“Don’t say that word!” said Max. “Take the time you need, but don’t say it’s over. Please, Annie. I can make this right.”

“You can’t make this right, Max. Just . . . just please be out while I pack.”

Annie closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her free hand. She didn’t feel like a romantic heroine anymore. She felt the full weight of her middle-aged life hanging from her shoulders like wet sandbags.

As she was paying at the bar, Emily came to stand beside her.

“You’re moving into Saltwater Nook,” she said.

“Yes, I am, on Sunday.”

“Are you friend or foe?”

“I’m sorry?”

Emily slid a flyer along the bar to Annie; SAVE SALTWATER NOOK AND RECLAIM YOUR HISTORY was printed at the top.

“It should belong to everyone,” said Emily. “No one person should get to decide what happens to our joint history. There are two choices: stand for what’s right or stand with John Granger.”

Emily’s focus on her was intense, and Annie could feel herself shrinking from her steady glare.

“Um, I don’t really have an opinion right now,” said Annie tactfully. “Until yesterday I didn’t know Willow Bay existed, let alone Saltwater Nook. I’m afraid you’ll have to do without my input for the time being.” She smiled, hoping to pacify Emily.

Emily seemed to accept this. She nodded toward the flyer. “Make sure you read it,” she said. “You’re involved now. There’s no room for sitting on the fence.”

Annie left, having promised to do her homework, and wondered what she had gotten herself into. Too late to back out now, she thought. And besides, where else was she going to find a place to live that didn’t require rent?

Chapter 11

As promised, Annie and Max’s house was empty when Annie let herself in on Saturday morning. The familiar smell of Max’s aftershave hung in the air and the foot towel in the bathroom was still damp, so he hadn’t been gone long. She hadn’t loved Max as a wife should for a long time, but in twenty-six years she had grown accustomed to him: to his little ways, his scent, his coughing in the mornings, his snoring gently reverberating through the bedroom wall.

After the second affair, they had taken separate bedrooms; Max’s need to wrap himself around her as they slept was no longer adorable, and his farting in bed had lost its charm. They’d still had sex occasionally, but Annie told herself that she was merely using him to satisfy her primal urges.

Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle stretched out on the bed while Annie packed.