glances down to make sure the door is still locked. As if he’s going to force his way in.
    Huh. As if.
    There’s nothing threatening about this man. Still, she can’t help but feel apprehensive.
    “What are you painting?” he asks.
    “The kitchen. And, look, I’ve been at it all day and I just made a huge mess that I have to clean up,” she remembers, thinking of the brush mark on the refrigerator. “So I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
    “If you won’t talk to me, maybe your mother will?”
    She gives a curt laugh. “My mother? No way.”
    Obviously, Mrs. Shilling hasn’t told Barrett Maitland everything about the Connolly family.
    “How about your brother? I know he’s away for the summer, but if you could give me a number where I could reach him . . .”
    “Sorry.” She starts to turn away from the door.
    “Come on, Rory, can’t you cut me a break? My publisher is expecting a completed manuscript by Labor Day.”
    “That’s not really my problem, is it?”
    “Okay, look, if you won’t talk to me tonight, how about tomorrow?”
    “I’m busy tomorrow,” she lies.
    “Saturday, then? We can go out for an espresso.”
    “Espresso?” She turns back to him.
    What are you doing, Rory? You can’t be considering meeting this man, no matter how much you crave an espresso .
    “There’s this little cafe on Front Street where that Chinese restaurant used to be.”
    “I know. I saw it.”
    “We can sit for an hour and talk. And if it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay.”
    “I don’t know . . .”
    Are you out of your mind? You can’t do this .
    “Seven-thirty? Saturday night?”
    “Okay,” she hears herself say.
    I can’t help it. There’s no one to talk to around here. Nothing to do. I can’t spend the entire summer painting woodwork, humming to myself. I’ll end up like Mom .
    “Great.” Relief is evident in his voice. “I’ll come by for you. We can walk over if it’s nice out.”
    “No,” she says abruptly. There’s something too intimate—too datelike—about the thought of walking over to the cafe together on a nice summer night. “I’ll meet you there. I have . . . errands I have to run before that.”
    “Whatever,” he says easily. “I’ll see you then.”
    “Fine.”
    She turns and walks back down the hall toward the kitchen, listening to his steps retreating down the wooden front steps. She finds herself wanting to turn and make sure he’s walking away—that he isn’t lingering to watch her through the windows.
    Which is an odd thought. Why would he do that?
    Because there’s something strange about him. Something I can’t put my finger on .
    She should never have agreed to meet him Saturday night. She’d done it out of loneliness. Boredom.
    And, hell, the man is great-looking .
    Her lips curve into a smile.
    What’s wrong with being attracted to someone like him? Who wouldn’t be?
    You shouldn’t be .
    He’s a true-crime writer. He wants to know about Carleen .
    S O? She doesn’t have to tell him anything. She can say she’s changed her mind. That she can’t talk about that after all.
    She starts scrubbing the paint mark off the side of the refrigerator, thinking about how long it’s been since she had a date. Almost a month. Josh, the guy she’d been seeing in Miami, had left to sail his boat to Nantucket for the summer. She would probably have gone with him if Kevin hadn’t called and asked her to come home.
    So much for Josh. She hasn’t heard from him since, though he’d promised to write.
    Not that she’s pining away. He was fun, but not someone she’d ever settle down with for the long haul.