He was such a terrible liar it was kind of cute. “You’ve got a secret that’s big enough it pushed you away from your old life, convincing you there was no reason not to follow a dream. It’s so big, you can’t tell anyone, not even Sheryl, about it. So, why do you think that millions are going to die?”

“I can’t . . .” Fingers clutching the arms of his glasses, he shook his head. “I gave my word.”

Choice, she reminded herself. “And I bet it would take something pretty extraordinary to convince you to break it.” One of the things Charlie loved about Vermont was the number of trees. National, state, and town forests aside, even new builds were careful of old growth. The Wood was as close in Vermont as it had been back in Darsden East where the family had been settled for over a century. “Walk with me.”

“No.”

“I guarantee that what I have to show you is extraordinary enough you’ll want to tell me everything.”

“No.”

His head shaking had gotten a little frantic, so Charlie said the magic word. “Please.”

Releasing his glasses, he took a deep breath and ran the fingers of his right hand through the hair over his ear, repeating the motion over and over. “Walk where?”

“That’s a little hard to explain, but I swear on my mother’s cherry pie that you’ll be back before you know you’re gone.”

“You swear on your mother’s cherry pie?” Gary’s laugh wobbled a little as he slid off the stage. “Must be one amazing cherry pie.”

“You have no idea,” Charlie told him, getting out her guitar.

“Should I bring the bouzouki?”

She could hear the unease under every word. “No, we’re good. But bring a jacket . . .” She nodded toward one end of Gary’s instrument case and the clothing in question. “. . . just in case.”

“In case of what?” he asked, reaching back.

“Weather.”

After a dubious glance at the brilliant pinks and oranges the sunset had seared across the sky, he shrugged into his jacket and fell into step beside her.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE STAGE FOR THE STREET FAIR had been built just before the corner of Adam’s Crescent and Main, so Charlie led Gary across the street to the trees at the east side of the T-junction—enough behind the stage they wouldn’t be seen, close enough to the stage that Gary wouldn’t balk. She played a soft arpeggio, using the guitar to carry them forward rather than her voice in case Gary needed reassurance. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

“Is this . . .” He let the question trail off as Charlie started to play. His grip tightened. He jerked forward as she stepped between two chestnuts, nearly treading on her heels. When she stopped playing, he gasped, “Where are we?”

“In the Wood.”

“I can see that, where . . .”

“Between.”

“Between what?”