by Molly Cannon
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Table of Contents
A Preview of Book Three
Newsletters
Copyright Page
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In loving memory of my brother Larry.
His “Ham in the Hole” was a gift to us all.
And to my husband Bill. It had to be you.
Acknowledgments
I must heap praise on my amazing editor Michele Bidelspach. Her patience and insight are true treasures. I’m so lucky to have this chance to work with her. And Megha Parekh. All of her thoughtful notes on the manuscript helped show the way. Thank you, both!
I want to thank production editor Kallie Shimek, and Diane Luger for the cover art. I must also acknowledge all the friendly, helpful folks at Grand Central Publishing including Amy Pierpont and Selina McLemore. What a treat it was to meet so many of them at the RWA conference.
I want to thank my wonderful agent Kim Lionetti of BookEnds Literary for her gentle guidance and steady steering of the ship. And she also has good taste in football players.
The Lit Girls—Jessica Davidson, Mary Malcolm, Misa Ramirez, Kim Quinton, Beatriz Terrazas, Tracy Ward, Wendy Watson, Jill Wilson, and for this book particularly a special thanks to Kym Roberts.
Chris Keniston who cheers me on, pushes me forward, and always has my back. And Mabsie Bonnick who is always there to celebrate. And I do like to celebrate!
As always I’m grateful for the support I get from my wonderful family, and for this book I have to give extra special thanks to my daughter Emily Williams. Emily went above and beyond this time. She read, and reread, and held my hand, and took me to play darts and drink beer. And never once complained. At least not to my face. I love you, Em!
Chapter One
You can’t take time off now. It’s out of the question.” Diego Barrett, head chef at Finale’s, made his decree and turned back to the stove as if everything was settled.
Etta swiped at a lone tear and sniffed. It was hard to believe she’d ever thought she was in love with this guy. “Diego, I’m not asking for your permission. My grandmother died, and I’m going to Texas to take care of the arrangements.”
He never looked her way as he banged around the restaurant kitchen, lifting lids, stirring a pot here, tasting a sauce there. “What about your sister? She lives in Texas. Why can’t she handle things?” He stomped over to the table that held menu plans and supply lists. “And how the hell am I supposed to get anyone to cover for you on such short notice? The Mann party is coming in tomorrow night, and they could make or break our reputation. Remember, Etta? The Mann party? The big opportunity we’ve been working our asses off for?”
“If you could stop ranting long enough to listen I’ll tell you. Mimi will cover for me tomorrow, and everything will be fine. But I’ll be gone at least a week. Adjust the schedule accordingly.”
“For God’s sake, why can’t you wait a day or two? Why do you have to leave right now? I need you here.”
“The question you should be asking is, ‘Are you okay, Etta? Is there anything I can do to help?’ ”
Sounding like a spoiled child, he tried guilt. “You know what kind of pressure I’m under. Thank you for adding to it.”
She took off her apron and started gathering her things. “And thank you for your support, Diego.”
“How’s this for support?” He sat down at the table, his tone overwrought. “If you leave me now, don’t bother to come back.”
Without a second thought, she picked up a vat of cold soup, a lovely vichyssoise, and dumped it in his lap. “Oops. There goes the soup of the day.”
His howl of outrage and the pungent smell of leeks followed her out the door.
Donny Joe Ledbetter hated funerals.
He huddled in his thin black suit coat as an uncommonly bitter wind whipped through Everson Memorial Gardens and battered the mourners who’d gathered graveside to pay their respects to the dearly departed Hazel Green. Miz Hazel, as she was known by one and all, had lived a colorful life and had died too soon at the frisky age of sixty-eight.
Amen and bless her soul.
She would be missed by the good folks in Everson, including Donny Joe. She’d been his next door neighbor, a grandmother figure of sorts, a never-ending source of unsolicited advice—some good, some bad. And of late, his business partner.
He didn’t treat her passing lightly, so when he was asked to be a pallbearer he agreed without hesitation. He had a real affection for the old girl. Too bad he couldn’t say he felt the same about her granddaughter.
He let his gaze travel over Etta Green. She had steamed back into Everson a few days ago to take care of the funeral arrangements for her grandmother, but grief could only go so far in excusing her surly attitude. Not that he’d had any direct encounters with her, but it hadn’t taken long for word to spread via the town grapevine that she’d bulldozed everyone in her path. Out of the respect people had for Miz Hazel, she’d gotten away with it. Now she perched on one of the spindly chairs set up for the family in front of the casket, her small fireplug of a body vibrating with defiance and anger.
What a piece of work.
He took in her face, grief clearly etched in every feature while the howling wind tossed her short dark brown hair around her head in all directions. Dressed all in black, her fists were clenched tightly in her lap as if it were all she could do not to shake them at the heavens for taking her beloved Grammy away too soon. Her pointy high-heeled black pumps tapped out a nervous rhythm on the dry winter grass, suggesting she might kick the shins of the first person who dared express any hint of sympathy. Donny Joe planned to keep his distance.
By contrast her older sister Belle had arrived in Everson just in time for the service. Ah, Belle. They’d had a mainly one-sided flirtation one summer a long time ago, and he hadn’t seen her since. She’d grown into an attractive, and from all appearances, even-tempered woman. Sitting demurely, ankles crossed, she wore a simple gray dress set off by a wide-brimmed black hat. A veil covered her face, giving her the air of an Italian film actress. She sobbed quietly behind the filmy material while her daughter Daphne stared straight ahead, not squirming or wiggling around like most young kids he knew. In fact she showed no emotion of any kind.
Donny wished he could be as stoic. Miz Hazel’s death had hit him harder than he’d expected. Despite her untimely demise she’d lived a good life, and the gathered crowd was a testament to how many people she’d touched. Shivering in the cold of the cemetery, surrounded by the grave markers of Everson’s deceased made him wonder about his own life. Who would shed a tear if he was to meet his maker tomorrow? Would anybody really give a damn if he lived or died? It gave a man pause.
Brother East, the Baptist preacher, asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer. Then after a chorus of murmured “Amens,” he instructed the pallbearers to say their final farewells by placing their boutonnieres on top of the half-lowered glossy white casket. Donny Joe removed the pearl-tipped pin holding the pink rosebud onto his lapel and trailed along in line with the others. Each man said a quick good-bye to Miz Hazel and laid their rose beside the giant funeral spray that adorned the box holding her remains. Donny Joe could feel his eyes start to water and blamed it on the stinging wind. When it was his turn, he stopp
ed and took a moment with his thoughts.
“Good-bye, Miz Hazel,” he said in a choked voice. “I’m going to miss you.” He glanced up and his gaze locked unwillingly with Etta Green’s. She lifted an eyebrow as if doubting his sincerity, and maybe his manhood, too. What the hell was her problem?
Rattled, he broke eye contact and stepped forward, boutonniere in hand.
His foot caught on a half-buried tree root, a root from the stately old oak that would stand sentry over Miz Hazel’s final resting place. He stumbled, arms flailing, and then he fell. Fellow pallbearer Mitchell Crowley made a grab for him, catching only a handful of his suit coat as he landed squarely on top of the funeral spray and the casket underneath. Half the crowd gasped, and the other half laughed like things were just starting to get interesting.
For a stunned moment he lay there, his breath sawing in and out of his chest, feeling the polished wood and crushed blossoms pressed against his cheek, clutching the ornate edging that outlined the lid of the coffin to steady himself. The overwhelming floral smell filled his nose, and he could feel the tickle of a sneeze building. “A-a-achoo!”
“Bless you, Donny Joe,” someone yelled from the buzzing crowd.
That got him moving. A shower of roses, carnations, daisies, and lilies of every color and hue scattered like a potpourri of rats deserting a sinking ship while he scrambled on hands and knees to get up. Phone cameras appeared throughout the crowd, capturing the moment for posterity.
Mitchell finally got a grip on one of his arms and helped haul him to his feet. “Get ahold of yourself, buddy. We’re all going to miss her, but she’s in a better place now.”
“Sorry. Geez, I’m really sorry.” Donny straightened up, rearranging his coat and brushing off his pants. The crowd mumbled and tittered—probably discussing how much he’d had to drink.
Undoubtedly dismayed by his oafish performance, Miz Hazel’s granddaughters now stood, and he put out a hand in their direction, an apology of sorts. Belle Green lifted her veil, revealing her pretty tear-streaked face. Then she smiled and winked before letting the gauzy material fall back into place. Etta Green clenched her knotty little fists and skewered him with a glare hot enough to permanently singe all the hair from his body. Young Daphne stayed in her chair, stuck her thumb in her mouth and started to suck.
Etta hated lawyers.
She sat stick straight on the edge of a big leather wing chair in front of Mr. Corbin Starling’s scarred walnut desk, impatiently waiting for him to commence with the reading of her grandmother’s will. Not that she actually hated Mr. Starling. He seemed nice enough, but she’d never had anything good come from dealing with those in the legal profession, so the sooner they could get this over with, the sooner she could be on her way back to Chicago.
Her sister Belle lounged carelessly in the chair to her left, relentlessly texting and checking her phone for messages. Their appointment had been for ten a.m. They had arrived ten minutes early. It was now five after, and her grandmother’s lawyer, after greeting them and asking if they wanted coffee or tea, left them to their own devices while he rifled through papers on his desk. Etta looked at her watch, and her foot started to tap. Patience wasn’t one of her virtues in the best of times, and now the crushing sadness she felt over losing Grammy Hazel threatened to derail her thinly held control.
Mr. Starling seemed to notice her impatience and glanced up. “I apologize for the delay. We’re just waiting for Mr. Ledbetter to arrive, and then we can get started.”
Etta’s foot stilled. “Mr. Ledbetter? As in Donny Joe Ledbetter?” The idiot who’d made a spectacle of himself at the funeral? She remembered him as a cocky, troublemaking teenager. Good Gravy.
“Yes, there are provisions that concern him.”
Belle leaned forward in her chair, giving Mr. Starling a generous view of her generous bosom. His eyes widened in appreciation of the gesture. Etta stifled a flash of irritation. Her sister’s idea of proper attire for a visit to see the family lawyer was a ruffled, low-cut red silk blouse and a pair of tight blue jeans. “I understand Donny Joe and Grammy Hazel got real close before she died,” Belle informed them.
Etta turned to look at her sister. “They did? How do you know that?”
“I had a real nice conversation with Donny Joe after the service yesterday afternoon. And Grammy was always going on about how much help he was to her around the house.”
Etta’s foot started tapping again. Donny Joe Ledbetter was her grandmother’s next door neighbor. She had vivid memories of him as a teenager from the summers she and Belle had spent at her grandmother’s house. Flirtatious, smooth-talking, too cute for his own good, and always stirring up some kind of trouble.
That was Donny Joe, then and now. From what she’d heard he ran some kind of swimming pool business these days. Now that she thought about it, she did remember her grandmother mentioning him a lot during their frequent phone calls of late, but she realized with a sharp pang of regret, she’d been too busy talking about her own problems and hadn’t paid much attention to the details.
Etta’s first instinct was to suspect he’d taken advantage of her grandmother’s trusting nature. But on the other hand, so what if he’d schmoozed his way into the old lady’s affection and she’d left him some small token of her appreciation in her last will and testament?
Fine and dandy. What did she care?
But he could at least have the decency to show up on time so they could get this whole ordeal settled. Her business in Everson, Texas was almost finished, and now that Grammy Hazel was gone, she couldn’t think of a good reason to stay any longer than necessary. Despite her assurances to Diego that he’d be fine without her, she couldn’t help worry.
Finally, there was a knock on the office doorframe, and Donny Joe stuck his head around the corner. “Sorry I’m late, Corbin.”
Mr. Starling stood up and waved him into the room. “Come on in, Donny Joe. We’re ready to get started.”
Donny doffed his cowboy hat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. “I had an emergency at the Senior Center. The pool wasn’t heating properly, and if Splashing with the Oldies doesn’t go on as scheduled there’s hell to pay. But I apologize.”
“Hey, Donny Joe,” Belle looked up from her phone and gifted him with one of her dazzling smiles.
“Belle.” He returned her smile with a dazzling one of his own, and then with the slightest nod in her direction acknowledged Etta’s presence as well. “Morning, Etta.”
He pulled a wooden chair up next to her, and sat with legs splayed wide, taking up more than his share of space in the room. Donny Joe was all lanky swagger, and Etta found herself bristling for no particular reason. Turning slightly in her chair, she angled her body so he was out of her line of sight, but a faint whiff of his cologne still wafted her way.
Mr. Starling cleared his throat and began addressing them somberly, so she focused on his words. “This is a sad occasion for us all. Hazel was a great friend to me and my family. We will miss her dearly, and you girls have my deepest condolences.” He put both hands on his desk and sighed. “This is the will drawn up by your grandmother three and a half years ago on her sixty-fifth birthday.”
He opened the file on his desk and began reading,
I, Hazel Faye Green, being of sound mind and body do hereby bequeath the following:
• My string of pearls and matching earrings, the family recipe box, and my complete set of Nancy Drew Mysteries I leave to my great granddaughter, Daphne Jonquil Green.
• My enamel turtle pin, my Joni Mitchell albums, and my Volkswagen bus I leave to my cousin, Beulah Cross.
• My house, its contents and the surrounding five acres I leave to my granddaughters Etta Place Green and Belle Starr Green. I trust they will do all they can to keep the house since it has been in our family for over one hundred years.
Signed,
Hazel Faye Green
Etta slumped back in her chair, fighting new tears. The provisions
in the will were basically what she’d expected, but hearing the words read out loud made the pain of Grammy’s death rise up and threaten to choke her all over again.
Grammy’s house. Growing up, it had always been a safe haven, a place to escape the never-ending circus of her parents’ chaotic marriage. And with Grammy Hazel’s help, it was the place she learned to cook. She loved the nooks and crannies, the tall ceilings, the wooden floors. It wrapped around her, comforting her like one of Grammy’s crocheted afghans. Built by her great-great grandfather and passed down to each new generation, the house still stood tall and strong, despite the human frailties of those who’d occupied it through the years. She was momentarily stirred by the connection with those who’d come before her. With the death of their father four years ago, the house now belonged to her and Belle.
But she would never seriously consider living in it. She had a life to get back to in Chicago.
Probably.
Oh, of course she did. Surely Diego hadn’t been serious when he’d fired her. And he couldn’t really fire her. Not outright anyway. She was a minority owner in the place, after all. Just because he’d told her if she left not to come back. Just because she’d dumped a vat of cold potato soup in his lap on her way out the door. She could be volatile, but so could he. It wasn’t the first time one of them had used food to emphasize a point, and it wouldn’t be the last. Even if they didn’t share a passion for each other any longer, they still shared a passion for their work and a passion to make Finale’s one of the best restaurants in Chicago. That’s why they made such a good team. Unfortunately, he held a controlling interest, and that put her at a disadvantage.
But back to the matter at hand. As far as she was concerned Cousin Beulah could continue to live in the house if that’s what she wanted. Maybe rent out a room if she needed help around the place.
Or maybe Belle would consider moving back to Everson. It would provide a stable home for eight-year-old Daphne. Everson would be a great town to raise a child. And a stable home was something her niece hadn’t known from the day she’d been born. They certainly had a lot to discuss. She glanced at Donny Joe. Why was he here again? The will hadn’t said a word about him. She looked at Mr. Starling expectantly.
