“We’ll have to send a letter to the tenants downstairs, telling them they have to relocate,” Isabelle said.
Nikki nodded.
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to do here. We close up shop and . . .”
“Go home,” Annie said flatly.
“Yes, dear, we’re going home,” Myra said. “Fergus is waiting for you, just the way Charles is waiting for me.” Myra turned and whispered to Annie, “Did you ask him?”
“Good Lord, no. In all the excitement, I forgot. I’ll do it right now. Ted! Can I talk to you a moment?”
“Sure, Annie. What’s up?”
“How would you like to be the new editor in chief of the Post? Maggie will be leaving after the first of the year. She suggested you take her place. She said you would do as good a job as she did. You don’t have to tell me right now. There is a considerable increase in pay and some handsome perks. You can hire Joseph as your right hand if you like, and he, too, will receive a considerable pay increase. Can you let me know by January first?”
“I’ll take it. I don’t have to wait till January first. Joe will come on board. Did Maggie really say that?”
“She did, plus a lot more. All of it good.”
“Well, damn,” was all Ted could think of to say.
Annie smiled as she linked her arm with Myra’s and followed the rest of the Sisters out the door, down the steps, and outside.
“I’m okay, Myra. I was just a little miffed back there. We’ll always be friends, right? By the way, I’m going to give all the girls an interest in Big Pine Mountain for Christmas. I already have a mountain. I don’t need another one. Lizzie is going to do the deeds and have them all ready for Christmas. This way, the girls can take their families and all the animals there whenever they want. If we’re lucky, they might even invite us from time to time.”
“Annie, don’t you dare ever change.”
“Okay, Myra, I won’t. You either.”
“Never,” Myra said.
Epilogue
Thirteen months later
Not much had changed at Pinewood or in the Sisters’ lives. Life was leisurely for Myra, Annie, Charles, and Fergus. Myra and Annie visited almost daily, weather permitting. Charles worked down in the war room, compiling what he was fond of saying were his boring memoirs. Fergus Duffy worked at his new job heading up security at Myra’s candy plant, a job he professed to love.
The younger Sisters called Pinewood on a daily basis to check in, and every Sunday they and Maggie and the guys made it over to have one of Charles’s home-cooked dinners and catch up on each other’s lives.
They always had presents for Yoko and Harry’s baby girl, because that was what seven godmothers did. Little Lotus Lily Wong was spoiled to the nth degree. Maggie and Gus had gotten married in June, only weeks after he was able to walk down the aisle. Maggie had asked Charles to give her away, and after their honeymoon, they had bought a farm property outside Richmond, where Gus was busy breeding dogs. They kept threatening to bring a puppy to give to little Lotus Lily, but so far Yoko had managed to head them off.
The weather hadn’t changed much, either. It was still snowing, just the way it had snowed a year ago to the day.
Myra stood at the back door, watching the snow fall. It was quiet outside, but not as quiet as it was in the house. It did smell good, though. Charles had prepared a huge pot of chicken noodle soup, and it was simmering and throwing off tantalizing aromas. Two large chickens complete with stuffing were roasting in the oven.
“You’re bored, aren’t you, Mom?”
Suddenly the kitchen was filled with a blinding white light. Myra whirled, her hands going to her throat for the pearls that no longer graced her neck. Standing by the table was her beloved daughter. “Dear God,” she whispered in a strangled voice. She wanted to move, but her feet were rooted to the tile floor. “Darling girl!”
“Mummy, don’t be sad. I worry about you.”
Myra reached for the edge of the counter. “You look so beautiful. I remember the day I bought you that red sweater, and you said you loved it. Why in the world would you worry about me?”
“I loved everything you ever gave me, Mom. I don’t want you to be sad. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Nik and Jack are going to be getting their new baby any day now. I am so happy for her. I stopped by her office for a chat before I came here, and she told me. She wants to tell everyone, to shout it from the rooftops, but she’s afraid she’ll jinx the adoption. But the real reason I stopped by was to give her Willie. She cried, Mom. She said her new baby was going to love Willie as much as I do.”
Myra did her best to absorb what she was hearing. “That . . . that’s wonderful. I won’t say a word, and I’ll act surprised. God in heaven, I miss you, Barbara.”
“I know. I miss you, too. You’re doing the right thing, you know. That’s what I came to tell you. I know how worried you are, but don’t be. It smells good in here. Charles was always the best cook. If I try, I can almost taste those brownies cooling on the counter.”
Tears rolled down Myra’s cheeks as she walked toward the bright light and the beautiful girl in the red sweater. “I need to touch you, honey. I need to feel you. Can I do that?”
“Let’s try, Mummy. Let’s both try real hard.”
Her arms outstretched, Myra waited until the girl in the red sweater moved. She heard the endearing words, “Oh, Mummy, Mummy, you feel so good, so warm, so soft, so motherly.”
“Oh, God, oh, God, you feel just the way you felt the day I held you in my arms for the first time. I can feel you. I can really feel you. I want to hold you forever, never let you go,” Myra sobbed.
The blinding white light waned, and Myra was left standing with her arms outstretched, tears rivering down her cheeks. The last words she thought she heard ricocheted inside her head. They were words Annie was fond of saying to her and they now were the words her spirit daughter was whispering. “You rock, Mummy.”
Myra sat down on the kitchen chair where her spirit daughter had been sitting. Was it her imagination, or did the seat still feel warm? She smiled as she wiped at her tears. Well, if she even had one doubt about what she was planning, that doubt was now gone.
Off in the distance, Myra heard the sound of a horn, then a second one.
Time to get moving.
Fifteen minutes later Myra and her entourage descended the steps leading to the war room, where Charles stood waiting. The large-screen TV was on so Lady Justice could preside over the meeting and the people seated at the table.
In the middle of the table was a package wrapped in brown paper and sealing tape.
All the chairs were full.
Charles descended the two steps from his dais and stood behind Myra’s chair. “Before we begin, I would like each of you to affirm that you will swear your loyalty to this little group. As I call your name, say aye or nay.
“Annie de Silva?”
“Aye.”
“Fergus Duffy?”
“Aye.”
“Nellie Easter Cummings?”
“Aye.”
“Elias Cummings?”
“Aye.”
“Pearl Barnes?”
“Aye.”
“Myra Rutledge Martin?”
“Aye.”
“Martine Connor?”
“Aye.”
“Since we’re all in agreement, let’s begin our meeting. Myra, open the box.”
Myra ripped at the wrapping and held up the box for everyone to see. She turned to Martine Connor and said, “I think you should do the honors.”
Martine Connor opened the box and withdrew a gold shield and held it up for everyone to see. “It’s the only thing I took with me when I left the Oval Office. I have one for each of you and one for myself.”
“Then, ladies and gentlemen, I think we are good to go,” Charles said happily. “That’s another way of saying, we are indeed back in business, and I, for one, couldn’t be happier.”
If you enjoyed HOME FREE, you won’t want
to miss Fern Michaels’s brand-new
stand-alone novel
Southern Comfort.
Turn the page for a special preview.
A Kensington hardcover on sale in May 2011.
Prologue
Atlanta, Georgia
March 2002
Detective Patrick Kelly—Tick, to his friends—signed out of his precinct and headed to his car, an eight-year-old Saturn with 120,000 miles on it. It purred like a baby when he turned the key. Then it sputtered and died. He’d given it too much gas and flooded the engine. He knew the drill—wait five minutes, try again, and if he was lucky, Lulu would get him home.
Sally, his wife, had named his car Lulu but never told him why. She’d just giggle and say it was a lulu of a car. Sally drove a ten-year-old Honda Civic. The only good thing about owning two old cars was not having to make car payments. Everything was about cutting corners, saving for college for the kids and doing without.
Tick sighed, leaned back against the headrest, but didn’t close his eyes because, if he did, he’d go to sleep. He’d worked a double shift because Joe Rollins had a ruptured appendix, and he’d filled in for him. He couldn’t wait to get home to Sally and the kids, take a shower, maybe eat something Sally had kept warm for him, and go to sleep with her spooning into his back. When he felt his eyelids start to droop, he turned the key, and, miracle of miracles, Lulu turned over. He was on his way to his family, whom he loved more than anything on earth. He loved them more than he loved his job, and he dearly loved his job. There were days when he hated the job, but the love always won out. He truly believed he made a difference. Where his family was concerned, there was no doubt, he loved them twenty-four/seven, unconditionally.
When he worked the late shift, he always let his thoughts go to his wonderful little family as a way of unwinding on his way home. He’d met Sally in the seventh grade, when she transferred from out of state. He fell in love with her that day when she stood in front of the class and said, “My name is Sally, and I’m new today.” He’d seen the sparkle of tears in her eyes and knew instinctively that she was afraid. Afraid the kids wouldn’t like her, afraid she’d make a mistake, and they’d laugh. He never did figure out where or how he’d known that, he’d just known it. Then, when he found out she had moved one street over from his own street, and they’d be walking to school at the same time, he’d almost done cartwheels. Later, Sally said she didn’t fall in love with him till they were in the eighth grade. He’d been heartbroken at that news but had covered it up well. She loved him, and that was all that mattered.
Married for fifteen years now, and he loved her as much as he did that day in the seventh grade when she introduced herself. He hoped and prayed nightly that his two children would find mates as wonderful as their mother when it was their time.
Sally Pritchard Kelly was the wind beneath his wings. She was the reason he got up in the morning, the reason he was still sane considering the fact that he was a homicide detective. Because of Sally and the kids, he didn’t carry his work home with him. When he walked in the front door of his mortgaged-to-the-hilt house, he was in another world. Worn, comfortable furniture waited for him. Sally always waited at the door for him, a smile on her face and smelling of a summer day. Always. He couldn’t remember a single day in all the years they were married that she hadn’t greeted him with a smile and a kiss on the lips. A real kiss that said she loved him, missed him, and now things were the way they should be because he was home. There would always be a warm meal in the oven if he was late. Didn’t matter how late he was. Sally would curl up on the couch and wait. Sally was the constant in his life.
Prettier than a picture, he always said. He loved the freckles that danced across her nose, loved the crooked eyetooth she refused to have straightened. There wasn’t one thing he didn’t love about his wife, because in his eyes, she was perfect. At this point in his reverie, even if he was so tired he couldn’t think straight, his eyes always misted up. He’d just curl up and die if anything ever happened to his beloved Sally. Well, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon; they had at least another fifty years to look forward to. Both he and Sally came from families where longevity was the rule.
Tick could feel his eyes start to droop again, so he pressed the stereo unit and turned up the volume. His and Sally’s favorite song was burned on every inch of the CD so he could play it over and over. “Mustang Sally.” He started to sing along with Wilson Pickett at the top of his lungs, Ride, Sally, ride!
He was two streets away from where he lived on David Court when he saw the strobe lights shooting upward to the sky. Blue, red, white—just like it was the Fourth of July. But it wasn’t the Fourth of July. He knew what the lights meant. Good cop that he was, he knew he was going to have to stop to offer any assistance if needed. Sally, the kids, and sleep would have to wait just a bit longer. He turned off the CD player and turned the corner, and his world came to a screeching halt. He saw the barricade, the yellow tape, the crazy arcing lights, the crowds of people, and too many police cars to count.
All parked in front of his house, in the driveway, on the lawn and sidewalk. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and lunged forward. He heard his name being called from all directions, arms trying to reach him, someone trying to tackle him. He plowed ahead, driven by an energy he didn’t know he possessed. And then he was in a vise grip, unable to move. The more he fought and struggled, the tighter the hold became. He looked up to see the face of the man holding him and was stunned to see his captain, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Easy, Tick, easy.”
Tick ground his teeth together. He had to show respect to the captain. “Did someone rob my house? Where are Sally and the kids? Captain, I asked you a question.”
“Tick . . . I . . .”
Rising onto his toes, Tick reared upward, loosening the hold his captain had on his arm. He sprinted forward as fellow officers rushed to prevent him from entering the house. He evaded all of them.
The house was deathly silent. The crime-scene personnel took that moment to stop what they were doing and stare at the man who looked like the wrath of God. “Where are they?”
Someone, he didn’t know who it was, pointed to the second floor. Tick took the steps two at a time. It looked to him like there were a hundred people in his small upstairs. He bolted down the short hall to his bedroom. In his life he’d never seen so much blood. He saw her then, his beloved Sally, lying in the doorway leading to the bathroom. He knew it was her because of her nightgown and robe. And her wedding ring. There was little left to her face. How could that be gone? Those beautiful freckles dancing across her pert little nose were gone. Her throat was a gaping hole. Tick’s knees buckled. Strong hands held him upright. “Ride, Sally, ride,” he blubbered.
“Get him out of here. Have the ME look at him.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Not now, Tick. Please,” his captain said.
“Where are my kids?” Tick roared.
“In their rooms. Tick, please, let us handle this. I’m begging you, don’t go there.”
“Get the hell away from me. . . .”
Tick found them huddled together in the closet, which was full of toys and balls. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood for two tiny little creatures who once carried his life’s blood. Now it was a river on a hopscotch-patterned carpet. He wanted to bend down, to scoop up his children, to hold them close, but they wouldn’t let him. He wanted to run his hands through his daughter’s curly hair, which was just like her mother’s but was matted with blood, and he couldn’t see the curls. He looked at his son and fainted dead away. He felt himself being carried someplace, heard voices he couldn’t identify, then he felt something prick his arm. Ride, Sally, rideeee.
The Governor’s Mansion
Tallahassee, Florida
August 2009
Thurman Lawrence Tyler checked himself in the mirror one
last time. He adjusted his Hermès tie, examined the crease on the French cuffs of his custom-made shirt, brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his imported Italian suit, inspected the shine on his shoes, and smoothed a thick white errant hair in place before stepping into the foyer, where Elizabeth waited. At six foot one, he had an athletic build, and sharp blue eyes that rarely missed a beat, and she thought her husband still as handsome as the day she had met him. Maybe even more so.
“Thurman, dear, you look as handsome as you did the day of our wedding.” Elizabeth Tyler, his wife of forty-six years and right hand of Governor Thurman Lawrence Tyler, looked every bit the elegant wife of a dignitary. Perfectly coiffed blond hair, her grandmother’s pearl earrings and necklace glowing next to her porcelain skin. A pale blue Chanel suit brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Both were tall, slim, and in excellent physical condition, and they appeared almost perfect as they scrutinized one another.
“And you, my dear, look like the innocent that you were.” Thurman studied his wife for a moment longer. She’d aged extremely well, unlike many of her friends. Elizabeth was always careful to protect herself from Florida’s punishing sun, never smoked, and rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of white wine. She played tennis three times a week, had a facial once a week, and her hair touched up every third Thursday of the month. Of course he wasn’t supposed to know this, so he pretended her blond locks were as natural as those of a newborn.
“You’re too kind,” she replied.
“Nonsense,” he responded.
Without another word, he escorted her to the elaborate dining room, where they had their breakfast. Each consumed two cups of coffee, his with skim milk and hers black. Both had one half of a Florida ruby red grapefruit with one slice of homemade dry wheat toast. After they’d consumed their meal, they took their daily doses of vitamins with a bottle of mineral water imported from Switzerland.
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