Page 15 of The Moment They Can't Forget

“Really.”

“Well, that makes me feel better.”

“It’s funny, because I always thought you had it together,” Zoe said. “You seemed happy with who you were, and nothing bothered you much.”

“I wore hemp dresses, and my lunch was lentil and tofu bake, Zoe. I don’t know any kid who’d be happy with that.”

She giggled. “Yeah, I remember the dresses. Seems we were both pretty good at hiding who we were.”

“Seems we were,” Birdie agreed.

They ran on in silence, thinking about that. The police station was long and low, and both Dan’s and Uncle Asher’s cruisers were outside. The Courtesy Turn Cafe, which had a sign telling them it had the best waffles in town, was busy.

“Morning, girls!” Linda from the Do-Si-Do Diner called as they passed. She wore her bright pink uniform and her hair swept into a beehive.

“So, have you applied for any jobs?” Birdie asked.

“Sawyer told you to ask me that, didn’t he?”

“He’s worried about you, but no, that question was from me, even if he said he was going to hold you down soon until he got answers.”

Zoe sighed. “I’m applying for jobs,” she lied, seeing as supposedly that’s what she’d been doing the last few days.

“I told Sawyer you’d talk when you were ready.”

“Thanks, Birdie.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for that. The story wasn’t pretty, and it made her sound like a naïve fool.

“That woman,” Birdie said, pointing to Petticoat. The place offered most things, from curtain fabrics to shelving and everything in-between. Abilene Copeland, the owner, had been designing rooms all over this town for years. Right now she was dragging a chair outside to put on display in front of the large window. It wasn’t easygoing, as one foot was strapped into a black ankle-support boot.

“How’d she end up with her leg in that?” Zoe asked.

“She and Tripp were dancing. He stumbled, taking Abilene with him, and she twisted it,” Birdie said.

“I wonder how many injuries in this town can be directly related to square dancing. Shall we help her?”

“I think we should.”

They ran closer, stopping outside the shop.

“You need a hand, Mrs. C?” Birdie said.

The woman looked harried, and the opening hours sign in the window told Zoe she’d only just started her day.

“I’d be grateful, girls.”

Small, round, with straight brown hair, Mrs. C, like many of the older folk in town, had added a few lines and pounds, but not much else had changed. Zoe always said life stood still in Lyntacky.

She’d spent hours inside Petticoat when she was young. Mrs. C had nurtured her love of design while they pored over fabric swatches and home magazines.

“Where is Clay?” Zoe asked. “Can’t he help while you’re injured, Mrs. C?”

The woman’s mouth drew into a hard line. “My boy’s as useless as the lettergin lasagna. Has those things on his head from sunup till sundown.”

“Headphones?” Zoe asked.

“Them.” She nodded. “I told him he has until the end of fall before I kick him out.”

Even Zoe had heard, in the many emails from family, about Mrs. C’s threats to kick out her son. She never followed through. This had been going on since Zoe was a teenager. Clay Copeland was a spoiled, self-indulgent man, and she didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

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