Chapter 6: Poker, Pride, and Panic

I braced myself and greeted the ladies, using my best Sunday church voice. “Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. Davis.”

They smiled, all sugar-free sweetness. “Oh my, Emma! College must be so hard. Finally home for Christmas.”

If I hadn’t overheard them gossiping, I might’ve believed them. But I’d learned—Cedar Creek’s welcome wagon was always gossip first, fake kindness second.

I made small talk about puppies and corn harvests. These were the topics of my first eighteen years, before I learned what a trust fund was or that some people ate caviar on purpose. Ryan could name the thread count on hotel sheets by touch. Here, the richest folks drove a ten-year-old Ford.

Thinking of Ryan made me ache a little. I wondered if he was back in his Manhattan palace or toasting to my memory somewhere exotic. But that wasn’t my world anymore. I had chickens to feed, at least they were always happy to see me.