Hidden Summit

was alone, well, I decided to stick around to be sure everything was all right.”
    “Thanks for that, Conner. Around here it just doesn’t occur to me we have to be watchful. I guess I forget there are people around we shouldn’t trust.” It didn’t take Paul long to spill the basics of Leslie’s story, not knowing Conner heard it. “That was her ex-husband and he’s one of the reasons she preferred working in Virgin River to staying in Grants Pass, which has always been her home. He just won’t go away quietly.”
    Jack put a beer on the bar for Paul. “Shot him but he just won’t die?” he asked.
    “Something like that. But I ran him off and checked on Les. She was a little pissed, but fine.” He grinned. “She turned the fire extinguisher on him.”
    “No kidding?” Jack asked with a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
    During the course of the conversation, Paul mentioned that he’d rented Leslie a little house he’d fixed up and it was just a couple of blocks from the bar. And then, beer done, it was time for Paul to get home to dinner.
    Conner had his dinner at the bar, and when he was finished and it was time to go home, he just couldn’t shake off that social mood. He had an irresistible urge to check on Leslie himself; he just couldn’t talk himself out of it. He drove around town, and it didn’t take long to spot her yellow Volkswagen SUV in front of a small house. He parked on the street behind it and went to the door.
    She opened it and tilted her head at him. “What are you doing here?”
    “I was watching the trailer today, making sure the guy in the shiny Caddy wasn’t giving you any trouble.”
    “You were?”
    He nodded. “I was headed over to ask you something when he pulled up and went inside.”
    She hesitated for a second. “Come in, Conner,” she said.
    “I don’t want to impose,” he said. But he entered the little house quickly, before she could change her mind. He was quite impressed. It was a very homey, attractive place that seemed perfect for her, and it was completely settled, pictures hung, framed photos on the buffet, a dried flower arrangement and place mats on the dining table, a throw on the end of the sectional sofa. He followed her into the kitchen where he could see Dan’s handiwork in the granite countertops and darkly stained oak cupboards.
    She had been sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread out and a cup of tea beside it.
    “So,” she said. “That was him—the cheerful ex, wondering why we can’t be more chummy.”
    “He came out of the trailer with some white foam on his pretty shoes,” Conner said, and he couldn’t suppress a grin.
    “I lost it. His utter lack of remorse, the way he takes so little responsibility for what happened, like we should all be grown-ups and overlook it. ‘But Leslie,’” she mimicked. “‘I can’t help what I feel. It’s not as if I planned for my feelings to change.’” She snorted. “Is that accurate? That we can’t help what we feel?” she asked Conner, an imploring look on her face.
    “Probably,” he said. He hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “But we can help what we do.”
    She took a breath. “Would you like some tea?”
    “No, thanks. But I’ll sit a minute if you feel like talking. If you want to get it off your chest.”
    She indicated the chair opposite hers, and she sat down. “I don’t know if this will make sense, but one of the reasons I took the job down here is so I could stop talking about it. Well, that’s not true at all—I was far from done talking about it, but my friends and family were done listening. Who can blame them after a year and a half? You know, I have friends who divorced, who have kids they have to co-parent with the ex, who have very manageable relationships with exes, and I admire them for it! What is wrong with me? Why am I not the least bit grateful that Greg wants us to be friends?”
    Conner shrugged before he said, “Maybe because he considers himself totally justified?”
    “You’re right. That whole business of how he just couldn’t help himself, he had no control—that’s what makes me feel like crap!”
    Conner smiled at her.
    “Should you smile at me when I say I feel like crap?”
    He shook his head, but the smile remained. “I was just thinking, I’m not making any excuses for him—he’s a dog—but that feeling? That you just can’t help yourself? That’s a feeling I like.”
    “Is that a