Sara blew out a breath. “Give me a break,” she mumbled, and left the store, leaving the bagged sweater and change Rita had placed on the counter.
Josh quickly paid for his necklace, grabbed Sara’s bag and followed her into the warming afternoon. He caught up with her half a block down the street.
“What happened in there?”
She rounded on him. “Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Name Dropper?” She jabbed at his chest, her voice rising. “Since when are you an expert on celebrity fashion? Not one damn person has called my cell phone since I got here, famous or otherwise. And you know it.”
“Excuse me for trying to help. Those women were out for blood, and you were about to open a vein for them.”
“You should mind your own business,” she countered.
“Who are you right now?” He took a deep breath, needing to clear his head. It didn’t work. Not one bit. “All you’ve done since the minute you walked into my house—”
“My house.”
“The house,” he amended. “All you’ve done is bust my chops. If I look at you wrong, you read me the riot act, give me one of those snide remarks or smart comebacks you’re so damn good at.” He pointed in the direction of Rita’s store. “You didn’t say one word to those ladies in there.”
She rolled her eyes. “You took care of it all on your own.”
“Somebody had to. It was too painful to watch your slow death.”
“Julia, Gwyneth? Even if I was in L.A., do you think one of those women would give me the time of day? They are A-list, Josh. I’m beyond Z. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Rita didn’t know that.”
“I know it.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I’m a has-been. A nobody. You don’t get it. What those women dished out was nothing compared to what I hear every single day in California. At the grocery. The dry cleaners.” She laughed without humor. “At least back in the day when I could afford dry cleaning. I’ve been a waitress now for the same number of years I was a paid actress. Do you know how many customers gave me career advice, hair tips, dissed my makeup, my boyfriends, all of it? Nothing was off-limits. I can take it, Josh. I don’t need you to swoop in and rescue me.”
“Excuse me for trying to help.”
“I don’t want help. This isn’t Pretty Woman meets mountain town. I’m not Julia Roberts shopping on Rodeo Drive. You’re not Richard Gere on the fire escape.”
“Why do you do that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do what?”
“Throw out movie plots like they compare to what’s happening. This is real life, Sara.”
“I’m well aware.”
He shook his head. “I thought you were a fighter.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m a survivor.” With that, she turned and marched down the street away from him.
Sara didn’t say much on the drive from town, content to let April ramble about her meeting with the man who ran the local farm cooperative. She gazed at the tall pines that bordered the winding highway, continuing to be awed by her surroundings. The vivid colors, woodsy smells—the vast magnitude of every inch of this place.
She thought about Josh’s “real life” comment. Sara knew real life. Real life was struggling to meet her rent every month, praying each time she used her debit card that her bank account wasn’t overdrawn. She had to admit there was something about Crimson that felt—well, authentic. In L.A., life was about who you knew, where you could get a table, which plastic surgeon you frequented. She glanced in the rearview mirror, wondering for a moment about the last time she’d gone anywhere without full makeup. Her war paint, as she’d come to think of it.
Was it possible she could have a brief reprieve from battle in this small mountain community?
As Sara drove down the narrow driveway toward the ranch, she spotted a large black SUV parked in front of the main house.
“If that’s my mother...” she muttered under her breath.
April patted her knee. “You can deal with your mother. You’re a fighter.”
The car almost swerved into the ditch. “Did you talk to Josh?” Sara accused her friend once she was back on the dirt road.
“No,” April answered slowly, her dark eyes studying Sara. “What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing.”
“I can feel the vibes. They aren’t nothing.”
“You’re imagining it.”
“He’s hot.”
“Go for it,” Sara suggested. “Maybe he’d relax if he got a little something.”
April chuckled. “You know that after my divorce I swore off men, at least until I’ve found someone who’s worth the time and effort. So I don’t go for it anymore. Besides, maybe you could relax if...”
“Not going there.”
“We’ll see.”
“You think you know me so well.”
“I’ve known you since you were fourteen.”
The studio had hired April to be Sara’s fitness coach when she’d put on a few pounds during puberty. Sara counted that decision as one of the few blessings from her years as a sitcom star. Without April’s gentle guidance, Sara might have added “eating disorder” to her long list of personal issues.
Nine years older than Sara, April had quickly become Sara’s soul sister and best friend. When April’s stuntman husband left her a few years later during April’s grueling battle with breast cancer, Sara had been more than willing to see her friend through months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments and the nasty divorce that resulted.
Neither woman had been lucky in the relationship department—another fact that, despite their different outlooks on life, bonded them deeply.
“You only think you know me. I’m a mystery wrapped in a puzzle clothed in an enigma,” Sara told her friend with a wry smile.
“Right.”
Sara parked the car next to the SUV. “Are you trying to distract me from the probability of another scene with Mommie Dearest?”
“Is it working?” April asked, reaching for the door handle.
Sara grabbed her arm. “Have I told you today how sorry I am you’re in this predicament with me?”
April shrugged. “Things happen for a reason.”
“Don’t go all Sliding Doors on me. The reason your savings account was wiped out and you lost the yoga studio is because I’m a gullible idiot, a loser and the worst friend in the world. We’re stuck in high-altitude Pleasantville for the summer, thanks to me.”
“Sara...” April began, her tone gentle.
Sara thumped her head against the steering wheel. “Maybe I was wrong to agree to Josh’s plan for the summer. If I sold to Mom’s latest sugar daddy we could be back in California next week.”
“Back to what?”
“Our lives.”
“Neither of our lives was that great to begin with, and you know it. Besides, what about Josh and Claire?”
“Not