Chapter One

I was pulling off the interstate when my phone rang and, despite the fact it didn’t interfere with my GPS’s faithful guidance, I scowled and caught myself squinting at the interruption, nonetheless. Because, frankly, I was turning into my mother despite the fact there was no way I was now fifty. Dear God in Heaven, fifty.

Who needed the reminder? Besides, age was just a number. Right? If I told myself that over and over again, would it ever be true?

Delusions of youth began long before the big 5-0 rolled around, so I figured I was a lost cause in the growing-up department regardless.

“Yes, darling,” I answered the caller, refusing to be one of those people who turned their radio down when they were trying to focus because fifty. I much preferred twenty-five. Thirty, max. “Did you need something or are you just checking up on me?”

My daughter’s snort laugh made me grin despite myself. “You did abandon me for some mid-life crisis, post-divorce adventure, Mom. The least you could do is pretend to be brokenhearted I’m not with you.”

My turn to laugh. “You’d hate it,” I said, the stop sign at the end of the rather bland grassy exit merely a suggestion as I rolled through and turned right when the deep and sexy voice of the GPS my darling girl programmed for me before I left for said adventure suggested I do so with such seduction I heard her giggle. “Much like I’m beginning to despise good old Ryan or Chuck or whoever this guy is you’ve infected my GPS with.”

Calliope gasped on the other end of the line. “Mom,” she said, while I pictured her adorable cheeks rounding when she grinned, my daughter far more her father than me, at least physically. “He’s dreamy.”

“Callie,” I used her exact chiding tone, “he’s not real.” I smirked to myself with a bit of wickedness, catching the crow’s feet around my eyes in the rearview and refusing to give them another second of notice. I earned them, every one. “Unless you can hand me a live guy who sounds like that, keep your hands off my tech.”

“Mom!” How had I raised a prude? My daughter’s laughter had that refreshing breeze effect it always did, though her father’s influence meant she acted far closer to my age than I did. “You were just divorced like a hot minute ago. Shouldn’t you maybe wait for a bit before thinking about other men?”

She had so much to learn and hopefully never would because I wished her a far more fulfilling married life than I had. “Wait for what approximate amount of time that you may deem appropriate, my sweet? A month? Six? The rest of my life.” She didn’t respond, so likely she’d have rathered I stayed celibate and her version of the mother she remembered forever and ever. I wasn’t so out of touch I wasn’t aware it had to be hard for her, thinking of her mother in these terms. I still struggled a little knowing my own mother dated after Dad died, despite the fact she’d been remarried to Ralph for the past three years. Calliope would, however, have to get used to the fact her newly single mother wasn’t about to waste another second. “You know we separated for a year before that, darling,” I sing-songed the truth with far more relief and joy than I planned, “and I was single for a decade, whether you like it or not. I have no interest in shacking up with another roommate, so get over it.” I relented a little because she was ever so quiet, and I might have pushed her too far. “But yes, if you say so.” Sigh. More nothing. She’d learned the silent treatment from none other than the other half of her parent duo. “Speaking of which, how’s your father?”

“So, you do care.” Got her talking again, fabulous. The light tone of her voice reminded me she was more than likely distracted and any guilt I felt over the situation probably settled in the only me range these days. Calliope might have been mostly her father, but she was me, too, and rarely held grudges. Hard to balance my feelings with second-guessing hers all the time, though, when I knew better. Teasing or not, however, part of me wondered if Calliope held out hope Trent and I would somehow miraculously find our way back to each other when the exact opposite was true. At least, on my part.

Trees thinned on the left, the ocean glinting occasionally through the spruce trees lining the road. I noted the town sign welcoming me to Zephyr, Maine, which, according to said garishly painted signage, claimed to host the biggest flower festival in the state. While only a few hours’ drive from my home in Wallace, it felt like a whole world away and exactly what I’d been hoping for.

“He’s fine, Mom,” she said, answering the question I’d already forgotten I’d asked. “Lonely, I think.” She had to sound sad about it, tickling my guilt again. It’s not like I abandoned him or her. They were both grown adults with their own lives and ambitions. Couldn’t I have mine, too? “He misses you. We both do. It’s not the same without you around.”

She wasn’t just talking about right now, either. I’d moved into the in-law suite meant for Mom down the road the same day I told Trent I wanted a divorce. And then to my new place three months ago. I might have been only a couple of miles from them physically, but Calliope felt the distance and had no qualms bringing it up.

More guilt. Thanks, kid.

“We agreed you’d stay with your father while you finish your summer semester and I’d run away for a month to celebrate my freedom, and everyone would be happy.” I slowed to the requisite forty miles per hour. Which meant I set the cruise to fifty, naturally.

Calliope sighed heavily into the phone, that teenaged angst carried over to her early twentysomething existence like an old sweater I hoped she’d grow out of before she turned into Trent for real. “You mean you’d be happy,” she said, uncharacteristic resentment waving a red flag that had me frowning. “Sorry, Mom,” she said then. “It’s not your fault, I know that. I’m just worried about you.” Yup, Trent through and through. “And about Dad. You know he needs someone to take care of him.”

She wasn’t kidding. Did he ever. While my ex might have been Very Special Agent In Charge Trent Garret to the real world, superhero crimefighter who led his own team and everything (insert sarcasm here), the man could barely find his socks in the morning, let alone let go of his need to control everything around him while missing the point over and over again. Not bitter or anything, just over and done with being last on his list while I put my family first. “Did you sign him up for that dating app you were talking about? The one for old people?” I didn’t snort, I swear. Okay, maybe a little.

“He didn’t want me to,” she said. “I think he’s still holding out hope, Mom.”

“My darling girl,” I said, all amusement gone, the sight of the edge of town now in view and my speed slowing at last to the limit thanks to traffic ahead, “I’ve been nothing but clear with you and your father since day one. I’ve moved on, baby. It’s time your dad did, too.” The idea of being with Trent again in any romantic capacity? Made me anxious and honestly revolted, though I’d never tell him that. Not that over ten years of celibacy in our marriage hadn’t been an excellent indicator, as far as I was concerned.

Old frustration sizzling, I turned off the air conditioning and powered down my windows, letting the sea breeze wash away the tension and the past. “Callie, there will come a time you fall in love. And then out of love. I hope you realize it and accept it and let go long before your father and I did.” Twenty-four years of my life with someone who was such a good person, just not my person, still knotted my insides with regret I knew better than to hang onto. So why was I? It was called being human, though I was working on that, too. “Trust me, when he finds a girlfriend, he’ll be so much happier, and we can both move on.” Meaning my only child, of course, could let go of this fantasy and drop the guilt trips already.

Because for me, moving on happened a long time ago.

It was my turn at the stop sign, the adorable main street of town finally getting my attention, multi-colored storefronts and light traffic, most of it pedestrian, drawing the most satisfied smile from me. Someone had painted a chain of daisies on the pavement, marking the edge of the crosswalk with a fresh vine of adorable flowers that instantly lifted my spirits. This was going to be the perfect retreat and exactly what I needed. I was still positive of that fact as I pulled ahead to clear the intersection.

Forced to slam on the brakes when a sedan ignored the four-way stop and almost ran right into me.

Heart pounding, the gasp I uttered followed by Calliope asking if I was okay while, to my utter shock, the tall, thin man in the offending vehicle got out, red-faced and visibly livid, approaching my SUV with enough fury in his entire being. I was floored to realize he blamed me for the near accident.

Something he proceeded to scream at me in near incoherence while my startled brain fought to process the fact. It wasn’t until he drew close enough to be an actual physical threat, I realized my windows were down. And, as was often the case, my snarky side won over self-protection in the face of his bullying behavior.

When he drew a breath to continue, in the silence of that moment, I acted (reacted), whipping out a business card and offering it to him through the open window.

“Persephone Pringle,” I said, “holistic therapist. Looks like you have some anger management issues tied to a narcissistic overreactionism typically based in childhood trauma.”

Oh, yes, I did.

He gaped at me a moment in shock, and actually took the card, too.

“I’m on a retreat,” I went on, “but if you want a session, I’ll make time since cases like yours usually mean isolationism and conflict with those around you.” I really should have stopped talking, I know. But I found confronting those in high-octane meltdowns with calm and confidence often diffused them long enough to shut off their reaction. Case in point. Though, it was clearly not over for him, even if it was for me.

“Tourists,” he snapped, physically shaking in anger. “Go home and leave us alone!” With his last word delivered, he retreated to his own car, astonished drivers in other vehicles watching with raised eyebrows when he flashed me a very rude gesture with his middle finger before peeling off again.

“Mom.” Calliope’s breathlessness mirrored my own. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Typically, anger filled in the seams when I was confronted with conflict, something I’d never been proud of and continually worked on but had yet to master. Which was why I found myself gritting my teeth and clutching the steering wheel in frustration while I forced calm into my voice.

“Just a local yahoo with an attitude,” I said. “It’s fine.” It was. It was. “Listen, honey, I’m going to find my place and get settled.” I was not going to let that crazy guy’s attitude ruin the first day of the rest of my glorious life. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you, Mom,” she said.

“Love you, too.” I hung up, forced myself to relax, release the tension in my shoulders, the adrenaline burning off in my system. This was the new beginning I had dreamed of, four luxurious weeks all alone, to work on me, and only me, in the most deliciously selfish and self-affirming way possible.

Mr. Meltdown could suck it.

      Be the bigger person, Persephone Pringle.