States for a while. She’d thought about writing a book or something. Then again, Roxanne Simon had done that while she was hiding from Frank Garrett, and look how that turned out. Sara had quickly nixed that idea.
Instead, she’d opted to pull out her cameras and go back to the world of photography. That’s how she’d met Kirk. She’d been hired to do a photo shoot with his band. In light of how that had turned out, she intended to steer clear of high profile photo shoots.
In an effort to keep a low profile, she’d applied for and won a position as a photographer at a newspaper in a sleepy little town tucked away in the Sierra Nevada Mountains called Fireside, California. Not that she needed the money. She’d gotten plenty from Kirk. But she didn’t want to end up as one of those shut-ins that all the neighbors called crazy. She needed to keep busy, to preoccupy herself with something. And taking pictures, well, that’s what she knew.
Settling into Fireside—population 7,792—had been easy. Sara had rented and settled into an apartment that was located about two miles outside the city limits. The six-month lease afforded her plenty of time to figure out if she wanted to hang around Fireside for a while. If she did, in a couple of months she’d start checking out houses. Hopefully, she’d find one that suited her, and she could put down some actual roots.
Fireside was secluded and quiet and tucked away in a thick forest, and quite unlike anything Sara was used to in London. She was scheduled to start work on Monday, and she was going to enjoy the scenic solitude of the daily drive to and from the paper.
She’d been in Fireside three weeks now, and she’d yet to see it rain. She couldn’t ever remember this much time passing in London without rain. But her neighbors had told her she’d see plenty of precipitation in the winter—in the form of snow. Something else she wasn’t used to.
She turned right off Embers Lane, her street, and headed east toward town. A hill, one long stretch, and two curves, and Sara would pass the city limits sign. Near the end of the stretch, she caught sight of a newly placed sign on the right side of the road. Bold colors in red, white, and blue proclaimed “Justin Walraven for Congress”.
After the first curve, another sign, same colors but a different design declared that “A vote for Micki Darlington is a vote for progress”.
Sara shook her head. She was glad she didn’t have the right to vote in this country, and she wondered if voting was as useless here as it was in England. At twenty-nine, Sara, like most young people, wasn’t interested in politics.
As Sara rounded the second curve, a deer darted across the road.
C lay Darlington motored the fire department truck along Highway 49, heading back toward Fireside. He’d been in Oakhurst, to the high school down there, overseeing a fire and earthquake drill. No one else at the department had wanted to go, but Clay didn’t mind. He liked being out and about, soaking up the beauty of the countryside that he’d called home for most of his life.
He’d run into Tim Weaver while he was there. Clay and Tim used to play together at USC, back in the day. Tim was the high school’s coach now. The NFL had shown some interest in Tim, but they were hem-hawing and Tim needed a job pronto because his girlfriend was pregnant. In the end, Tim had stayed in Oakhurst and the NFL became a dream that slipped further and further away until it drifted completely out of sight. Tim Jr. was thirteen now, and Tim Sr. had proudly declared that his son was showing some talent for the game.
Even at thirty-five, Clay couldn’t imagine being the father of a teenager. Still, he wondered what would’ve happened if he and Meredith had had a child. Someone else would be raising his child, that’s what. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks for dodging the nightmare of being tied to Meredith forever.
The road was quiet today, not much
Instead, she’d opted to pull out her cameras and go back to the world of photography. That’s how she’d met Kirk. She’d been hired to do a photo shoot with his band. In light of how that had turned out, she intended to steer clear of high profile photo shoots.
In an effort to keep a low profile, she’d applied for and won a position as a photographer at a newspaper in a sleepy little town tucked away in the Sierra Nevada Mountains called Fireside, California. Not that she needed the money. She’d gotten plenty from Kirk. But she didn’t want to end up as one of those shut-ins that all the neighbors called crazy. She needed to keep busy, to preoccupy herself with something. And taking pictures, well, that’s what she knew.
Settling into Fireside—population 7,792—had been easy. Sara had rented and settled into an apartment that was located about two miles outside the city limits. The six-month lease afforded her plenty of time to figure out if she wanted to hang around Fireside for a while. If she did, in a couple of months she’d start checking out houses. Hopefully, she’d find one that suited her, and she could put down some actual roots.
Fireside was secluded and quiet and tucked away in a thick forest, and quite unlike anything Sara was used to in London. She was scheduled to start work on Monday, and she was going to enjoy the scenic solitude of the daily drive to and from the paper.
She’d been in Fireside three weeks now, and she’d yet to see it rain. She couldn’t ever remember this much time passing in London without rain. But her neighbors had told her she’d see plenty of precipitation in the winter—in the form of snow. Something else she wasn’t used to.
She turned right off Embers Lane, her street, and headed east toward town. A hill, one long stretch, and two curves, and Sara would pass the city limits sign. Near the end of the stretch, she caught sight of a newly placed sign on the right side of the road. Bold colors in red, white, and blue proclaimed “Justin Walraven for Congress”.
After the first curve, another sign, same colors but a different design declared that “A vote for Micki Darlington is a vote for progress”.
Sara shook her head. She was glad she didn’t have the right to vote in this country, and she wondered if voting was as useless here as it was in England. At twenty-nine, Sara, like most young people, wasn’t interested in politics.
As Sara rounded the second curve, a deer darted across the road.
C lay Darlington motored the fire department truck along Highway 49, heading back toward Fireside. He’d been in Oakhurst, to the high school down there, overseeing a fire and earthquake drill. No one else at the department had wanted to go, but Clay didn’t mind. He liked being out and about, soaking up the beauty of the countryside that he’d called home for most of his life.
He’d run into Tim Weaver while he was there. Clay and Tim used to play together at USC, back in the day. Tim was the high school’s coach now. The NFL had shown some interest in Tim, but they were hem-hawing and Tim needed a job pronto because his girlfriend was pregnant. In the end, Tim had stayed in Oakhurst and the NFL became a dream that slipped further and further away until it drifted completely out of sight. Tim Jr. was thirteen now, and Tim Sr. had proudly declared that his son was showing some talent for the game.
Even at thirty-five, Clay couldn’t imagine being the father of a teenager. Still, he wondered what would’ve happened if he and Meredith had had a child. Someone else would be raising his child, that’s what. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks for dodging the nightmare of being tied to Meredith forever.
The road was quiet today, not much
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