"Give it to me. I'll sign it now. Would you like to join me for lunch? I usually take new employees out on their first day.”

  “But aren’t I supposed to stay at the desk?”

  “No, we close from noon until one. Didn’t she tell you that?”

  “She didn’t.” Tiffany pushed the signature page toward me.

  What a ridiculous form, I thought, as I signed the bottom of the paper with a flourish.

  I marched over to the front window and replaced the Open sign with our standard Closed for Lunch. Back at 1 p.m. “Now, grab your things. Do you have a sweater? Despite the prediction, it's only fifty or so out there."

  “I have a sweater. Where’s your scarf?”

  I’d forgotten all about it in my haste to come see her. “You know what? I’m going to leave it here. Your smile’s enough to keep me warm.”

  She flushed and then flashed me that smile, proving my point. Warmth spread from my heart down to the tips of my fingers and toes. "What about your nap?"

  "I don't take one every day," I said, laughing. "Is that what Scooter told you?"

  "She might have mentioned it. A few times. More cautionary tale than anything else.”

  I craned my neck to look down the hallway to Scooter’s office. The door was closed, which meant that she’d already gone to lunch. “She might be out to get me. Or I might be paranoid. Regardless, she preferred my mother over me. I’m a disappointment to her on a daily basis. I should care more than I do.” I shrugged out of my white coat and hung it over the back of Tiffany’s chair. “Scooter still sees me as a little boy tracking in mud instead of a doctor.”

  “A pet doctor,” Tiffany said. “The best kind.”

  I hurried across the lobby to open the door for her. The scent of cut grass and spring flowers perfumed the air. Above us, a fat, lazy cloud couldn’t quite gather the energy to cover the sun.

  We walked up Ski Jump Way and turned the corner at Barnes Avenue, chatting about her first morning. “Nothing seemed too hard,” she said. “But answering all the lines ringing at once flustered me. It didn’t help to have Scooter behind me shouting orders.”

  “You’ll get the hang of the phones. Worst case, people will have to call back.”

  “Thanks, Breck. I appreciate your belief in me.”

  “Tiffany Birt, there’s nothing you can’t do. Today or any day. Don’t ever forget that.”

  We were seated right away at a table by the fireplace. Stormi hustled over to greet us.

  “Hey, you two. How’s the first day going?” Stormi asked.

  “A little rocky but okay,” Tiffany said.

  "The special is the same as always on Mondays," Stormi said. "Spaghetti and meatballs. Soup of the day is broccoli cheddar."

  We ordered waters and asked for a few minutes. "Order whatever you want," I said. "You only get one new employee lunch, so you should make the best of it."

  "How come Scooter didn't come?"

  "Oh, she has no use for lunch out," I said. "She likes to run home and check on her husband. He's had a little trouble with online gambling in the past."

  “Oh dear. That's terrible."

  I was distracted by the television over the bar. They'd been showing the same photographs of Briar Rose for days now. The twenty-four-hour news cycle was tedious at best.

  "Is it on again?" Tiffany asked me. "Briar Rose?"

  "Yeah, sorry." I took my gaze from the television back to her. "It's nothing new."

  She seemed to be studying the menu with great intent. I let her be, guessing she probably had a dozen thoughts running through her mind. I could imagine how hard it would be to have to watch it all after having escaped so long ago.

  Stormi came with our waters. We ordered lunch. I asked for a grilled chicken sandwich on a wheat roll and a side salad. She got the Cobb salad, not the half but whole.

  I flashed upon her empty refrigerator. "Stormi, could you bring a basket of those rolls too?"

  "You got it,” Stormi said before heading to the bar to enter our order.

  "Thanks for that," Tiffany said quietly.

  "Pardon?"

  "The rolls. You were thinking about my empty refrigerator, weren’t you?”

  "Nope. Didn't even occur to me. I love bread.”

  Our gazes locked. She blinked, her curly lashes like a wave. An exquisite ache spread over my chest.

  “You're a thoughtful man,” she said. “But a liar.”

  “I’m wounded.” I grabbed a sugar packet from the ceramic holder and flicked it across the table at her.

  As quick as a soccer goalie, her hand reached out to stop it from sailing off the table. “Not so fast.”

  “Good reflexes.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?” Her eyes sparkled, teasing me. If I could have, I’d have leaped across the table and kissed her sweet mouth.

  “I specialize more in dogs and cats, so my opinion should be suspect. However, if there were human shows like there are for dogs, you’d be best in show.”

  She rolled her eyes and God bless her, touched her hair. I was a king just then instead of an ordinary man in the presence of an angel.

  Stormi returned with the rolls and a bowl of butter packets. "Fresh from the oven. They’re still warm.”

  We thanked her, but she was already off to the next task.

  Scents of the yeasty, buttery goodness lit Tiffany up like a delighted child. “I could eat all of them.” She took the largest roll and split it apart with her fingers, then slipped a slab of butter between the halves. “Are you going to have one?”

  “I’m having a sandwich,” I said. “That’s enough bread.”

  “Is that really a thing? Too much bread?” She bit into one half and chewed, a look of rapture on her face. "Delicious."

  How was it that Tiffany could make something as mundane as eating a roll look like a work of art?

  Our entrées arrived, and we ate without talking for a few minutes. The silence wasn’t awkward but comfortable, like old friends. Only she was way prettier than Huck and Trapper.

  “What made you choose Emerson Pass?" I asked.

  A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I saw an article about Emerson Pass in a travel magazine featuring the wedding of the actress Lisa Perry. Do you know who she is?”

  “Sure.” Everyone knew the actress Lisa Perry. She was everywhere lately. “Isn’t her husband part of the firm who built Jamie’s inn?”

  “Yes, that’s him. He’s good friends with Jamie’s brother, Trey. This magazine had a feature with photographs from Lisa Perry’s wedding. One of them was of the bride and groom coming out of our church. Red door and all. Lisa said she’d had her heart set on a wedding in Emerson Pass after she saw an article in a magazine featuring the church and lodge as great places for destination weddings twenty years ago. Can you imagine? As if that weren’t inspiration enough, I took one look at her wedding photos and decided to move to Emerson Pass and open my wedding planning business. So I did.”

  "What is it about wedding planning that you love?” Truthfully, the profession sounded hard. “All those brides and their mothers can’t be easy.”

  Her brows knit together, causing an adorable crease just above her nose. “What’s not to love? A wedding planner gives every bride the chance to be a princess for the day.”

  “So, you’re a romantic?” I asked. How was it possible after what she’d experienced as a child?

  “I guess so. Romance novels were one of the first things I discovered after I left Briar Rose. All these books about people falling in love! I couldn’t get enough. I learned a lot from those books." She flushed and dipped her chin, before stabbing a piece of chicken. "I mean about pop culture, not the other."

  “Right.” I hid a smile behind my hand.

  Tiffany poked her fork into the avocado and popped it into her mouth. Goodness, that mouth! Plump and pink like raspberries.

  "Do you still love it?” I asked. “When there's enough work?"

  She poured dressing from the ramekin over her salad. “I do, yes. But people are meaner than I thought they'd be."

  “Service industries can be rough that way.”

  “Yes, and I’m too sensitive." She tossed her salad with her fork. A droplet of oily dressing popped onto the table.

  "What?" I asked softly. "What are you thinking about?"

  She studied her salad. “I’ve been thinking about going to the FBI and telling them what I know. For Matthew and for my mom.” Her lips trembled until she pressed them together. “I owe them that much.”

  “If that’s what you want, you should do it.”

  “I might know something that could help. I’m not sure I can live with myself if I don’t at least try.” She glanced behind her at the television before returning to her salad. "It scares me to think of going in there.”

  "I'll take you. I'll go with you."

  She lifted her head to stare into my eyes. "Why would you do that?"

  “Because you're my friend.”

  “I’ll have to testify at the trials. I don't know if I'm strong enough to face the elders.” She closed her eyes and grimaced as if a shock of pain traveled through her body. It reminded me of the way my dad had looked when his medications wore off those last few weeks he was sick.

  My mother had sat next to his bed, stroking his hand hour after hour. One day she'd said to me, "I don't know if I'm strong enough to let him go."

  I'd been too young to know how to answer her. Her vulnerability had frightened me. I’d floated away into the darkness, screaming silently to my father, “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.”

  But she had been strong enough. We both had been. My mother and I had moved forward, one day at a time. People did survive the darkness to return to love.

  "You're stronger than you think you are," I said.

  "How do you know?"

  “I just do.”

  We returned our attention back to our meals even though I was no longer hungry. I itched to urge her forward, to convince her that going to the FBI was the right thing. But the truth was—I didn’t know what was best for her. I wasn’t Tiffany. It was not my place to tell her what to do, but I sure wanted to. Instead, I bit my tongue and offered only support. “Whatever you decide, I’ll be here,” I said.

  11

  Tiffany

  I spent the evening thinking about my lunch conversation with Breck. I'd managed to avoid seeing the news but that night, I put it on to torture myself, much like pressing against a sore spot. Not much had changed in the last few days, other than more details on my father. A girlfriend from his past had come on to one of the morning shows to share her experiences with a young man she described as “totally normal”, other than a little more controlling than some of the other men she'd dated. Following that, a segment speculating about what kinds of people were attracted to religious cults aired.

  What had attracted my mother to Briar Rose? To my father? What had happened to him to send him into such a web of evil?

  That's the problem with the past. One can never truly escape. Even if one manages to push aside the memories for a decade, they still lurk in the subconscious. Episodes long forgotten or repressed return in nightmares that wake the troubled sleeper at 2:00 a.m., as one did me that morning.

  I dreamed I was an egg. Not the inside where I would grow into a chick, but the entire egg, shell, yolk, and whites. Inside the protected walls of the shell, I crouched, afraid, knowing that at any moment I would crack and spill out upon the counter and be lost forever.

  I woke, sweaty and disoriented. My pulse raced, and my cotton pajamas were soaked through. For a moment, I breathed in and out to steady myself. Muffy was asleep, curled on top of her pillow next to me. I reached out to her, burying my fingers in her fur in order to ground myself to reality. Safe and cozy in my bed. That's where I was. Not in the inside of an egg.

  I rolled to my side and curled my arms together almost like a yoga pose. The dream wasn't hard to interpret. For a long time, however deluded it was, I'd thought of myself as protected inside my shell. Now, however, it was obvious that I was not. Indeed, I was as vulnerable as an unformed chick, capable of sliding from safety and sloshing all over everything I'd so carefully built around me.

  Was Breck correct? Should I go to the FBI and tell them my story? Furthermore, should I tell all the dirty, possibly salacious details to Huck for a book? Would it be better or worse for my mental health to do so?

  I had no idea.

  My head ached. I turned over to drink from the bottle of water I kept on the nightstand. Then I gathered the covers close to my neck and stared up at the dark ceiling. A night-light allowed me to make out the shapes of my bedroom furniture. Enough that I would see if someone ever tried to break in through the window.

  Or come for me.

  That had been my waking and dreaming fear for the first three or four years after my escape. Would they find me and forcibly bring me back into the fold? Over time, my fears had lessened. I'd become acclimated to living what most would think of as a normal existence.

  But this latest revelation? This had me without an anchor. I desperately craved something or someone to hold on to. Muffy. I had Muffy. She gave me someone to love and look after and in return provided her unconditional love. Possibly in a way a human never could.

  Breck entered my thoughts again. When I was with him, I forgot about my past or present troubles. He made me laugh. He made me feel safe. Think about him, I told myself. I closed my eyes and conjured up his face, the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, his infectious grin. He’d said he’d go with me to the FBI. Yes, we were new friends, but his offer had made me feel courageous. Could I do it? Could I tell my story? If I did, would it do any good in the world or only provide salacious details?

  I must have finally drifted back to sleep, because the alarm rang at seven. Groggy, I reached to shut it off and threw off the covers. I found it best to wake that way, without any self-coddling. When I learned to swim after I escaped, I'd approached the water in the same way. Jump right in. No wading in slowly for this girl.

  They hadn't taught any of us to swim. They’d given us no lessons even though we collected water from the river. What if one of us had fallen in? We would have drowned. It was all so obvious when I looked back on it. All of their actions were meant to control us.

  Another memory came to me. My baptism. I was eight years old, shivering as I stood in the water of the river. Flakes of snow fell from the sky and landed in my eyelashes. Elder William’s large hand was around my neck. He plunged me into the frigid black water, once, twice, and again.

  Our baptisms came when we were eight years old, an age when we were terrified of water, knowing we couldn't swim. All part of the design, I realized now. Give the girls no tools with which to survive, thus making us powerless and even grateful that we were allowed to stay and marry an elder. A man much wiser than us, obviously. A man to protect us.

  Only they hadn't. On the contrary. They'd enslaved us, forcing young girls to have sex with old men. Had they done irreparable damage to us all?

  My job at the clinic was surprisingly easy, regardless of how Scooter tried to overcomplicate her instructions. I recognized her desire for control. She wanted the job to be difficult so she might feel important and superior. I wasn't sure what she had against me, but it was obvious she didn't like me. Some might try to win her over. I simply didn’t care. I’d do my job and go home at the end of the day.

  Bonus? Seeing Breck. Smelling Breck. Taking in his mischievous grin as though it was a delicious meal. I’d been waiting all week for him to ask me to dinner. Had he forgotten that he asked me out? Or had I gotten it mixed up? Maybe he’d changed his mind?

  Friday afternoon, I’d finished cleaning up the small employee kitchen and break room before going home when Breck appeared in the doorway. I hadn't seen him much over the last few days. He’d been slammed with patients all week. Scooter watched me like a hawk, so there was never a time for me to seek him out to say hello during work hours.

  “Hey there.” He filled the doorway to the break room. “Everyone’s gone home. You should too.”

  “I’m done now.” I grabbed a towel from a small hook in the wall over the sink to dry my hands. “Are you going too?”

  “Yes, in a minute.” He put his hands in his khaki pants pockets. “Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner tonight? I know it’s short notice, but I thought I’d ask. Something casual, since you’re probably tired. We could even go now.”

  “I was wondering why you hadn’t brought it up again,” I said. “I thought you’d decided against it.”

  “What? No, I was giving you space for your first week. And I didn’t want you to feel any pressure, since I’m the boss.”

  “I don’t feel pressured.”

  He grinned. “Great.” Breck leaned against the doorframe. “How was your week? Any troubles?”

  “No problems. The job isn't exactly taxing intellectually," I said. "I like keeping everything organized and running smoothly. It's satisfying. Similar to event planning that way, but not nearly as tricky."

  "I had a feeling you would find it that way. What about Scooter?" When I didn’t answer right away, his face crinkled into a smile. "She's the hardest part, isn't she?"

  "I hate to talk about anyone behind their back, but yes.”

  "For me too.” His expression turned sorrowful. “I’m stuck with her.”

  I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but I stayed where I was, twisting and untwisting the towel in my hands.

  "I inherited her from my mother," he said. “You knew that, right?

  “I did.”

  “Where would you like to have dinner?” Breck asked.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to go to my place? I’ve decided. I want to call that tip line and tell them what I know.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s taken me all week to decide, but I’m ready. It would be nice if you were there with me,” I said. “You said you’d be there with me. Does the offer still stand?”