After they ordered coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle cake to share, Carol tapped her book. “I’ve just got to a juicy part. Georgia’s heading into the desert with either Mike the rugged aircraft pilot, or James the marine biologist. I don’t know who she’ll choose.”

Liv pretended to zip her lips with her fingers. “I’m not saying anything, except that things get rocky.”

“Ooh, love, I don’t know how you remember all the stories.” Carol shook her head in amazement. “I get them muddled up. I put a tick on the title pages, to remind myself I’ve already read them.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.” Liv had read her first ever Georgia Rory book at twelve years old when she won it in a writing competition at school. Georgia helped to get her through some tough times, and she’d read the full series many times over.

“And how are things with Ms. Starling? Is she still as warm and welcoming as ever?” Carol grinned.

“She’s actually getting a bit better,” Liv said.

A few weeks ago, the author left her a copy of Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. The yellow sticky note said, “Enriching, enlightening, extraordinary. Read and learn, Olivia.” She’d read the book from cover to cover hanging on to every word.

The note was a welcome change to ones Essie used to leave for her. “Olivia, do use an alternative solution to clean my bath. I hate the smell of grapefruit.” And, “Olivia, please store your cleaning equipment on the second shelf in the hallway cupboard, not the third.”

Liv thought about her conversation with the author yesterday and stirred her coffee too many times. “Actually, I’m a bit worried about my job. Essie caught me reading her new manuscript then asked for my opinion on a review. I think I was too honest.”

“Is that possible?”

Liv shrugged. “Maybe I should have flattered her instead. I didn’t sleep well last night, thinking about it.”

Carol took a fork and dug it into the cake. “Do you remember what your dad’s advice would be?”

A rush of warmth mingled with sadness washed over Liv as she thought about him. Grant Cooper had been an English professor who died when she was young, and she could still summon up his smell, of books and musky cologne. Liv smiled. “He’d probably ruffle my hair and say, ‘There’s no point guessing how a story will end, sweet pea. Keep turning the page until you reach the next chapter.’”

Carol nodded firmly. “He always said it to his students. Worrying never changes anything.”

Liv sipped her coffee. She wished she could follow her dad’s advice, but it wasn’t that easy. “Me and Jake, well...” She looked down at her cup. “We’re struggling with our finances a bit.”