Between books, she always did some spring cleaning, painted the shutters, wallpapered the den. There was something emotionally therapeutic about getting the clutter out of her life before she started a new project.

She was feeling extremely cluttered right now.

“Joan.” Anthony shifted closer, his suit jacket swishing and his scent invading her space.

Her stomach tightened, but she ignored it. “I think it might be the music festival.”

“The music festival?”

She nodded, still carefully forming letters. “It’s taking up my mental space, and I really can’t come up with a new story with all that going on.”

The phone rang again, jangling through the cottage, making Joan’s hand twitch a black streak over the page.

Anthony strode across the room and yanked the plug out of the wall. “I’m here to help.”

“You know calligraphy?”

“You can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

“What isn’t happening?”

“Your identity is out.”

“Thank you so much for clarifying the situation. I really hadn’t understood that from our conversation.” She switched to a regular pen for the details.

He moved around the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. “We have to talk strategy. We have to make plans.”

“I have a strategy.”

“You do?”

“I’m addressing invitations.”

His expression perked up. “A book launch?”

“A tea.”

He paused. “Why?”

Joan moved a card aside to dry. “There are people here in Indigo who want to increase tourism.”

Anthony didn’t answer, but she could feel his tense questions.

“I think that’s a bad idea,” she continued. “And I’ll tell you why. The beauty of living here is the peace and quiet, the sense of community, the slow pace of life and the opportunity for individualism. You bring in a bunch of gawking tourists, and that’s all going to change in a heartbeat.”

“So you’re having a tea.”