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June Thornton returns to Siren Cove not with a bang, but rather a whimper. Much like she left the town a few weeks prior, she glides back onto her father's estate without a word to anyone, not even her own brothers. Her former companion, one professor of art history, now works at a more prestigious university, one many hours away from Siren Cove. June misses him, but she isn't heartbroken; they'd both known it was only to be a brief, summer fling. She's more sad that her father bullied another person away from her life, but that, too, is a thought for another time.
Now, June is in line at the Quill, debating on a salad or a plate of chicken wings. She's not necessarily hungry; she's trying to get back into the swing of things, especially with her plan now set in motion.
For anyone glancing at her, they almost wouldn't recognize her; gone are her usual, vibrant skirts and tops, replaced with a very conservative, almost matronly, magenta dress that falls just below her knees. Her hair, she wears in a bun, several strands purposely loose to frame her face in a feminine way. Her make-up is subdued, kept minimal. She wears heels that pinch her ankles and almost make her lose her composure.
Anyone looking at June would take her for a politician's wife. Which is, of course, what she wants them to think.
Beneath the subdued exterior, June herself feels the lick of flames burning in her heart. Anger, guilt, and grief simmer beneath her mask, waiting for the right moment to come pouring out.
"One unsweetened ice tea with honey, please," she tells the cashier at last.
Now, June is in line at the Quill, debating on a salad or a plate of chicken wings. She's not necessarily hungry; she's trying to get back into the swing of things, especially with her plan now set in motion.
For anyone glancing at her, they almost wouldn't recognize her; gone are her usual, vibrant skirts and tops, replaced with a very conservative, almost matronly, magenta dress that falls just below her knees. Her hair, she wears in a bun, several strands purposely loose to frame her face in a feminine way. Her make-up is subdued, kept minimal. She wears heels that pinch her ankles and almost make her lose her composure.
Anyone looking at June would take her for a politician's wife. Which is, of course, what she wants them to think.
Beneath the subdued exterior, June herself feels the lick of flames burning in her heart. Anger, guilt, and grief simmer beneath her mask, waiting for the right moment to come pouring out.
"One unsweetened ice tea with honey, please," she tells the cashier at last.
