For a second her heart leaped with the hope that it might be Mark. That he might have thought about himself a minute and come back to apologize. But there was no way that was possible. By now he was on a plane, on his way to stump for reelection in another town—another town where all the women were as desperately in love with him as all the women here. Including you? The question rose in her mind as though asked by a stranger. Fortunately, there was another, more insistent tap on the door and she chose to answer it. “Ms. Johnson?” Erica recognized the kindly voice of the B and B owner, Mrs. Dickson. “I have some breakfast for you. May I come in?” “Sure,” Erica hollered, toweling off quickly and reaching for her favorite pair of jeans and the top T-shirt on the pile in her suitcase, a faded old tie-dye that read War is so last century. “I’ll be out in a second.” “I’ll just set it here, out in the sitting room,” the woman called, the nearness of her voice indicating that she was already in that space.
