It was like having dinner with Hayley only without the awkward conversations that always took place on first dates no matter how smooth you thought you were. The only people who always got the witty repartee and subtle flirting right were fictional characters. And that was only true because the author had days of tinkering to make sure they got it right. She finally took a chance when she was done eating and glanced across the way. Hayley smiled and looked skyward. If that was a signal for something, she had no clue what it was. Maybe it was I’m getting ready to get myself off if you’d care to watch, and if so, she didn’t want to miss it.

  She went upstairs and stripped with the light on. It wasn’t at all something she’d ever considered doing, but she did owe Hayley a little something for the performance she’d gotten the night before. Hopefully, they’d become friendly if not friends, so she could share how much illumination the streetlight cast into her bedroom. She wasn’t psychic, but she had to guess it was more than Hayley realized and would be comfortable with, should the need to masturbate in front of open windows hit her again. The other thing on her to-do list was to figure out when Hayley showered. With workmen around, she wanted to protect Hayley from giving free peep shows.

  The lights next door weren’t on, so she started knocking on the walls to make sure she hadn’t missed any holes that held more journals. She’d managed to start putting them in chronological order, and now, in her sleep clothes, she sat down on the chair she’d placed by the window with the one she thought was the first, dated before the wedding photo in the house. It was the earliest date she’d found so far. As she read, she allowed herself to be transported to another time.

  March 1985

  The best way to tell a story is from the beginning. It’s important not only to the story but also to the history the two people share. I’m sure everyone thinks their life would make a great romance novel, and I’m not any different, I guess. The thing is, Sam Fuller’s love for me and mine for him is a story that needs to be told. Ours is more than a romance, but I don’t want to be alive when it’s told.

  All you need to know before I begin is that we’ve been blessed with children, so there’s never been time for writing, but I’m ninety now, and it would seem time is finally limited. I’ll try my best to finish before I’m called to the Lord. This tale begins in March of 1913. I’m going to use our real names so you can follow along, and to whoever is reading this, know that sometimes we take secrets to the grave, but they shouldn’t stay buried. So here goes.

  March 1913

  Lydia Blanchard and her sisters took the same path to their father’s store outside of New Orleans as they always did. The fields along the way had undergone a transformation from grass to neat rows of different vegetables, and it always made her want to slow and admire the hard work it took to tend this much land. Her father had told them at dinner a few weeks ago that the farm down the way from theirs had a new owner, but she had yet to see him.

  Today she stopped, and her sisters glanced back when they noticed she wasn’t with them. Lydia’s immobility couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t take her eyes off the young man in the middle of a half-plowed section, having what appeared to be a serious discussion with a mule. The funny part was the mule seemed to be talking back and winning the argument, if the man’s frustration was any indication.

  “What in the world?” her younger sister Daisy asked.

  The new farmer took his hat off and banged it against his thigh, and the mule sounded like he was laughing. That made her sister Millie laugh as well, and the man finally noticed them. She got her sisters walking again but couldn’t help looking back. The new farmer was not only young and tall, but the most handsome thing she’d ever seen in her eighteen years. Her job now was to find as much information about this stranger as she could without seeming forward about it. Mama would not look kindly on that. Good Southern girls were supposed to be demure and spend their days thinking about baking and such, not about handsome young men that made their breath catch.

  “You girls get all those cans on the shelves,” her father said when they joined him behind the counter. Their family had owned the grocery and general store for generations and dealt mostly with the community of day workers and farmers. They didn’t go into New Orleans often, and the people in their little town had been here all their lives and recognized everyone on sight. Fishbowls had more privacy.

  “I heard he was in the Army and got hurt so he bought the old Hister place.” One of her mother’s oldest friends seemed to have all the answers as she gossiped with one of the ladies from their church. “His name’s Sam Fuller, and he hired Lester Simmons to work the land with him.”

  “He seems to be doing a good job,” she said, interjecting herself in their conversation. She got the woman’s order ready, hoping she had all the information she wanted. At eighteen most people already thought she was an old maid, but she was holding out for someone she loved. Her mama had given her that advice and told her to stop listening to the old biddies who used terms like old maid and spinster. It was 1913, for God’s sake.

  “I think so, and I need you to help me carry all this home.”

  “I can go,” Millie said.

  “Next time, dear, this time Lydia has to go.” The woman winked at her and picked up a bag. “She won’t be long.”

  Lydia could’ve kissed the older woman, but her walk back was unsuccessful. The mule and Sam weren’t there, and he was still missing that afternoon on their walk home. The recently plowed rows were done and planted, so she’d missed him, but there was always tomorrow.

  The section ended, and Wyatt took a moment to think about what Lydia had written. Her story wasn’t unique. There’d been countless romances through time about couples from kings to common men and the women they fell for. Everyone fell in love, except her. It wasn’t that she was incapable of falling in love—she simply hadn’t found it and knew all those pie-in-the-sky notions of your one true love only existed in books.

  “Don’t say anything. I already know you two found that,” she said before her mother popped into her head again. The journal was still open, and she used it to covertly study the window across from her. She took a moment to fantasize about whether Hayley wore toenail polish. Not that it would be a total mood killer if she didn’t, but she did love that on a woman. Something in the red family would be fantastic.

  There was no way to find out—all she could make out were the bottoms of Hayley’s feet since she had them on the windowsill again. “What do you think, Lydia?” She closed the journal and tapped it against her knee. “Think she’ll hide if I turn out the lights?”

  It was worth the gamble, and she snapped off the antique floor lamp she’d found downstairs and gave her eyes time to adjust to the dark. Hayley was moving her hips to the pace she’d set with her hand. The light outside gave her a view of what Hayley was doing but not a clear picture of her face. She’d really only gotten a few glimpses of her neighbor, but she knew the woman was beautiful.

  Right now, she wanted to see her since she found nothing sexier than a woman’s expression when her orgasm was right there at the edge of her need. Listening to the short gasps and moans turned her on and was a big part of what she missed about sex. All she could do was content herself with what Hayley was willing to share with her. She was turned-on by the time Hayley’s feet came off the sill and she sat up.

  These were the times she thought about the last woman in her bed. In reality it wasn’t the woman but the sex she remembered because none of the women were memorable. With the shock of the loss of her parents, she hadn’t had the urge to get out of bed, much less think of sleeping with someone. Hayley was clearly starting to wake her up because she was wet and hard. The problem was she was alone with only a woman in the window across from her.

  She took her time and placed her fingers along her clit and squeezed. “Fuck,” she said when she moved her fingers and squeezed harder. All her intentions to go slow disappeared when the desire to come became a desperate thing. “Jesus,” she said as she dropped her feet and took a breath. A pleasant lethargy overtook her, but it was too early to go to bed, so she clicked a lamp back on and picked up Lydia’s journal.

  March 1913

  Lydia left early for work the next morning, not wanting her sisters to walk with her. She’d thought carefully about her hair and picked a dress that looked the best on her. Her goal was to make an impression on Sam. The field was just up ahead, and she took a breath to calm her nerves. There he was. Sam and his mule were plowing some new rows and continuing what appeared to be a love-hate relationship. Lydia stood at the fence and smiled.

  A wave got her no response, but it was most likely Sam hadn’t seen her when he turned around to plow in the opposite direction. It took Mr. Oblivious half an hour to notice her, and Lydia wasn’t in the best mood by then. Actually, she was madder than she ever remembered being, and added to that, she was about to be late for work. If her sisters came by and saw her being humiliated, she’d befriend the mule.

  Sam appeared confused as he stood motionless staring at her. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he took his hat off and scratched his head. Lydia was mad, but she couldn’t deny what watching Sam did to her. The man was infuriating, but he was the most gorgeous thing, and he made her think of things she’d never contemplated.

  The way Sam acted, though, made it clear they’d never get anywhere if he didn’t change his aggravating ways. He started walking when she motioned him over. His slow gait made his mule bray like he understood Sam was an idiot. He still held his hat, and the way he pressed it to his chest made her think he was using it as a shield to protect himself.

  “Can I help you with something?” His gruffness meant the mule probably had better manners and social skills.

  “I’m Lydia Blanchard, and I wanted to welcome you.” She had to unclench her teeth to say the words and threw her hands up when he glanced back at the mule. “Do you need his help to be sociable?”

  “Sorry, I’m not used to visitors.” He shifted his weight, and she guessed it might have something to do with the limp she’d seen. “It’s usually just me and Lester.”

  “Is that the mule?”

  “Oh no, ma’am, that’s Plank. Lester’s the only man who agreed to work with me, but he’s over by the barn.” Sam stared at his shoes, and what Lydia took as dismissiveness was perhaps shyness. Sam wasn’t one of those aggressive sorts who’d tried to ask her out.

  “Lester Simmons?” she asked, and Sam nodded. “I know his family, and they’re real nice people. Is there some reason Lester’s the only one who wanted the job?” It was wise to find out early if Sam was some sort of bully or cad before her hormones overtook her brain.

  “I’m not from around here, and I’m retired Army, so people aren’t sure about me yet, I guess. This leg started my farming career sooner than I expected. Sorry I didn’t see you, and thanks for the welcome. I won’t keep you.” He raised his head and made eye contact. “It’s nice meeting you, Miss Lydia.” It seemed he could be social but only for short spurts of time.

  “My father expects you at Sunday lunch at our house. Do you need directions?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I have a lot of work.” The battered hat wasn’t going to last that much longer with the manhandling he was subjecting it to. He beat it against his leg and used it to wave toward the fields to show what he was talking about.

  “Sundays aren’t for work no matter how much you have of it. Be there at eleven, and don’t be late. My parents believe in promptness.” She pointed to the mule. “And he might be more cooperative if you gave him a nicer name.”

  “That’s the nicest thing we could come up with and be able to say it in mixed company, miss.”

  She laughed at that. “See you soon.” Lydia stopped breathing when Sam smiled. That was enough to convince her she’d made the right decision. Sam Fuller was going to be her husband even if the stubborn man didn’t know it yet.

  Wyatt ran her finger over the writing and could imagine Lydia sitting somewhere, penning the things she thought important about her life with Sam, turning it into a kind of novel of their romance. The story so far hadn’t been riveting, but she did want to finish it. Doing that would honor the woman who poured so much of herself onto the pages.

  Putting pen to paper was how she’d started. It was like her brain shut off as the words flowed, and she enjoyed flying on her imagination until the pieces fell into place. She’d been asked about that once at a signing, and it’d been her best explanation. Her brain didn’t literally shut off, but giving herself over to the work brought her in directions she never contemplated if she was willing to forgo the outlines and rigid storylines.

  She stared at Lydia’s handwriting, and an idea started to form. The process of actually writing something down might be the answer she was looking for, and she wanted to go back to the old ways. Tomorrow she’d have to go out and see if she could find the notebooks her father had introduced her to. Her pens were in her bag, so all she needed was ink.

  “There’s been a lot of days since you stood in that field, waiting for Sam to notice you.” She would’ve liked to have met Lydia. “You were a woman who knew what she wanted and went for it. I can’t imagine that was common back then.” She placed the journal back on the pile.

  The window across the way was empty, and she couldn’t make anything out even after she clicked the light off again. One thing she should add to her list of things to do tomorrow would be a trip next door to meet Hayley. It was something she was looking forward to.

  “And I thought I’d be bored.”

  She went to bed wondering what other treasures Lydia had hidden in the walls of this place. The odds of picking a house that came with a story a woman wrote to be found after her death were too infinitesimal to consider, and seeing the stack in the dark made her want to get up and read until she passed out.

  Maybe this was the universe’s way of paying her back for all she’d been through. It was a piss-poor compensation for losing her parents, but it was a first step in healing what she was convinced would never stop bleeding.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What are you working on?” Esther Fox asked. Hayley’s mother called her twice a week to check in, but the questions mostly centered around any potential danger she could be in. She really needed to get her mom hooked on rom-coms.

  “Hmm,” she said, distracted. It was hard to concentrate when the lights next door had started coming on one by one. She’d been in bed when her mom called, and since the sun wasn’t up, it was easy to see her neighbor move from room to room. That wasn’t strange since it was a new house, and exploring it made sense. What didn’t make sense was Butch running her hands over the walls like she had a very unique fetish.

  Hayley couldn’t make sense of what was happening, and she attributed it to having slept like hell. Last night after relaxing herself to the point of unconsciousness, she stayed in her chair and watched Butch read. And she couldn’t be blamed for touching herself after the striptease she’d seen that revealed the most perfect body that was certainly a gift from the gods. Could she?

  There’d have to be a quiet moment later to think about the perfect body because right now she had to concentrate on what had happened when Butch flicked the light off. She’d touched herself. Hayley knew that because she’d watched while reality set in. The mortifying truth was that she’d touched herself in front of a possibly deranged person, not once but twice. She hoped Butch hadn’t taken that stupid move as an invitation to come over and massage her walls before hauling her to the bedroom. Her mother would fly to New Orleans and pack her up before she knew what was happening.

  “Did you hear me?” Her mom spoke louder, and it derailed the out-of-control direction her mind was speeding off to.

  “Sorry.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them Butch put her fist through the wall of the bedroom next to the one she seemed to be using. Hayley grimaced when she did it again.

  “Did you fall asleep?” Her mom sounded amused, and Hayley could hear her father singing in the background. Her dad’s morning serenades were one of her favorite things about him.

  “I have a stack of submissions to get through, and I’m editing an erotica anthology.” Butch was now pressing herself to the wall, and as strange as it was, she hoped she’d strip again, though there was no logical reason for her to do so.

  “Nothing like a little smut to work up the masses.” Her mom laughed.

  “It’s the way to highlight new authors. What the masses do with it is up to them in the privacy of their own homes.” She laughed, thinking what she’d done with it. I read it and touched myself for my strange neighbor’s enjoyment. That would be the number one way to kill her mother on the spot. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Nothing happening here that’s as exciting as an erotica anthology. Do I get a copy? It might give me new ideas for your father.”

  That was something you never wanted to talk to your parents about, no matter how open the relationship. “Not unless you leave Dad for your female neighbor.”

  “Ooh, even better. I’ll be happy to help out if you need extra input.”

  She laughed again. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”