Chapter One
Exhausted, Emma Westlake slid the paperback mystery across the wrought iron table and slumped back against her chair. "Part of me wants the next one in the series, and part of me wants to refrain just so I can get to sleep before 3:00 a.m."
"You can sleep when you're dead, dear." Dottie Adler ran her age-spotted fingers across the book's detailed cover almost reverently. "It was a good one, wasn't it?"
"My favorite one so far."
A smile that rivaled the afternoon sun spread the octogenarian's thinning lips wide as she reached for her Limoges teacup atop its matching plate. "You've got five more to keep you busy over the next few weeks."
"And then?" Emma asked, ricocheting forward against the table's edge. "Tell me she's writing more."
Dottie's sage-green eyes disappeared behind heavy lids for a moment before returning to meet Emma's across the rim of her cup. "I wish I could."
"But what do I do then? How will I know what's going on with these characters you've gotten me attached to?"
"You reread. And you pray."
Emma plucked a cookie from her plate, broke off a piece from the top, and held it below the table's edge, the answering wetness across the tips of her fingers . . . and her palm . . . and her wrist stirring a smile to her lips. "Pray for what?"
"A series reprieve." Dottie took another sip of her tea, followed it up with a bite of her own cookie, and narrowed her gaze on Emma. "I have to say, dear, aside from the raccoon circles under your eyes, your incessant yawning, and the fact that you really could stand a lesson or two in ironing, you look rather content."
Emma's laugh echoed in the still summer air. "Um, gee . . . thanks? I think?"
"Mind you, I had nothing to do with your decision to leave your house without applying concealer or consulting a mirror. That's all you. However, in regard to the looking content part, you're welcome." Dottie wiped the edges of her mouth with the cloth napkin from her lap and then summoned the third member of their weekly tea party out from under the table with another cookie. "The career path I've set you on is proving quite ingenious, isn't it, dear?"
"If by career path you set me on you actually mean your off-the-cuff suggestion as to something I might consider as a job, yes. It seems to be working."
Dottie bent forward, nuzzled her nose against Emma's golden retriever, Scout, and then released the brake on her chair's wheel and rolled a few inches back from the table. "I wasn't aware that coming up with the idea of being a paid friend, pushing you to try it, and procuring your first two clients was akin to an off-the-cuff suggestion, but that's okay, I'm not looking for credit."
"Cue the martyr music." Grinning, Emma pushed her own chair back from the table, gathered their empty cups and plates onto the serving tray she'd set off to the side, and made her way around the table to plant a kiss on top of the woman's snow-white head. "A Friend for Hire is showing promise, yes. A lot of promise, in fact. And while I may pretend otherwise just to yank your chain a little, I'm very aware of the part you played in making it happen."
"The part I played?" Dottie echoed.
"Oh. Right. My mistake. Let me try again. I'm aware of the starring role you played." Emma left the patio just long enough to set the tray inside the kitchen for the woman's housekeeper to attend to, and then returned to the patio and her chair. "Funny thing about my new business, though. I'm becoming real friends with everyone who's hired me thus far. Which makes it a little hard to take a check from them, you know?"
"You didn't make friends with Mr. Hill . . ."
She stared at Dottie. "Brian Hill died, remember?"
"While you were in his employ," Dottie drawled.
"Gee, thanks for the reminder." Propping her elbows on the table, Emma dropped her head into her waiting hands and shuddered. "Because, you know, I have been meaning to put that little fact on my website . . . Maybe even add a testimonial from the grave or something . . ."
"There's no need for sarcasm, dear. It's most unbecoming."
Emma popped her head up and sighed. "Sorry. That whole thing still wigs me out a little. But the good stuff that's happened so far? That makes me feel a little weird sometimes, too. Just in a different way."
"Weird, how?" Dottie transitioned her finger scratching into more of a petting motion, much to Scout's tail-wagging delight.
"I don't know. I think it's what I just said. Taking money for what essentially amounts to being nice feels wrong somehow."
Dottie nudged her chin at Scout. "It's enabling you to keep feeding this one, right? And it's also allowing you to remain your own boss, yes?" Answering Emma's nod with a shrug, the elderly woman continued. "Besides, you've been accepting money from me for the same thing for more than eighteen months, so what's the difference?"
"I really wish you wouldn't go there about this." Emma spread her hands wide to indicate both the table and the teapot she'd forgotten to add to the tray. "It's about tradition more than anything else."
"A tradition you get paid handsomely to continue, compliments of my dear Alfred's estate, I might add."
"Semantics."
Dottie's left eyebrow arched, followed closely by her right. "Oh?"
"I mean, technically, yes. In the beginning I came because Alfred arranged for me to do so."
"And he paid you."
"Yes. But over time, I've come to look forward to our Tuesday afternoons because of this-the friendship we've built."
"A friendship for which a sizable deposit is still made into your checking account each week," Dottie mused.
Emma shifted in her chair. "Would you stop saying that? Please?"
"Why? Is that not the truth?"
Emma leaned back against her chair, then forward against the table, and, finally, back against the chair once again. "Yes, Alfred's attorney sends me a check for being here every Tuesday and has since Alfred passed. And yes, in the beginning, that was why I came-that, and because I knew how much you missed him. But"-Emma glanced across the table at Scout's face lying atop the armrest of Dottie's wheelchair-"so much more has come out of this than I ever imagined."
"Such as?"
"Well, for starters, Scout has become quite partial to the dog treats you slip him under the table while I'm getting the table ready each week."
Dottie pulled a face. "I don't know what you're talking about, dear."
"O-kay . . . So the whole Shhh, don't tell that always precedes the sound of Scout crunching something with his teeth while I'm making our tea is what? My imagination?" Emma rolled her eyes. "Please. You two are anything but sly."
"Fine. So it's the fact you get a check and I feed your dog that makes our teas valuable for you?"
Emma's laugh brought Scout to her side, tail wagging. "I thought you didn't feed my dog . . ."
"Oh, and lest we forget, these afternoon teas have also made you literate," Dottie said, plucking a crumb off her shirtsleeve.
"I knew how to read, Dottie."
"Yet you didn't."
"Because I was working morning, noon, and night as the travel agent I always wanted to be. And I was pretty darn good at it, I might add," Emma argued. "Or, rather, I was until people started booking their own travel instead of having me do it."
"Still, a thank-you is surely in order."
Oh, how she wanted to remain silent, if for no other reason than to watch the normally calm, cool, and collected octogenarian turn six distinct shades of red, but she couldn't. So much of her life had changed because of their Tuesday teas. Scout, her new business venture, and maybe even the first thing resembling a grown-up relationship in a very long time had all come into her life because of Dottie. So while teasing the elderly woman on occasion held some amusement, truth was still truth no matter how many times she might have said it in the past.
"You're right, Dottie. I do owe you a thank-you-you and Alfred," Emma said, her voice growing heavy with the same emotion that was beginning to take over Dottie's face. "To Alfred for asking me to continue these teas with you after his death. And to you for pushing me toward the animal shelter that gave me Scout. For coming up with this crazy business idea that shows signs of actually working. And for the people that same crazy business idea has brought into my life in just the last few weeks."
Blinking against the misty sheen clearly born on Emma's words, Dottie cleared her throat once, twice. "By people, do you mean Deputy Jack Riordan?"
"Perhaps," Emma said on the heels of a swallow.
"You're blushing, dear."
"It's summer. It's hot."
"Has he taken you on a proper date yet?" Dottie prodded.
"He's a single dad, Dottie-a working single dad. And, hello? His department is just now on the backside of its first murder investigation and everything that brought with it." Emma buried her growing smile in Scout's fur for a few moments and then gave up and put it on full display for Dottie to see. "But he dropped soup off on my doorstep last week when I was dealing with a cold, and he set a dog treat next to it for Scout."
"That's not a date."
"But it's a sign that he's thoughtful."
"It's not a date."
Her smile fading, Emma pinned her tablemate with a well-deserved glare, only to stifle it in favor of her phone and the chime signaling a new email. "Do you mind if I check this real quick?" she asked, pointing at the still-lit screen at her elbow. "It's my inbox for A Friend for Hire, and it could be a potential client."
At Dottie's nod, she keyed herself into her mail service and noted the bold name and subject line of the lone unread message.
I have no life!
Intrigued, Emma opened the email and began to read . . .
Ms. Westlake,
I've started and erased this inquiry half a dozen times in the past forty-eight hours after seeing your ad in the Sweet Falls Gazette on Sunday. The writing was out of desperation; the erasing was out of embarrassment. But it appears the desperation may actually win out this time around.
I always thought I had friends. But they were really just friends by way of my kids. And now that my kids have both graduated from college and are off doing their own thing (including forgetting to call every day like I always thought they would!), those friends have fallen away. I have no hobbies, no career, and no interests. My hobbies and interests were my kids' hobbies and interests. And the traveling I thought I might do at this point? Well, that went out the window when my husband of thirty years announced he was leaving me for a newer, hipper version of me.
You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all of this. And, honestly, I'm not sure. If my daughter would just come around to the fact that one call a day isn't the same as smothering, and my son's new live-in girlfriend didn't have such an issue with me dropping in on occasion, and my husband would wake up and realize that I look the way I do because I devoted my life to him and our children, everything would be fine. I would be fine.
But none of those things are happening, and I just feel completely rudderless. Maybe hiring you as my friend would help. If nothing else, it would give me something to think about besides my poor, pathetic existence and my overwhelming desire to murder my husband.
I have no schedule, so if you're interested in possibly taking me on as a client, you can email me back or call me at 555-2324. Maybe we can meet for coffee and see if I'm someone you'd even want to take on.
Friendless & more than a little pathetic,
Kim Felder
"Wow," Emma murmured. "This is absolutely heartbreaking. This poor woman sounds so sad, so alone, so . . . pitiful."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Her whole world has just imploded. Her kids have graduated from college and flown the nest, leaving her at a loss for what to do with her time. Her husband of"-she looked back at the email, skimming her way down to the second paragraph-"thirty years up and dumped her for a younger woman. And it sounds as if she doesn't have any real friends with whom she can vent."
"Or plot the louse's demise."
"And then there's that," Emma murmured as she reached the end of the email once again. "I feel so bad for this woman."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
Glancing across the table, Emma met Dottie's pointed gaze across the top edge of the woman's glasses. "Waiting for?"
"We're done with our tea for the week, yes? So call this woman, or email her, or do whatever you do to sign a new client in this day and age."
"Are you sure?" Emma asked. "I was planning on staying a little longer . . ."
At Dottie's nod, Emma returned her attention to the top of the email, read it silently a third time, and then pushed back her chair and stood. "You're right. If there's anyone who needs my services, it's this Kim Felder."
Chapter Two
Emma filled Scout's travel bowl from her water bottle, watched him splatter half of it over the sides with his always-eager tongue, and then sat back, waiting. In hindsight, she wished she'd collected a few visual cues-car driven, hair color or style, height-rather than going into a first meeting blind, but at least she'd managed to secure the suggested park bench closest to Sweet Falls' beloved town gazebo.
To her right, in an area often dotted with picnic blankets, a squirrel hastily nosed his way across the grass, looking for something resembling food. Just beyond him, a town employee was emptying a trash can into the back of a golf cart. To her left, not far from the thicket of flowering bushes lining the eastern edge of the town square, she took in a trio of women about her own age, chatting over to-go cups from the local coffee shop while gazing down, every few seconds, at their respective offspring sleeping soundly in matching designer front packs.
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