Excerpt from Best Laid Plans by Gwen Florio, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'BlessmefattherforIhavesinned … I hit my brother five times. I didn't do my homework two times. I wished hurt on Sister Pancratius seven times.' Praying so hard she mostly forgot about Joe and Charlotte, might have even promised God she'd forgive them if only He'd (She'd?) let her make it alive through the Mousetrap where I-70 hit I-25 in a spaghetti bowl of overpasses and restricted lanes. An obliging God bestowed a miracle. Nora was through, shooting onto I-25 north toward Wyoming, Electra flying straight and true behind her as she drove the reverse of the route she'd planned so painstakingly with the asshole who'd turned out to be just like every other husband after all.

Her wedding ring with its engraved infinity sign – because of course theirs was to be the rare lasting marriage – sailed out the window near the big limestone bluffs at Chugwater in Wyoming. The engagement ring very nearly followed it until Nora remembered she was mostly sober and that someone with a functioning brain didn't toss away a two-carat, emerald-cut, platinum-set ring that could very well provide some much-needed cash in the future.

Her thoughts slithered around, treacherous and unreliable, from hysteria to practicality and back again.

She'd need money. Not only was the planned book dead in the water, but the publisher was going to want the advance back – money already put toward the Airstream. The goal had been to spend the next year touting the benefits of living lean, conveniently ignoring the fact that the combined cost of truck and trailer amounted to that of a small starter home. Or, considering Denver's punitive housing market, maybe a condo in one of the more undesirable suburbs. She'd lined up freelance assignments throughout their trip, all of them with editors counting on rhapsodic accounts of a life free of fetters, a lot of scenery, some adorable mishaps, wrapped in the romance of middle-aged love on the road. Apparently, she and Joe represented a demographic.

Had represented. A safe guess that newly single, toweringly pissed-off women on the cusp of their sixth decade were nobody's idea of a desirable demographic. So, scratch the freelance gigs.

And scratch money as something to think about, at least for the moment. She had another, more urgent worry. All that tequila and champagne and rum punch, while thankfully fleeing her brain, apparently had taken up temporary residence in her bladder and now begged, nay, demanded escape. But she was in Wyoming, the most sparsely populated state in the union, and lack of people apparently meant a corresponding lack of facilities. There'd been a rest-stop sign in Chugwater, too many miles back now to contemplate a return, and besides, while she was getting the feel of hauling the trailer on these deserted straightaways, the prospect of turning the thing around was too terrifying to contemplate.

The trailer.

'Remember the wet baths in those smaller models I just showed you?' The salesman at the RV dealership, all anticipatory glee, led them down the line of Airstreams, so many silver bullets at the far end of a lot full of lesser vehicles. Knew people with money in their pockets when he saw them coming. The wet baths were cunning toilet-shower combos – close the toilet seat, turn on the shower, try to scrub down without bruising your elbows in the squeeze-box space, wipe it all down when you finished.

He led them to a larger trailer, up the stairs, into the galley. A couple of steps down the 'hall'. Pulled open a door. 'Voila!' A full bath, little round sink, vanity cabinet beneath, and a separate, enclosed shower. The salesman actually giggled as he showed them the retractable clothesline within.

Wyoming may have been short on rest areas, but the base of each long, rolling hill featured a chain-up area off to one side for semis, testament to the prevalence of winter's hazards. But it was summer, and the pull-outs were free of parked trucks that would populate them in just a few months, their drivers crouched low against screaming blizzards, cursing the wind and snow as they fought to fasten chains to tires.

Excerpted from Best Laid Plans by Gwen Florio. Copyright © 2021 by Gwen Florio. Excerpted by permission of Severn House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.