July 6, Saturday

I WAS getting better at the egg-collecting. Sawyer was right—I'd found four fresh eggs when I'd checked again yesterday and three this morning. I'd used a broom to shoo Butterscotch from her nest before raiding it, and I managed not to crack them. And I was fascinated by the colors of the shells—some were light brown, some were more of a peach color and a couple were the most beautiful shade of pale green. I was on my way back to the house with my bounty when Sawyer's black truck rambled by in the direction of the cemetery. I surmised he must have family plots in the graveyard to spend so much time there.

The idea of a graveyard intrigued me—spending time where loved ones were buried. My family members who had passed had been cremated and their ashes either interred at imposing and impersonal mausoleums or scattered someplace unknown to me. The idea of visiting a grave seemed so much more personal… but also an obligation.

I went inside and scrambled a couple of the fresh eggs, feeling absurdly proud. And I now knew the pastel colors of the shells came from eating grass and bugs, and the bright orange yolks came from a diet of marigolds.

After breakfast I went up to my bedroom with a big mug of coffee, intent on finally getting some pages written on my novel. But when I sat down at my desk, I spent an inordinate amount of time rearranging files on my laptop and avoiding reading the synopsis I'd written for the story that despite a contract and a deadline and countless emails from readers clamoring for the next book in my Skirts Regency romance series, I couldn't seem to get motivated to write. After a couple of hours of mentally moving food around on my plate, I migrated to the window and picked up the binoculars I'd left on the sill. I gave the horizon a cursory glance, registering the incredible lushness of this place before sliding my gaze toward the Whisper Graveyard.

It was easy to spot Sawyer because he was the only living thing moving among the headstones. In fact, he seemed focused on one headstone in particular—a monolith of pale stone. While I wondered if he was cleaning the grave or maybe decorating it, he reached for something on the ground, then raised it overhead.

I gasped—a sledgehammer?

He swung the hammer down and made contact with the stone, then lifted it again for another blow. I panicked—was he some kind of maniac who destroyed headstones for kicks?

I dropped the binoculars and jogged downstairs and out of the house. My bicycle was parked on the porch. I jumped on it and rode to the cemetery, not sure what I'd do when I got there. I wasn't equipped to deal with a hammer-wielding vandal. At the open gate, I hopped off my bike and leaned it against the gate post, then hurried over to where Sawyer was preparing to strike the headstone again.

"Hey!"

He stopped mid-swing and lowered the hammer to the ground. "Hey."

"If you don't stop what you're doing, I'll…" My mind raced, then I lifted my chin. "I'll call the police."

One of his eyebrows raised slightly. "Irving doesn't have police. The city council decided years ago to contract law enforcement out to the Birmingham." Then he smiled. "Besides, I don't think the Birmingham police department cares about my little hobby."

"Vandalizing?"

"Repairing old headstones."

My mouth rounded. "Oh?"

"I'm a stone mason. On weekends I repair old headstones." He gestured to the monolith marker he'd struck with the sledgehammer. "The base is broken on this one, so I have to remove the main stone to get to it, and some of these old beauties are hard to budge."

I was nodding. "So you're… not a vandal?"

"Nope. Kinda the opposite of that."

I was still nodding. "Oh. Well… carry on."

The man seemed amused. "I will. You can stay and watch, if you like."

I bristled. "No, thanks. I'm… very busy. With an important work project of my own."

He pursed his mouth. "What do you do?"

"I… would rather not discuss my work." Was that my voice sounding so prim?

He smiled. "A woman of mystery."

I balked. "I like my privacy."

Sawyer inclined his head. "Understood. Sorry to pull you away from your important work project."

I was nodding again. "I should get back to it."

"Okay. Don't let me keep you."

At this point, the heroine in one of my books would've made a dramatic exit that left her adversary marveling at her wit and intellect or athletic prowess. I turned and marched back to the bicycle, mounted awkwardly, wobbled, and pedaled away.