Sam Goodman is my next-door neighbor. Which means, he lives on the farm that abuts my own property. In terms of upstate country living, he’s a short one and a half mile drive up the road from Robyn and me. But right now, the distance might as well be 100 miles since I can’t get there fast enough. As I drive, I break the law of the road by checking my cell phone. Sure enough, I spot two text messages from him that I must have missed earlier.
Waiting for you babe.
And . . .
Coming soon? Food getting cold
Once more my stomach sinks. How could I have been so stupid? So forgetful? I have no excuse. Or, on the other hand, maybe my anxiety over Mike and his imagination is more than a good enough excuse. It depends on where your priorities lie.
I put the pedal to the metal, as they say on
