July 30, Tuesday

AFTER I dropped off the extra eggs at the grocery, I rode my bike to the hardware store to buy the supplies I needed (according to YouTube) to refinish the rocking chair—more sandpaper, mineral spirits, wood glue.

At the hardware store I saw Wayne Blakemore and turned to go in the other direction, but he spotted me.

"Josephine! Hi."

"Hi, Wayne."

"There's been a terrific response to your booksigning. Thirty-two RSVPs and it's only been up for a couple of days."

"That's great news, Wayne, truly."

"Stop by the bookstore when you can, and I'll show you the event space. My staff would love to meet you."

"Yes, I'll stop by soon. Thanks again." I turned to go, but he reached out to touch my arm.

"I don't suppose you've had a chance to read my manuscript?"

I broke out in an instant flop sweat. "No," I said truthfully. I couldn't bear to tell him that Satan had devoured the manuscript before I'd had a chance to get past page ten. "But I'm sure it's… very tasty."

He squinted. "Hm?"

"Juicy," I amended. "A juicy story."

His eyes shone. "I hope so. Are you making progress on your manuscript?"

I wasn't, and my new laptop still hadn't arrived. "Yes… the pages are piling up."

In my head.