Cuento was a town of dappled shade in a county of lemony sunshine. The scrub jays were as bright as bluebirds overhead and as rich as parrots in among the leaves. The breeze at the edge of town smelled of almond blossom and of new tomato leaves and the still air of Main Street smelled of good coffee and of bagels even a New Yorker could choke down.
All of which meant that, ordinarily, Lexy Campbell felt happy there. Safe and happy. She felt neither right now . . . [go to full post to keep reading]
