For the first time in his life, Harry Wong was totally speechless. He hated it when he couldn’t understand things. “If I ever find out, I’ll call you.”
Julie nodded, her eyes miserable. “I never asked, Harry. What is your little girl’s name?”
Harry smiled. “Lily Rose Carter Wong. Want to see a picture?” Even before Julie could nod, Harry whipped out a picture of his daughter. “We call her Lotus Lily. Don’t ask me why.”
Julie turned white and had to reach out for Myra’s hand to steady herself. “Carter . . . that was my son’s middle name. Lawrence Carter Wyatt. I guess we have our answer,” she said, when she was finally able to draw a deep breath. “That’s Cooper’s job now, to take care of Lily Rose Carter Wong. Larry was always my wise one. I guess being on the other side, one can see things we mortals can’t.”
Julie hugged Cooper, tears rolling down her cheeks. The big dog wrapped his paws around her neck and licked her cheek.
Woof.
“Woof yourself. You take good care of Lily Rose Carter Wong, you hear me?”
Woof.
There were special hugs and whispers between the three ladies and promises made. And then all her new friends were gone, and Julie was alone on her veranda. She sat down on one of the rockers, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
I love you, Mom.
“I love you, too, kiddo.”
Epilogue
Two weeks later
Julie Wyatt looked down into the picnic basket to make sure she had everything she would need for a mid-September picnic and an apology to go with it. Something she should have done weeks ago. Satisfied that she had everything, she closed the lid of the picnic hamper and headed for the door. Gracie and Lola looked at her, then went back to tugging a pull toy. If they missed Cooper, it was hard to tell.
Twenty minutes later, Julie brought her truck to a stop in the driveway that led to Oliver Goldfeld’s new house. She looked around at the utility trucks, the construction trucks, and the pickup trucks of the workers. She could hear men shouting orders, the sound of buzz saws and nail guns. She recognized quite a few of the workers as well as the foreman and waved to them as she carried her picnic basket toward the front of the house.
“Do you know where Mr. Goldfeld is?” she called out. One of the workers pointed toward the back of the house. Julie walked around to the back, being careful not to step on the piles of rotten wood and the stacks of new lumber. She called out his name. Then she blinked when she saw the herb garden. Now, instead of a tangle of weeds, she could actually see the plants.
Oliver stood up, his eyes wary.
“I came to apologize for the last time I was here. That wasn’t a good time for me, and I want to explain; that’s if you have the time to listen to me. I brought a picnic lunch as a bribe, in case you want to run me off your property.” In an instant, when Oliver merely nodded, Julie knew that he wasn’t going to give her an inch. “So, do you want to hear my story or not?”
“Sure, why not?”
Why not, indeed. “Well, first things first. I have to retain you, and I forgot my purse. Guess I left it in the truck when I took out the picnic hamper.” Julie fumbled in the pocket of her jeans and found twenty-nine cents. “Will this do for the moment?”
Oliver reached for the coins and shoved them in his pocket. “It’ll do,” he said gruffly.
Julie cleared her throat. “Just so you know, this isn’t easy for me. I never talk about my personal feelings or my personal business to people. I did share some things with Mace, and somehow he managed to ferret out the rest. I’ll try to keep it short, but you need to know everything there is to know about me. Somewhere, somehow, things always manage to leak out, and I don’t want you to be blindsided or think I lied to you.”
Julie licked at her lips and went into her story. She was like a runaway train, the words, the emotions, tumbling out faster than she could control them. When the words stopped pouring out, she summed it up by saying, “So you were right, I’m not sugar and spice and everything nice. I’m just a human being who felt like her soul had been ripped out of her body. Don’t get the idea that I’m apologizing here, because I’m not. Now, do you want to share this picnic, or do you want me to leave?”
“You know, I’m actually pretty damned hungry. Did you bring anything good? But I need to know one thing. Is this something we don’t ever talk about again, or is it up for discussion?”
“It’s standard picnic fare—fried chicken, old family recipe; potato salad, old family recipe; hard-boiled eggs, fresh this morning. Crusty bread and sweet tea. For now, I’d like it that you know my story, and if it ever needs to be addressed in the future, we can run it up the flagpole and deal with it then.”
“Works for me,” Oliver said, reaching for a chicken leg.
In between chewing and swallowing, Oliver and Julie discussed the work being done on his house, when it might be completed, how he liked sleeping in such chaos, and, of course, the garden, which was already taking shape.
When the last of the food was gone and the picnic hamper packed, Oliver said, “So what’s your game plan?”
“Well, on Friday I have to do the interview the lottery commission demands, then they pay me this whopping big check. Then, I expect you will tell me what I have to do concerning my inheritance from Mace. You know I never expected that, nor do I want it, but I understand the legalities of it all.
“I have three major missions once trust funds are set up for my kids and their kids, should any materialize. And, of course, Ollie. I’m going to donate a good portion to the town of Rosemont. I’d like you to oversee that, Oliver, if you can. I want us to have the best police department, the best fire department, the best EMS unit in the state—in the country, if possible. I want to donate money to our hospital; I want it to be state-of-the-art. Everything and anything they need. And I don’t want any of our citizens ever to be turned away. I want to use Mace’s money to make sure everyone in this town gets the medicines they need.
“Then, I want to do something about rights for grandparents, not just in the state of Alabama, but nationwide. Grandparents have few rights if any. I want to go to Capitol Hill and plead our case. I don’t care what it costs, I want to do it. I know I can get a groundswell going. I’ll go through AARP and get all those wonderful seniors on board. They’ll have to listen to us. I’ll need your help on that, too.
“Just yesterday, I put down a deposit on fifty acres of land so I can build an animal sanctuary. I want that to be state-of-the-art, also. Fully staffed. No more animals will be put to sleep in this state if I can help it. I want to make sure that the drugs continue to flow to Doctors Without Borders, as much as they need. That was such a wonderful thing Mace did.
“My boys will be returning in a few months, and they’ll help. Connie and Carrie are going to hire someone to operate their art school and come on board. We’ll have a lot of help. I won’t have all that much time, because I have a granddaughter to raise.
“This weekend, she’s having a sleepover. She’s made some new friends, sweet little girls, and I think she’s going to be okay. I’ve got her set up for Girl Scouts, piano lessons, girls’ softball in the spring, camp with her friends in the summer, and a host of other things. I have to try and give her back the parts of her childhood she was denied. There’s only one thing missing.”
“What’s that?” Oliver asked curiously.
“A grandfather. Ollie never had a grandfather. Do you want to volunteer, Oliver?”
“Well, yeah, that sounds nice.”
“That means you dress up as Santa at Christmastime, you take Ollie and her friends to the roller rink at times or pick them up. Sometimes you take them to the movies or fishing out at the lake. You take them sled riding in the mountains. You get to watch while they ride.”
“Oh. Will you be there?”
Julie laughed. “Try and keep me away! So, do we have a deal? I’d like to tell Ollie about it when I pick her up fro
m school.”
“I’d be honored to be Ollie’s stand-in grandfather.”
“In that case, you’re invited to supper so you can meet your new granddaughter.”
“And I accept,” Oliver said, reaching for Julie’s hands to bring her to her feet.
Told you she was sugar and spice and everything nice.
Oliver whirled around, then burst out laughing. “So sue me, big guy. Just because I’m a lawyer doesn’t mean I’m always right.”
“Did you say something, Oliver?” Julie called over her shoulder.
“In a manner of speaking. Careful, there, so you don’t fall.”
“Guess I’ll see you tonight, then?”
“What’s for dinner?” he asked boldly.
“Meat loaf, Mace’s favorite. Roasted potatoes, the last of the garden string beans, and strawberry rhubarb pie, another of Mace’s favorites. We eat at six.”
“I’ll be there,” Oliver said, settling the hamper in the backseat of Julie’s Blazer. “Thanks for the picnic and thanks for the retainer.”
Julie laughed as she slipped the truck into gear and backed out the long driveway.
Life was so good, Julie started to sing. Not perfect, but almost perfect.
Recipe for Julie’s Alabama Stuffed Peppers
Start with six peppers. Use either yellow, orange or red. The green ones tend to be bitter.
1 pound ground chuck
1 pound ground turkey
1 egg
Salt and pepper to your taste
Handful of flat-leaf parsley
2 medium-size cloves of garlic
The only other ingredient you need is a one-pound can of Glen Muir fire-roasted crushed tomatoes.
Cut bottoms and tops of peppers off so pepper sits upright in roasting pan. Set bottoms aside.
In a chopper or food processor add the egg, garlic, the parsley and the bottoms of the peppers. Puree. It’s important that you use the bottoms of the peppers to give a full-flavored taste to this dish.
Mix chuck and turkey thoroughly, add contents from food processor, salt and pepper to mixture. Make sure that you blend it all the way for an even taste. You need to work it with your hands.
Fill peppers. If you have any of the mixture left over, depending on the size of your peppers, form into balls and freeze until the next time you are ready to make the peppers. What could be easier than setting the frozen ball into the pepper? Cover tops of peppers with the lids you cut off.
Pour the fire-roasted crushed tomatoes over peppers. Again, depending on size of peppers, the size of the pan and your personal taste for the tomato sauce, you can use it all or freeze the rest.
Bake at 350 degrees for one hour and thirty minutes. I cover mine for the first hour with tinfoil and remove it for the last 30 minutes.
For more of Fern’s delicious recipes from Gotcha!, please go to www.kensingtonbooks.com/fernmichaels or www.fernmichaels.com.
Fern Michaels talks about how she created the Sisterhood series, and the long road to publication . . .
Dear Readers,
When I found out that my publisher, Kensington Publishing, was going to reissue Weekend Warriors, the very first Sisterhood book, I got a severe attack of melancholy as I thought back to the beginning when Weekend Warriors was just an idea in the back of my mind. The idea at that moment in time was like trying to catch a firefly during the heat of summer. One minute I almost had it and then it would elude me. I kept trying to catch and latch onto the idea and make it work, but like that little firefly I guess it just wasn’t time for me to catch it. I struggled with the concept; women forming a union (that’s how I thought of it at the time) and righting all the wrongs of the universe. I told myself if I was going to think big then I needed to think not just big, but BIG.
The whole world (at least the women of the world) knows women are strong and can do whatever they set their minds to, especially a mother. By pep talking, I convinced myself a group of women like that could do anything they set their minds to. That’s when I had to define the word anything and how I could make it work with the book I wanted to write. The minute I did that, it was a whole new ball game. In other words, I caught the firefly. Once the idea was firmly planted in my head, I let the firefly go. I watched it flit about just the way the ideas were flitting around inside my head. The ideas came so fast and furious I had trouble keeping it all straight. When I thought I had it down pat, I put pen to paper and drew up an outline and sent it off to one publisher after another. The whole process took three years out of my life in the late ’90s. I can truthfully say the publishers were so unkind and brutal in their rejection of my idea I sat down and cried. After which I drank a whole bottle of wine to numb me to the brutal rejections. Even my agent at the time told me to get over it and go back to writing my “normal” books. Well, that was exactly the wrong thing to say to me at that point in time. Remember what I said earlier, women can do anything. I set out to prove him wrong. Bear in mind it was a male agent. He went the way of the firefly because if he couldn’t believe in me, what was the point of continuing the relationship?
I’ve belonged to a small club of five women for over twenty years now. You know, best friends forever, that kind of thing. We meet up once a week for dinner, usually at my house and talk ourselves out. We do a lot of moaning and groaning, grumbling and complaining about life, friends, what’s going on in our lives, and how we wish we could wave a magic wand and make things right. We all have fertile imaginations, and at times we can go off the rails, saying if only we could do this or that, make this right, send this one to Outer Mongolia never to be seen or heard of again . . . if only. I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but I think that’s where the seed was planted to write about a group of women trying to right the wrongs of the world.
We all know what it’s like to have to fall back and regroup, and that’s what I did after all those rejections. Nine in all. The negative words ricocheted around and around in my head. The reading world is not ready for this kind of book. Your regular readers will drop you and move on. Maybe sometime in the future the women who buy your books will be ready for something like this, but now is not the time. Here’s the one I liked the best, or should I say the least: You will absolutely throw your career down the drain with this type of book. I admit I was wounded to the quick, but then I remembered when I first started to write I sent one of my endeavors to the famous author Phillis Whitney, who was my idol at the time. She sent me back a note and told me not to quit my day job. I thought that was kind of funny since I didn’t have a day job. I was just a wife and mother trying to be a writer at the time. I didn’t quit then, and I wasn’t about to quit now.
I told myself I needed to be smarter in presenting my idea, and enlist the aid of true professionals. And who better than my little dinner club, savvy women friends who would understand what I was trying to do and who would support my efforts. Remember now, women can do anything they put their minds to. So with that thought I called for dinner at my house, and a sleepover. The reason for the sleepover was the wine we were going to drink, which by the way we never drank because when I explained what I wanted we all agreed we needed clear heads. We were all so high on just the ideas we didn’t need wine. But we did drink at least three gallons of coffee and never did go to sleep. I served breakfast. I have to say I never spent a more enjoyable, wonderful twelve hours in my life.
My own little sisterhood numbers five. Diane, Beverly, Susy, Stephanie, and myself. Back then, in the year 2000 when I seriously went tooth and nail trying to write the Sisterhood, we met up once a week, sometimes twice, at my house because I had more time to cook. Not that they couldn’t cook, but they held outside jobs, whereas I worked at home and they would come straight here from work. We filled my dining room with charts, sticky notes hung from the chandelier, my fireplace was festooned with pictures and more sticky notes. There were corkboards everywhere. My dining room was where we plotted and schemed and wreaked vengeance as I s
truggled to bring to life the Sisterhood. Susy came up with the word vigilantes and we ran with it. It opened up a whole new stream of do’s and don’ts. Female vigilantes! Boy, was that a whole new world to come to terms with, but I have to say, we were up to the task.
My day lady was very unhappy with what she called “the mess” in the dining room. She speaks fluent English, but when she’s upset or excited she mumbles and mutters in Portuguese as she points to the mess in the dining room. Finally, I asked her what she was saying. She just looked at the mess, then at me, and pointed to the sticky notes decorating the dining room and said, “Kill the bastards!”
Whoa!
Another emergency meeting was called where we agreed that the vigilantes would not kill anyone. But, as Beverly put it, there’s no reason you can’t make the villain wish he or she was dead. That certainly worked for me and the girls, and my day lady was satisfied but not happy with that decision, or with the chaos in my dining room that wasn’t going to go away any time soon. I’d chosen my dining room for our meetings, not that I don’t have an office, I do, but the dining room is close to the kitchen where the food, the wine, and the coffeepot are. It was a question of priorities. The bottom line was anything goes, but the vigilantes stop at outright murder. Another sticky note on the chandelier.
Gotcha! Page 25
