They should’ve dined somewhere else, perhaps even at the house, and then gone on directly to the Carolina Opry. Strolling along the water at the new shopping area called Barefoot Landing was only slightly better than driving through the older parts. At least it hadn’t been around when Blythe lived in Myrtle Beach. So far no one had recognized her, in her baseball cap, ponytail pulled through the back of it, and sunglasses. This was NASCAR-loving territory, and her face had been in the media quite a bit the past year. Next to her, dressed in tan chinos and a blue shirt, Blythe stopped every now and then to browse the windows of the shops along the boardwalk. Blythe probably wasn’t in the market for a new watch, some custom jewelry, or homemade fudge, but she played along, hoping the shopping would help relax her. Blythe glanced at her, and maybe Blythe saw how concerned she was, because her expression became reassuring. “Oh, to hell with it,”
