by Lori Wilde
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh no. This is impossible. Grammy must have been out of her mind when she wrote this. It’s got to be the brain tumor. She’s not thinking straight. I can’t get those two to stay in the same room together, much less finish that cursed quilt.”
Pyewacket dug her claws into Gia’s bare thigh and kneaded.
“Ouch. Hey there, missy, that hurts.” She deposited the cat on the porch and dusted her palms.
The Siamese tossed her haughty head and stalked off.
Breathing so fast she was almost hyperventilating, Gia closed her eyes and leaned her back against the porch rail in the same way she’d done as a child, imagining herself growing smaller and smaller until she was the size of a mouse and no one could see her. She could slip between the floorboards, munching on crumbs the B&B guests dropped when they breakfasted on the veranda, and live there happily forever.
Nah, if she were a mouse, Pyewacket would catch and kill her. The cutthroat Siamese hated mice.
The spring ocean breeze chilled her skin. Without opening her eyes, she wrapped her arms more tightly around her chest and told herself to stay small and out of the way. Don’t be a bother to anyone. If she stayed quiet, then everything would be okay. Grammy would come out of surgery with flying colors. She’d have radiation or chemo or whatever she needed to do, and she’d kick cancer’s ass. She’d get well and sort out her sisters and Gia wouldn’t have to do any of the heavy lifting.
Gia would move into the inn and take care of her. Gia’s roommate, who was also her part-time employee, wouldn’t like it, but some things couldn’t be helped.
She’d juice vegetables for Grammy and they’d go for long walks on the beach and in the evenings, they would sit on the porch swing, quilting and watching the sunset. Grammy would heal and grow robust and live to see Gia get married and have kids of her own, offering her sage child-rearing advice. She’d die quietly in her sleep at a hundred and one. Everything would work out.
It had to.
“Hey, stranger.” A jovial male voice broke through her trance.
Gia’s eyes flew open to see Grammy’s next-door neighbor, Mike Straus, standing on the stone wall separating his property from the Moonglow Inn. In the 1920s, the well-to-do Chapman family had built the Craftsman-style bungalow as caretaker quarters for their grand Victorian manor, but during World War II, the family downsized, sectioning off half an acre of beachfront property and selling the bungalow along with it.
Mike’s family had owned the bungalow long before Gia and her sisters came to live in Moonglow Cove. After his parents retired and moved to Arizona for his father’s health, Mike bought the place from them.
Mike was seven years older than Gia, and at thirty was a year older than Madison. He was a master carpenter who built magnificent handcrafted furniture. He’d made the inn’s four sturdy white rocking chairs, and the two Adirondack chairs, along with the three-person porch swing. Mike was also the one who’d gotten Gia into kiteflying and he’d been the first one to encourage her to follow her heart and do what she loved for a living, even as others pooh-poohed her interest.
They kept up with each other on social media. However, she hadn’t seen him in months. Although Gia came home to visit Grammy every week, since the first of the year, Mike had been out of the country with Habitat for Humanity’s Disaster Response program, helping to rebuild houses on a hurricane-devastated Caribbean island.
He was a square-jawed man with ocean-blue eyes and molasses-dark hair that swirled at the crown with an intractable cowlick. His tanned skin contrasted with the rolled-up sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and his heartfelt smile stunned bright in the morning sun.
She caught her breath for a beat, surprised by the quick kick of sexual attraction. What was wrong with her? This was Mike. She’d known him for as long as she could remember. Why was she suddenly seeing him in a different light?
“You’re back from the Caribbean,” she murmured, flabbergasted by the quickening of her pulse.
“Just this minute got home.” He suppressed a yawn, then held his arms wide. “Get over here, Short Stack, and give me a hug or I’m gonna pout.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice. I can’t stand pouting.”
“I know. That’s why I threatened it. You haven’t changed. Same little peacemaker.” He wriggled his fingers. “Now, bring it in.”
She tucked the envelope in the pocket of her purple cover-up and launched herself into his embrace.
Mike wrapped her in a bear hug and swung her around in a circle as if they were still kids. She felt giddy and girlish and warm all over.
He put her down, stepped back, and shook his head. Beamed at her with his big old Texas-sized grin. “How have you been?”
“Great. Well . . . except for . . .” She waved a hand, tears pushing against the back of her eyes again at the thought of Grammy. “You?”
“Except for what?” He frowned in concern. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” Aww damn, here came the waterworks again.
“What’s wrong?” His hand went to her forearm, comforting and solid. “What’s happened?”
Dabbing at her eyes, she told him about Grammy.
He shoved his hair back with a palm. “Damn, Gia, that sucks hard. I’m so sorry. If there is anything I can do, anything at all, you say the word.”
“Thanks.” She tried for a smile, failed.
“Do you need another hug?”
“Please.” She fell against him and he gathered her close. His shirt smelled like fresh laundry, his skin like sunshine, and beneath that, a rich, more masculine scent.
He smelled good. Too good. It was weird how good he smelled and how much she liked it.
“Hey, how’s your girlfriend?”
He winced. “We broke up.”
“I’m sorry.” Except she wasn’t. Did that make her a bad person? And why did the thought of Mike being girlfriendless send a tingle through her body?
“Don’t be. It wasn’t right. We mixed like ketchup and caviar.”
“Oof.”
“She was the caviar, by the way.”
“I suspected.” Gia grinned at him. “Salty as fish eggs?”
“Now that you put it that way . . .” His grin widened. “Kinda. A little salt goes a long way.”
“You need a potato woman. Nothing goes better with ketchup than french fries. Sweet and tangy. The perfect condiment.”
“I’ll put that at the top of my dating profile. Desperately seeking potato woman.”
“Don’t you dare tell your dates that. Every woman wants to be treated like she’s caviar, even if she is a spud at heart.”
“What about you?” Was it her imagination or did his voice lower? And why was he staring at her mouth? “Do you like to be treated as if you were caviar?”
Gia gulped, licked her lips, felt her pulse notch up. Was he flirting with her? Or just trying to take her mind off Grammy? “Well, not me, of course. I’m no caviar. French fries are my favorite food.”
“With lots of ketchup as I recall.”
Holy smokes, he was flirting. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It was a huge paradigm shift. “You’re out of touch, Straus. Lately, I’ve taken to dunking my fries in wasabi.”
“You’ve gone rogue,” he said. “I blame Japan. Stick around. We’ll soon get you back in a Moonglow state of mind.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
They stared at each other and goose bumps zipped up Gia’s arms.
“Your sisters?” he asked. “Are they coming home?”
“Madison’s on her way. Shelley . . .” Gia shrugged. “Who knows?”
“How are you holding up?” His gentle tone and tender eyes unraveled her.
To keep from tearing up again, she started chattering. “I’m good. Things were going really well for me until this. The kite store is up and running. I have an apartment downtown but took on a roommate to afford it . . . but t
his changes everything. I should move back home and help Grammy recover.”
“Your grammy wouldn’t want you to give up your life for her. Not even to keep peace between your sisters. Besides, she’s got Darynda.”
“Darynda’s not family.”
“She and your grandmother have been best friends for fifty years.” Mike put a palm over his mouth to stifle another yawn. “Kinda the same.”
“I’ve spent so many years trying to smooth things over, I don’t know if I can stop.”
He put both hands on her shoulders, looked her square in the eyes. “You can’t please everyone, Gia. At some point you have to please yourself or your life will never be your own.”
Uncomfortable with his chiding look and the idea of putting her needs before her family, Gia slapped her palm against her forehead. “Look at me prattling on. You’re exhausted. I’m so rude.”
“You? Rude? Never. That’s Madison’s territory.” He chuckled.
“Maddie’s not rude, she’s just—”
“Controlling?”
“She has high standards.” Uneasy at talking about Maddie behind her back, Gia shifted her weight.
“I guess it works for her. High standards got Madison on TV. Nothing gets past your big sister.”
“Except the past.”
“So what will happen when she and Shelley—”
“Who knows?” Gia shrugged. “I try not to think about them if I can help it. Hurts too much.”
“About your grandmother . . .” His eyes overflowed with sympathy. “This is serious stuff.”
“She will make it.”
“If you have anything to say about it, I’m sure she will.” He nodded, but the expression on his face said he thought Gia was fooling herself. “I meant what I said, Short Stack. Not to sound like a Toy Story theme song or anything, but you’ve got a friend in me. If you need anything, anything at all, just call and I’ll be there.”
Chapter Three
Madison
BIAS: The bias grain runs on a forty-five-degree angle to the selvages and has ample amounts of stretch, so it is less stable than the lengthwise and crosswise grain.
GET TO GRAMMY, fix this thing. Madison Clark massaged her throbbing temple. Don’t get a migraine, dammit. Don’t get a migraine.
She sat in the back of the town car staring out the window as they oozed down the newly repaved highway heading southwest from Houston to Moonglow Cove and trying not to spin worst-case scenarios. People underwent brain surgery every day and survived. Grammy was a tough old bird, she’d pull through.
But Madison couldn’t shake the forbidding sense that her life was about to change in a fundamental way.
The gloominess had been creeping up on her for months. Lately, it had even invaded her job as she introduced guests, faked smiles, injected her voice with false enthusiasm; pasting and gluing and stapling, creating crafts, making beautiful spaces, coaching viewers on how to pretty up their lives.
As if she had all the answers. Despite having achieved the lofty dream she’d fought so hard to win. Despite having built an orderly, controlled, and glamorous life. It seemed she was standing outside herself from a great distance and looking down at her world, absolutely numb.
Absentmindedly, she fingered the crystal star necklace at her throat. Sighed a bone-deep sigh of loss and longing.
More sorrow was in store. No escaping.
Madison unzipped her purse and reached inside for her cell phone to text Gia for an update on Grammy. Her fingers brushed against the piece of paper and her heart skipped a beat. Quickly, she stuffed it to the bottom of her purse. She should have destroyed the paper, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go.
Not yet.
Her fingers kept searching for the phone, but she found instead the bottle of Xanax her doctor prescribed after her first panic attack.
She opened the bottle; shook out one pill, stared at it, then for good measure, shook out another. The last thing she needed was another panic attack. She uncapped her water bottle and popped the pills into her mouth.
Madison caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. Eyes, hollowed and stark, stared back at her.
“Don’t judge,” she muttered and swallowed the Xanax. “I gotta deal with Shelley.”
“You say something, miss?” The bulky middle-aged driver met her gaze in the mirror. He smelled of cheap cologne and expensive salami, and he had a loose, lived-in face and a foreign accent she couldn’t quite place.
Ukrainian maybe?
“No.” She shook her head and posted up her automatic, camera-ready smile. Ta-da.
“This is Moonglow Bridge.” He motioned as the tires hit the metal bridge.
“I grew up here.”
“You lucky. Prettiest town on Texas coast.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “it is.”
Down the hill and around the first curve and they hit Moonglow Boulevard. Stately houses built during the early 1900s graced the right side of the road; the beach and seawall, alive with tourists, shops, and restaurants, were on the left.
Madison sipped water and watched the ocean gliding past like a ponderous dream, too much blue, long and endless. She’d forgotten how bright it was here. The beach stretched full of umbrellas, kites, and bodies. Light and casual and seriously, much too happy.
She didn’t trust happiness.
It faded.
Always.
The beautiful old Victorian where she and her sisters once lived with Grammy Chapman lay straight ahead. Built by their two-times-great-grandfather, Josiah Chapman, it stood out among the other buildings lining the beach. It was one of the few historical homes along the waterfront that had survived Hurricane Allen in 1980.
The three-story B&B looked like something from a fairy tale—all gingerbread trim, towers, turrets, dormers, and wraparound porches. Over the decades, five generations of Chapmans had painted it many shades and hues. Today, the color was a gentle aqua with violet shutters and white porch rails and columns. She and her sisters had picked out those colors, painted the house together.
Back when things were good.
A small orchard of Moonglow pear trees bloomed white in the side yard. Butter-yellow daffodils proliferated around the base of the pear trees. And in the tidy flower beds, irises and hydrangeas thrived, scenting the air with their sweet perfume.
Grammy adored those pear trees, and every fall she made preserves in her commercial kitchen. To supplement her B&B income, she packaged and sold the preserves online and through local vendors.
Madison hadn’t been home since Christmas. Almost half a year since Grammy, smelling of cinnamon and Shalimar, had wrapped Madison in her arms and told her how much she loved her. An erratic five months of giddy ups and sharp downs. Until now, she hadn’t realized the depth of her homesickness and she ached to go inside the house.
“Wait, stop!”
Startled, the chauffeur trod the brakes. “What’s the problem?”
A topless, doors-off Jeep blasted the horn behind them. The angry frat boy driver whipped around the town car, thrusting a proud middle finger skyward as he sped by.
The chauffeur eased the car over. “You sick?”
“No, no.” Madison waved away his concern. What was wrong with her? She had a mission. Get to Grammy. Fix this thing. No reason to stop, except . . . “Never mind. Just go. Please keep going.”
He made a chuffing noise and merged back into the flow of traffic.
She peered over her shoulder at the Moonglow Inn. Nostalgia took Madison’s hand and led her down memory lane.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the hopscotch squares they’d drawn on the sidewalk outside the white picket fence that surrounded the house. Shelley had been the hopscotch queen, athletic and leggy, but Madison kept an eye on her. Shelley cheated. Which, Shelley claimed, was Madison’s fault because she made too many impossible-to-keep rules.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed plump Pyewacket, curled on the front porch
, swishing her tail. She remembered when Gia brought the skinny, bedraggled kitten home from the animal shelter, thirteen and full of angst for all creatures in trouble.
“Grammy,” Gia declared. “We hafta keep her.”
Madison pressed her fingertips to the window and watched until the house was out of sight.
At four P.M. on the dot, the town car deposited her and her luggage at the emergency room entrance outside Moonglow Cove Memorial Hospital.
She was here. Goal in sight. At least the get-to-Grammy part. The fix-this-thing part was more complicated.
Head throbbing, heart sinking, Madison stared at the red neon Emergency sign over the door. She felt the flutter of panic stir at the bottom of her spine and inch up vertebra by vertebra.
C’mon, Xanax, kick in.
She curled her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to slow her breathing, pulled in a lungful of hospital antiseptic mingled with fragrant ocean air.
The pneumatic doors opened and Darynda walked out, arms wrapped tightly around her chest as if she were chilled. Her snow-white hair was pulled back into her signature low chignon, elegant as the woman herself. She wore pleated gray slacks, a soft purple blouse and matching sweater, and silver kitten heels. No one would ever guess where she’d come from originally.
Darynda Fox was a self-described sand hill tacky, a Texas term for a girl who’d grown up poor in the sand hills of West Texas. She was the daughter of a cowhand, raised riding and roping and punching cattle. She was a crack shot with a rifle, and sometimes, Grammy affectionately called her Annie Oakley. Her vivid blue eyes shone like beacons in her wrinkled face, and her gaze latched tight to Madison’s. Without a word, she held her arms wide for an embrace.
Madison hesitated.
She and Darynda had never been buddy-buddy, but she was Grammy’s best friend in the entire world and she had taken up the slack after . . . well, after everything zoomed to hell in a wicker handbasket.
Madison steeled herself and moved in for the hug, catching the light honeysuckle scent of Darynda’s perfume. Quick squeeze and she was out of the greeting, stepping back, fetching another made-for-TV smile.
