LITMIR.BIZ

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years now, sober for six. She had a business, and a life she was proud of, to show for it.

      And Grandma was gone. Meg had to keep telling herself that was okay, that was life. Getting high wouldn’t change the fact that her sole familial supporter was gone. Dead.

      Nothing would change that, so what was the point in throwing away her life again? The pain wouldn’t go away. She’d have to be her own positive force. Her own support.

      That wasn’t scary or overwhelming. It was empowering. Or something.

      Meg repeated the word empowered over and over inside her head. Willing herself to believe it as the morning went on. She was powerful. She was strong. Breathe in. Breathe out. Smile. Charm. Sell.

      The market was busy, which made it easier. Though her booth that boasted no food products wasn’t as popular as the vegetable stands and the honey and egg stands, she was having a pretty successful morning for herself.

      Because she was successful, empowered, strong.

      An older woman with a little white dog passed, ignoring her greeting on her way to the organic dog treat table a few spots down. Not to be deterred, Meg greeted the next passerby. “Mother’s Day is just around the corner!”

      As she’d hoped, that caught the attention of a man who appeared to be in his thirties, alone and the type to be too busy to remember Mother’s Day. Meg had a knack for recognizing those types.

      “We’ve got lots of scents and shapes. Owls, foxes, pretty designs. Perfect for any mother who likes nice, usable things.” She smiled broadly. He couldn’t be much older than her and was only an inch or two taller. Sandy-brown hair that looked carefully styled, the kind of five o’clock shadow that looked cultivated rather than accidental.

      He was...actually kind of hot. Which was weird, because she wasn’t usually attracted to men who looked like they belonged in the world she’d grown up in. Except for the jeans. Her mother never would have approved of jeans.

      “Owls, huh?” He stepped closer, squinting at her baskets of soaps.

      “Owls are scented with lemon verbena. Very cute and fun,” she said, pointing to the appropriate basket. “Goat milk soap has great antiaging benefits—not that I’d mention it to the recipient.”

      “No, I don’t suppose I would either.”

      “You can buy by the soap for three fifty a piece or a gift basket of five is fifteen dollars.”

      “Fifteen dollars for soap?”

      He wasn’t the first person to balk at her prices, and he no doubt wouldn’t be the last. Still, her repeat customers didn’t seem to mind. “I promise the recipient will be a convert and won’t blink an eye at the price. Goat milk soap is that good.”

      “Well, you’re quite the saleswoman.” He gave her a sideways glance, his expression changing as he took in her bright and colorful arm of tattoos. “I’ll give you that,” he added, looking away. But she read the expression all the same. Judgment.

      Once upon a time, the judgment had bothered her, fueled her. She’d used that judgment to prove the world didn’t understand. She was above the world, its rules, everything. She sought out that judgment.

      These days...well, she figured it didn’t really matter what some stranger thought of her choices.

      “Mix-and-match gift basket?” he asked, running a long finger over the face of an owl.

      “Yup. Name your five, and I’ll even package them up all pretty.” She went behind the table and pulled out one of her gift bags, complete with the Hope Springs logo on the front and a pretty red lace ribbon to tie it up with.

      She waited for him to pick the soaps he wanted, but he just stared at her wrist. “Is that...”

      “A goat?” She held out her arm to emphasize the tattoo at her wrist—the only one she’d gotten post-rehab. A little goat with a poppy, sitting beneath the cloud design that took up most of her forearm. Her fresh-start goat. “Yup, it’s a goat. I love them.”

      “I see that.” Finally he shifted his gaze away from her arm and started looking through the soaps, picking out one of each kind and handing them to her so she could package them. He then pulled his wallet out of his pants—his very expensive-looking leather wallet.

      “Don’t want anything for yourself?” she joked.

      He glanced around her table of pastels and bows and flowers. Girly to the extreme. “Why not? Not getting any younger. Maybe I could use some antiaging soap. I’ll take the goat to remember you by.” He picked it up with a grin that said he knew he was charming. The kind of grin that usually made her roll her eyes and stick a finger down her mouth in a gagging motion.

      His didn’t quite have that effect, though. His made her grin back.

      He plopped the goat soap into her palm and she blinked for a second before remembering the routine. Wrap it up. Get yourself together, because you are not sixteen.

      “Well, I certainly appreciate your business.”

      “I can’t resist a good saleswoman.”

      A little flush crept into her cheeks, totally against her will. Oh, he was too charming and he knew it. Somehow, it didn’t dilute her reaction at all. “Keep me in mind for all your soap and lotion needs.” She plucked a card from her table and handed it to him, trying not to cringe at how ridiculous that sounded.

      “My...” He cocked his head, gaze running from her table back to her.

      His dark eyes met hers, and one side of his mouth quirked up. “I don’t have a lot of soap and lotion needs, but I’ll still keep you in mind.”

      He was flirting with her and it had...been a while. Her life was pretty isolated these days. Not so much by design, but necessity. Running a goat farm all by herself was hard work, and she didn’t know a lot of fellow thirtysomethings as interested in cloven-hoofed creatures as she was, aside from the occasional satanist.

      He pocketed her card and took the bag of soaps. “I’ll see you around.”

      “I’m here every Saturday.” Oh, brother. That was just lame. But he smiled and nodded, and she let herself stare as he walked away.

      Really nice butt.

      Designer jeans.

      Couldn’t win them all. The fact of the matter was, cute and flirting or not, he was the type of guy she’d known all too well growing up. The nice clothes and expensive watch, that serious business resting face.

      He was a type—a type she had no interest in.

      Oh well. It didn’t hurt to look, especially when the chances of him returning were slim to none. When her phone chimed in her pocket, she stiffened. The text from her mother wasn’t unexpected, but it felt cruel. Mom surely considered it efficient, but the timing, the brevity...

      The funeral will be Thursday.

      Grandma was gone. Meg hadn’t been allowed to be in the hospital for fear she might “upset people.” Even though Grandma had been the only one to stand by her. Even though Grandma had set her up with the farm after Meg got out of rehab, and even though Grandma had supported her through every setback.

      As though that hadn’t been bad enough, every offer of help with arrangements had also been rebuffed. Because it was what they wanted. No one in the Carmichael clan was thinking about what Grandma wanted. Would have wanted. All they could think about was appearances. What people might think.

      It had been drilled in them for generations, Meg figured. This strident need to show only perfection and success.

      To them, Meg would always be a failure. Always be imperfect.

      Meg blinked away tears and forced her lips to curve upward as two women passed. “Good morning! Goat milk soap has many skin benefits. Can I offer you a brochure?”

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