

## YOU HAD ME

## AT MERLOT

### A Glamorous Life Novel

### by

### Marley Gibson

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2014 Marley Gibson

All rights reserved.

Published by Excite-Lite Media at Smashwords, Inc.

Cover design by Patrick Burns

ISBN - 9781310622816

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Warning: contains mature content, adult situations, sexual references, drug and alcohol references, and language; 18+.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text or to join the author's newsletter list, please contact the following e-mail address: marley@excite-lite.com.

OTHER BOOKS BY MARLEY GIBSON

Resisting Temptation Series - Contemporary Adult Romance

CAN'T TOUCH THIS

CAN'T FIGHT THIS

TAINTED LOVE Collection with Chris Marie Green and Beth Cornelison

A Glamorous Life Series - Contemporary Adult Romance

YOU HAD ME AT MERLOT

HEAD OVER HIGH HEELS

SAVING FACE

ALL'S FAIR (coming soon!)

Ghost Huntress Series - Young Adult/Paranormal

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE AWAKENING

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE GUIDANCE

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE REASON

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE COUNSELING

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE DISCOVERY

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE JOURNEY

GHOST HUNTRESS: THE TIDINGS, A Christmas Novella

New Adult Books

RADIATE

POSER

Other Young Adult Books

Sorority 101 Series - writing as Kate Harmon

ZETA OR OMEGA?

THE NEW SISTERS

THE FORMAL

Non-Fiction Books

THE OTHER SIDE: A TEEN'S GUIDE TO GHOST HUNTING AND THE PARANORMAL, with Patrick Burns

WORTH FIGHTING FOR: MY LIFE AS A WORLD WAR II SPY, with Frank E. Weishaupt

CHRISTMAS MIRACLES, with Cecil Murphey

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS, with Cecil Murphey

## Wine #1

## The wine to get you

## through troubled or

## challenging times...

CHAPTER ONE

The End.

God, I love typing that.

It's not actually the end, though. It's the beginning of a whole other process. New hope. A completed birth.

I get a rush every time I finish a manuscript and get to write those two, precious words on the last page: The End.

It's the culmination of hours upon hours upon hours of creative brainstorming, plotting, crafting, editing, polishing, straightening, and a hell of a lot of words per minute.

I bite my bottom lip to tamp down my enthusiasm. A pure, adrenalin-induced high compliments of my own imagination, dedication to the words, and the need to have my characters' voices heard.

Yeah, writers are a little skitzo.

It's a good thing I have my own—infinitesimal—office here at The Oenophile, the wine enthusiasts' magazine where I work; otherwise the crusty, old, Armenian receptionist, Marie, who sits just outside my door, would wonder what I'm so pleased about. My elated joy certainly can't be from the adventurous reading and editing of this morning's four-page "Wines to Complement Fast-Foods" article that was submitted by a freelancer who just doesn't seem to care anymore. My eyes feel as if they're going to bleed. But I did my job, just like I always do every day in my senior copy editor position here at the magazine. I spend day in and day out editing and re-writing other people's words when all I want to do is write my own.

And I have.

Since I can't write my own articles on wine, food pairings, up-and-coming regions—even though I've been promised the opportunity—I write fiction. As of five minutes ago, the third manuscript is done. It's no longer snippets and ideas in my head—the ones that keep me awake at night or talk to me in the shower—but actual words on a page. And maybe one day soon, someone on their way to the Upper East side on the "6" train will be holding onto a rail with one hand while balancing open my book—or the digital version on their e-reader—with the other hand because they're so enthralled by the story, the pacing, the plot, and the plight of my characters.

I take a bite of what's left of my smoked turkey and roasted red pepper mayo roll up that has sat unnoticed for the last forty-three minutes. Writing only takes place during my lunch break which could fall anywhere between eleven a.m. and four p.m. the way my days go. Today, though, food could wait as I was in the blood fever to reach The End.

All I have to do now is get it to my critique partner for a quick read and then off to my agent for her review.

A Novel by Hale Martin.

Chills run up my spine in a delicious tingle that makes me feel like a teenager again, instead of on the uphill climb to fifty.

I save the document to my flash drive and then stash the tiny device into the pocket of my Prada messenger bag—a little something I bought as a pick-me-up after my divorce from Curtis—and then I relax in my chair for a moment as I finish the last of my soggy sandwich before pulling up the article on Niagara Vineyards and Canadian ice wines that I have to edit and upload to production before I leave today.

Ten minutes into editing, where this bone-headed writer actually wrote "furmentation" instead of the correct "fermentation," I let out a long sigh and sense a looming figure in my doorway.

"Hey Bernie. What can I do you for?"

Bernie's the magazine's managing editor... and my boss. He sneezes and wipes his runny nose on the sleeve of his tweed jacket. The man is never well, always catching—and spreading—whatever disease-of-the-moment is going around. I've sat here for five years trying to diligently copy edit articles and reviews—with the constant promise from Bernie of a promotion to wine features writer that never materializes—all while he's sitting in the next office hocking loogies into his garbage can.

"We need to talk, Hale."

"Right, I know you passed the Girl Scouts cookie sign-up sheet around the other day, but I just haven't had the—"

He stops me by holding up his meaty hand. "That's not it, Hale."

"All right." Inwardly, I relax a moment in relief that I'm not being forced to support his twin daughters who have no inclination to try and meet their sales quota of cookies for their troop. When I was a kid, I went door to door in my green uniform and badged sash, pulling a red wagon behind me down the sidewalk selling my own wares. My mother would have laughed at me had I asked her to do the work for me. Kids today.

"Take a load off," I say jokingly, and then motion to the chair across from me.

Bernie's such a worrier. He's all about bottom lines and budgets and you can bet your ass that he knows exactly where every penny within the company is going, how many subscribers we have, and the precise number of unique visitors to our website.

He's wearing that "we've lost an exorbitant amount of subscribers" scowl on his face.

"Look, Hale, there's no real easy way to tell you this."

I wave him off with my hand. "I know all about the letters to the editor from that crazy Grapes of Wrath blogger guy pointing out what he considers to be grammatical errors and inaccurate wine facts." I rummage on my desk for the thick print out of e-mails we discussed at last Monday's staff meeting. "What's his name? Uncle Choppy? Believe me, Bernie, he's no threat to the magazine."

Bernie's ruddy cheeks redden even more. "I'm not here to talk about Uncle Choppy the mad blogger."

"Okay," I say, feeling my pulse pick up slightly.

He leans forward. "Hale, effective immediately, your position here at The Oenophile has been terminated. Here's your final paycheck, including your unused vacation pay."

This is a joke. It has to be. "Are you kidding me?"

No response from him.

I mean, Bernie and I have bantered about in a teasing manner since I started working here to have something to do to keep me busy while my husband was working long hours. But then, I grew to love the chance to read about wines and varietals and regions and food pairings and what wine means to our lives. It became more than just something do to; it became my passion, primarily because the rest of my life was so lacking in it.

This can't be real. It has to be...

But the stern, staid look on Bernie's face tells me it is real.

"We no longer need your services here, Hale."

Suddenly, the searing pain in my chest is nearly unbearable as the meaning of his acrid words sink in. A drive-by shooting in the city's worst neighborhood couldn't possibly be as painful. I try to sip in a much needed breath, but my lungs aren't reacting. It's almost as bad as when my husband, Curtis, came home one night a year ago and said, "Hale, I don't make you happy anymore. Maybe we should split up."

"Wh-what?" I manage to sputter out to Bernie. Much the same reaction I had to Curtis.

Bernie passes over a piece of paper that starts "Dear Mrs. Fletcher..."

But no, I'm not Mrs. Fletcher anymore. Why plunge that knife in my chest, too? I'm Ms. Martin now, I think unnecessarily. Back to my maiden name. The words on the page in front of me blur as I try to blink at their meaning. Terminated? What did I do?

Bernie's gray eyes bear into me. "If you'd like to take a minute and read the letter, please go ahead."

I barely hear my boss' words over the pounding of my heart and the whooshing of blood NASCAR-ing to every major organ in my body. If Curtis were here, he'd tell me all about shunting and how stress exacerbates the production of proteins that can form clots in your arteries; talking to me like the cardiologist that he is. Why I'm thinking about this now, I have no clue. "Can you, umm, just sum up the letter for me, Bernie?"

I don't know where my words are coming from.

He clears his throat in a disgusting phlegm-filled way. Nausea covers my insides like a winter coat and I feel hot and sticky all of a sudden. Under my desk, my hands are shaking in my lap as I try to grasp what's happening.

"It's simple, Hale. You have violated Shay Publishing's policy 405 regarding the inappropriate and unauthorized use of Shay Publishing owned or leased property for the conduct of personal business."

Shay Publishing, a giant in the publishing world ate up our little magazine only two months ago, changing the way we do everything from ordering our coffee to what font we use for the magazine's masthead and the service provider that hosts our website. If there are new corporate policies, I'm certainly not privy to them at my worker-bee level.

"I don't understand."

I stare blankly at him as he continues. "A check of your computer system showed eighty-four megabytes of personal data belonging to you in the form of what appears to be fictional manuscripts."

A check of my computer? When? Why? How did I not know this? Did they sneak in here while I was in editorial meetings or out at a wine tasting in upstate New York? I want to laugh; but I feel the need to cry instead.

"But, Bernie, you know I'm trying to get published. Those are just files I have as backup." Right? That was okay, wasn't it? No, it's not.

He blinks. Then, he sneezes. A misty spew dances in the air between us and I flinch in disgust. I don't dare say "Bless you" since I'm thinking more like "Screw you."

"Policy is policy, Hale."

"I knew nothing of this alleged policy, Bernie. Couldn't you give me a warning or something? Write me up for disciplinary actions? I mean, I've been here five years! I'm a loyal employee."

"This isn't a matter of loyalty. It's a matter of disregard for company policy."

"One I wasn't aware of!" I snap out.

Bernie doesn't flinch. "I'll need your keys and your ID card."

"I just got an exceeds expectations performance review and a bonus. I just don't understand this. It seems so... minor. Don't I do a good job?"

He looks down at the desk unblinking. "You should pack up immediately and leave."

My heart continues to snare drum away and I swear I think they're going to have to call the paramedics to come administer some serious high blood pressure medication to me. Or some oxygen.

"I don't have a car, Bernie. I can't exactly haul five years' worth of stuff on the subway. I live all the way on the Upper East side." I hope my voice didn't really crack as much as I think it did. I'm too old to cry at work.

I squeeze my fist shut as the realization of this slowly seeps into my system. Fired. Terminated. Unemployed. I've never had this happen in my professional life. Wasn't I just promised a promotion to Dory Swenson's features job when she leaves to have her baby in March?

Bernie knocks me back to reality with another gusty sneeze. My nose itches and I feel the germs emanating from him, attacking me with their fingers of infection. I sneeze, too.

For Christ's sake. This isn't happening. It can't be. How will I support myself? This job is my only bread and butter; save for a small bit of alimony I get that barely pays the light bill in my apartment. What am I going to do without income?

Now, I feel as though the walls of my lungs are caving inside. The flow of air seems to have gone on strike, threatening to knock me out cold.

"This can't be the only reason," I say in my defense. "I've always done everything that's ever been asked of me, Bernie. You, of all people, know that."

Screwing his face up, he merely stares ahead.

"Come on, Bernie. This is trumped up and you know it. I've never missed a deadline or let a typo slip by me as I sit here editing everyone else's work. There's got to be more. What else is there?"

He looks to the door and sniffs hard. He must be allergic to controversy... or the truth, but I'm going to break him.

"Bernie..." I plead.

"Look, Hale. When Shay took us over, we were told to cut our overall budget by two and a half percent. Let's just say Marie was very helpful in thinking up a creative way to find these cuts with the caveats in the new Shay Publishing employees' manual."

A manual I barely remember receiving. Did I get one? Did anyone other than Marie? Okay, now I'm pissed. Marie, the Armenian Office Nazi. Marie, who acted nice to my face, told me of her own dreams of someday becoming a novelist. Must have been total bullshit. Or jealousy? I mean, I manage to write in my spare time and I have an agent. Surely she couldn't have been that vindictive to completely mess with my life like this. It's probably because I requested too many boxes of those cool Pilot G-2 gel pens in red to do my editing.

Fine.

I don't want to work here anymore.

I don't want to be around such conniving people no matter how much I've wanted to write my own articles for the magazine.

I'll find another way to do it.

With my knowledge of grapes, regions, and everything wine-related, I'll be fine. This isn't the only wine rag in town.

"I understand," I say, holding my tongue from lashing out and burning this bridge further. "I'm sure my salary level and benefits will take care of that two and half percent you need to reach."

Bernie won't make eye contact. "These things happen, Hale."

Message received. Understood. Loud and clear.

It's all about the bottom line. Pleasing the corporate master. Employees don't matter. Bernie and Marie will get theirs one day, too; they better watch out.

He stands. "I have some boxes for you."

"I'm sure you do," I mutter. How long has this been planned?

He exits my office and returns immediately with two cartons. I sit in utter shock and awe and I look down to see if perhaps I'm bleeding from career homicide. Nope. Just a spot of red pepper mayo on the front of my pants.

Bernie sticks his head back in. "You have thirty minutes."

There's no time to let this sink in or to fully comprehend what's swirling around me.

As I start loading a box, my heart aches for someone to hold me and tell me things are going to be okay. But that security and comfort disappeared when Curtis and I split up. Maybe he can come pick me up? No, he's probably doing rounds at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. That damn hospital, or as I like to call it, "his mistress." The one who broke us up.

Salty tears begin gathering over my eyes, but I will them not to fall. Hell no! Not yet. Not until I can get home. A real, hearty, dedicated oenophile would crack open that bottle of Sebastiani Chardonnay and drink it down with no swirling, no smelling, and no savoring. Only anesthesia. But right now, all I'm thinking about is stopping at Café Sabarsky on 86th and Fifth for one of their Hungarian caramel cakes... or twenty that would pair well with a MacMurray Pinot Noir or maybe a Portuguese port. Does it even matter?

While I'm piling my knick-knacks from over the years into the beat up Xerox paper box, my cell phone rings. I don't exactly have the time for idle phone shit-chat. However, my heartbeat triples from the already accelerated rate when I see the caller ID read out and the familiar Florida area code.

I reach for the phone with a shaky hand. "Hi Mom. Can I call you back in—"

"Hale, honey, it's your mother."

My first dulled reaction is "like I can't tell that," but I hold my tongue. It's not the time or the place, though. Also, I don't want to tell her what has happened as I sit here washed in shame. I could have prevented this. Why did I store my writing documents on my work computer? It was the comfort of the same job for five years and feeling like I had a home here. Well, Shay Publishing had other ideas. Stupid me.

"I know, Mom. This isn't really a good time," I say.

"Hale. I've got some bad news."

So do I, I want to say, but stop myself.

I'm going to be sick. I can't take any more. "It's not Daddy, is it?"

"No dear, but it's your GranAnna." She pauses so calmly at the mention of her mother. "She passed a couple of hours ago."

I let this sink in for a moment. I haven't seen my grandmother, Anna Hale, or GranAnna as we call her, in at least five years. She had to have been... what? Ninety-seven?

I'm flushed with memories of her warm kitchen filled with the scent of just-baked bread, her giant backyard bursting with odd flora and fauna such as orchids, pear trees, and scuppernong vines, and her oh-so-secret, always-locked attic at the top of her house that no one (not even my mother) was ever allowed into.

I choke on the remembrance of a simpler time when I was a little girl and all I cared about was writing stories for my family to read around the dinner table. Even though I wasn't very close with GranAnna, I feel that searing burn of regret and loss in my chest. Now, this sudden news finally forces out the pent-up hot and salty tears that are now streaming down my face. I don't know if I'm crying for my grandmother, my family's loss, or my own misfortune.

Or maybe it's my mother's comforting invitation that I need to hear now, more than ever. Words that are so sweet I can almost smell the magnolia blossoms over the long distance phone line.

"Come home, Hale."
CHAPTER TWO

"I can't face them. Not after losing my job," I say to my best friend and former sister-in-law, Meghan Fletcher, as she weaves through rush hour traffic to get me out to the Newark Airport. "My mom will start in with the whole 'move home, Hale' and 'we're so worried about you now that you're all alone' speech."

"Then don't tell them," Meghan snaps as she swerves the small Jetta to avoid a Yellow Cab. "Hey! Learn how to drive, you asshole, or go back to Kuwait!"

"Meghan! You're horrible."

"What? Like he can hear me." She tosses her long, dark hair out of her face. I've always felt a bit mousy with my goldy-brown shoulder-length hair, average figure, and unimpressive 34Bs next to Meghan and her model looks, Amazon height, and perfectly executed 38D boob job—a gift from her plastic surgeon boyfriend three years ago. "You're changing the subject, Hale. This is a very emotional period in your life," Meghan says, cutting across 42nd Street heading to the Lincoln Tunnel. She's ever the pseudo-psychiatrist—two years at NYU—although she bailed on the program and switched to Hospitality to become a sommelier. "You're newly divorced, freshly unemployed, and now your grandmother croaks. Those are the pressing issues."

"Thanks for the recap." I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. "Oh, and the sensitivity, as well. Why so crass, Meghan? I'm fragile right now."

She reaches over and punches me lightly on the top of my arm through the layers of winter clothes. "Don't give me that crap. You've never been fragile. You're a rock, babe."

Rock, huh? Pebble on the driveway of life, more like, I think, looking out the window at the slush and brown snow piled up on the busy New York streets. I usually find peace and serenity in the fresh fallen snow, but there's nothing appealing about the gross muck the plows have pushed into little sidewalk fortresses.

"Besides," Meghan says. "It's only a funeral. I've met your family and they're lovely. How hard can this be?"

Not as difficult as the last visit, I hope. That one had been heart-wrenching for all of us. And through it all, GranAnna had stood there, quietly watched and silently judging. Most of all, showing no feelings. She was never one to show me much affection or love. Or anyone, for that matter. It was like she was holding herself back for someone better who might come along.

I mentally flip through the card file of potential disasters waiting for me at Casa Martin and sigh. "Let me make this clear," I say to Meghan. "I love my family. I do. They raised me, fed me, housed me, and educated me. I am forever grateful for them, despite their quirks and weird ways."

"Everyone loves their family," Meghan interrupts. "Even people who say they hate their relatives love them."

"Right. It's just that... well..." How do I put this where I don't sound like an awful person? Then again, Meghan's known me for years. She'll be on my side. "They don't get me. I'm treated like I'm still this innocent, naïve, teenager they knew before I went off to college. Or worse, the sickly baby I was the first two years after my birth. They don't see me as a grown up woman with a life of her own."

"No one's parents ever see them that way. You've been to Thanksgiving at my house," Meghan says with a snicker.

"Yeah, well, at least your mother can cook. Mine must have skipped out on Home Ec in the 1950s. There's never anything fit for human consumption in the house. Or the food they do have is in over-sized packages from Sam's Club that have sat in the fridge for six months with a past due date. It's amazing my parents haven't contracted botulism. It's probably because they pray over every meal."

She scoffs at me. "Botulism doesn't come from rot; it's from a processing condition."

"Thank you Alton Brown for that Good Eats update."

Meghan waves me off, beeps the horn again, and swerves to the next lane. I hold on to the sissy bar for dear life. When her driving eases, I rub my head with my gloved fingers, feeling the headache that's starting to form in anticipation of what's to come. "Then, they'll comment on my appearance," I say with a slight moan. "They'll say I either look tired or sickly." All because I was born with a kidney infection, I've been considered ill my whole life.

Meghan frowns.

I don't stop, though. "Oh, and my father will say something to me about living in Manhattan. Bastion of terrorism. Thinks we should be walking around with gas masks because of 9/11. And of course, Mom will want to play cribbage in any down time and will beat me like a bad habit and celebrate like it's an Olympic gold victory against the USSR."

"The USSR was dissolved and hasn't existed since 1991, Hale."

Rolling my eyes, I turn to face Meghan and point my finger at her. "We can't forget the traditional ride around town."

Meghan lifts a brow my way. "The what?"

"We have to ride around the town—that I spent six years living in—where they point out everything to me like I've never been there. 'There's our Winn Dixie' or 'there's where the hurricane blew down the azalea bushes the town planted for Easter,' and 'that's where Cousin Nancy Jean's chiropractor lives' and on this trip, it'll be, 'and there's the cemetery where we'll bury GranAnna, next to Grandpa Jack.'"

Meghan slams the brakes hard and I'm launched forward before being snapped back by my seat belt. "What the—?"

"Deep, cleansing breath, Hale."

I collapse against the car window and breathe so hard it steams up the inside. Meghan's right, I need to calm down. I'm only making it worse.

She reaches over and ruffles my already messed up hair. "Babe, we all have to deal with stuff like that as our parents get older. Sure, it's annoying, but it's part of life. They probably don't know what to say to you as much as you don't know how to talk to them."

I sigh with great resignation. "You're right."

"The point is," she continues, "that you love them and you're going to be there for your mom during this tough time."

I can't over-analyze this. Not now. I simply have to get through the next four or five days and support my mother and not worry about being shoved out the door at work or what I'm going to do next to pay my rent. The alimony from Curtis is minuscule at best.

Suddenly, a new thought enters my weary mind. "Look," I begin. "There's no need to tell your brother any of this."

Meghan's blue stare pins me to the seat and she slams the brakes on to avoid rear-ending the cab she's been tailgating. "What do you mean 'don't tell Curtis?'"

I swallow hard. "He doesn't need to know any of... this." I wave my hand about like I'm demoing my life: the firing, the ushering out of the office, and now the duty of heading home—with money I don't have to spend—to pay last respects to an old woman I barely even knew or understood.

I don't need my ex-husband—who loves his job and his patients more than he ever loved me—feeling sorry for me or thinking he needs to throw money my way. I'll be fine for the time being once I get on unemployment. That is if Shay Publishing doesn't fight it for some reason.

Oh, God.

Bernie had tossed out all that official bullshit about breaking policies from the new parent company by having my personal documents. I was fired for "cause." Isn't that enough of a reason for me to not get unemployment?

I put my hand to my stomach and I feel like I'm going to retch up my turkey sandwich from earlier. It's unbelievable that a mere six hours ago, I was gainfully employed with a completed manuscript ready to send off to my agent. Now, I'm an unemployed loser stuck outside the Lincoln Tunnel breathing exhaust as I'm headed to Newark, New Jersey en route to Haven Harbor, Florida, for GranAnna's funeral.

A whole other world away.

I bite on my bottom lip to quell the annoying tears that threaten again. I bet a man wouldn't cry right now. Why wasn't I born a boy, like I was supposed to? Or was that just something GranAnna told me my whole life? If I were a guy, I could easily be tough. Nothing would bother me. I'd roll with those punches Meghan talks about.

But I'll admit it. I'm a raw, emotional woman. That's how God—well, okay Sarah and Sam Martin—made me. My heart hurts on so many various levels and I don't even know what kind of health care I have now to tend to my growing physical woes.

After another deep breath, I turn to Meghan. "Please don't tell Curtis. I don't need his pity."

Meghan tosses a sympathetic look my way. She takes her hand off of the stick shift to place on my knee. "Curtis won't pity you, Hale. He loves you."

"Loved," I say. "Past tense. Trust me, I'm a writer and I know."

"Come on, Hale—"

I feel my heart breaking all over again and crumbling against the walls of my being. There I am, living the moment out as though it had just happened. The cold, white boardroom with the two, hard-core female attorneys faced off across the shiny mahogany table. Neither of us spoke, but let the power brokers do the deed while we avoided eye contact. The division of property, the signing of documents, the change of name. And worst of all, the awkward hug at the end and Curtis telling me to "have a good life."

I had a good life with him.

I sniff hard, fighting back the flood of year-old memories. I don't need this. I can't think about the love Curtis and I shared when it was all obliterated by the scratch and swoosh of a pen across the divorce decree when we both so easily gave up.

"Let it alone, Meg, okay?"

"All right, babe."

Twenty minutes later, Meghan maneuvers the Jetta in front of the Delta Airlines terminal at Newark Airport, jammed with cars and taxis stacked three deep unceremoniously dumping off passengers.

"I hate dropping you off like this," she says to me. "Are you sure I can't park and come in with you?"

"It's okay," I say, hoisting my messenger bag onto my shoulder and reaching for the door handle. "You can't come to the gate with me anyway, thanks to TSA."

"Yeah, you know me," she says with a laugh. "I'm a risk."

"Well, I think you're a terror," I amend, smiling.

"You know I love you, Hale. Just try to relax and get through this. Don't worry about things here. When you get back, you'll find a new job with no trouble and your agent's going to sell your manuscript. Everything's going to be okay," Meghan says with a shine in her bright blue eyes. Ones that almost exactly match those of her brother's that I used to drown in for hours.

I shake off the memory of languid mornings in bed clowning around under the covers with my ex and instead step out into the January chill. Turning, I lean into the car to grab my suitcase. "Thanks for the ride, Meghan. Thanks for being there for me this afternoon."

She smiles. "What are sisters for?"

I nod my head. Meghan has been a dear sister to me, even though the State of New York says the familial tie was officially severed with the divorce decree. She's certainly been more of a sister to me than my actual one, Mary Evelyn—or Scary Evelyn as I refer to her—or my kid sister, Gilly. But then, Gilly has her own challenges in life that I can never possibly identify with.

There's a stab in my heart at the realization that my darling Gilly might not be at the funeral. She travels all the time in her job as a concert promoter, so there's no telling where she is today or if she's even heard the news of GranAnna's passing. I remember GranAnna loved Gilly most of all. Scary Evelyn was treated like a porcelain doll since she was the first grandchild. Me, the middle child, the utter disappointment, well... she ignored me.

A transit cop pounds on Meghan's hood, bringing me back to the here and now. "You gotta move this car, lady!"

Meghan waves at him with her gloved hand. Then, she reaches under her driver's seat and nabs a paper bag. "Yo, Hale. A little something for the trip."

I lean in and retrieve the package. Pulling out the bottle, I see it's a vibrant-colored wine that shimmers in the overhead lights of the terminal. "This is amazing."

"It's a 2003 Umani Ronchi." Meghan loves showing off her expertise. "Casal Di Serra Verdicchio. Like no other Verdicchio. It's got a rich texture and is made with partial barrel fermentation. You'll love it."

"I know! It wins the Tre Bicchere Three Glass Award from Italy's Gambero Rosso every year." I grasp the glass container, pressing it to my chest.

"There's a bar tool in the bag, too. You know, in case they don't have them down in the Redneck Riviera," she says, and then giggles.

"You've got to love Florida's panhandle," I say with a smile.

The transit cop is insistent and blows his whistle. "You in the Jetta! Move it now!"

"Call me," Meghan shouts as she pulls into the traffic flow.

I watch her car blend into the sea of red taillights streaming through Newark and I drag my rolling bag into the terminal. Carefully, I tuck the precious wine nectar into my suitcase, wrapped like a babe in a manger in the middle, hoping the baggage handlers don't do any damage to it. It's the only option since I can't exactly parade the bottle through security. I check in at the Delta kiosk for my flight to Atlanta that will connect with the one to Pensacola, Florida, and I'm ready to go.

In the never-ending line to weave through security, I place my belongings onto the belt, along with my boots, and calmly walk sock-footed across the dirty floor and through the metal detector. You'd think since they make us take off our shoes, they could at least vacuum or sanitize the floor every now and then.

Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz!

"Ma'am, could you step over here, please?" the security officer asks.

What's the problem? Did Shay Publishing call ahead and tell them I've been fired and not to let me through?

I've got to calm down and get a grip on my thought pattern.

"Is there something wrong?" I ask.

"You've been randomly selected for a more in-depth security check. Sit right there and a female officer will be over to assist you."

"Of course I was selected," I mumble. Can't hit the Powerball, but this, I get selected for.

A large, black woman in a tight uniform shirt that is challenging the integrity of her front buttons comes over and makes me stand.

"Hands to your side."

She wands me from top to bottom. The sensor goes off in the middle of my back.

"You wear an underwire bra," she announces loudly.

"Umm... yeah..." Not that I really need them, but I like the style of this particular bra. Knowing it's designer, I bite my bottom lip and wonder if I'll still be able to afford them. Or my nice, all-natural hair products. Or the twice-a-month manicure and pedicure. Or little things like paying for the electricity and cable... or food.

Who needs thoughts like these?

"I'm going to touch you now with the back of my hands."

"Okay," I say, blinking.

When her blue plastic gloved hand begins patting me on my breasts, across my stomach and over my thighs, I almost giggle that this is the most intimate I've been with another human in quite a while.

She steps back and glowers at me, but then says with such conviction, "You're fine, honey."

Am I? Not really.

In a bit of a fazed stupor, I meander to the gate and eventually file onto the awaiting MD88 with the rest of the passengers like cattle being herded onto an auction truck. I find my seat is 44F. Of course, it's the last seat on the plane. Leave it to Scary Ev—who booked my flight home before I could do it myself—to stick me in the ass-crack of the aircraft.

As I watch couples and families amble onto the plane, a large boulder settles on my chest, threatening to cut off my air supply. The pressure is overwhelming. I don't want to go on this trip. Not now. I need to be updating my resume, going to headhunters, and talking to my agent. Three years away from fifty—gasp!—and I'm single, unemployed, and a complete mess.

I dig through my purse and locate my Smartphone. There's still time to make a call before the flight attendants put the kibosh on the use of electronic equipment, if they even still do that. I scroll through the saved numbers until I reach the one with the familiar 415 area code. I press send and hold the phone to my ear, praying that my frenetic heartbeat will reduce its volume long enough for me to talk to my little sister, whom I haven't connected with in what seems like forever.

On the fourth ring, I hear, "You lookin' for Gilly? You got her! Well, her voice mail. I'm either on the road or in the club. Leave a message and I'll buzz you back in a manizzle."

God, she's such a pop culture hipster.

I sip in a breath for fortification. "Hey, Gilly. It's Hale here. I'm sitting in a big bird on the runway headed to the south forty." I sigh long and hard and get serious. "Hey. You know GranAnna died, right? You are going to be in Haven Harbor for the funeral, aren't you? 'Cause I can't make it if you're not there, Gilly. I-I-I need you."

Just then, a large businessman with a briefcase overflowing with newspapers and a cell phone, pager and iPod on his belt buckle like some sort of corporate gunslinger takes the seat next to me, nodding and leering at the same time.

"Well, hey there, little lady. Looks like we're seat mates."

Oh please! This guy cannot hit on me.

I turn and press my forehead against the cold window and stare out at the baggage handlers chucking suitcases onto the conveyor belt like they weigh nothing. I continue in a low voice with my phone message. "Look, Gilly, I know 'home' isn't exactly the place you want to be because of everything, but I really need you there. It's going to be the Scary Ev's show and her constant performance of 'I do everything for Mom and Dad' and there are going to be cousins and relatives we haven't seen since puberty. I know you've got your fab-u-life on the Wrong Coast, but..." I stop and sniff. Dammit. I didn't want to cry on the phone. "I... I need your support... because, shit... my heart still aches for Curtis and I know Mom's going to be walking around whispering the word 'divorce' like it's a curse. And today of all days when I needed him... I lost my job... I mean, fired... and I don't know what I'm going to do... and now GranAnna..."

The snickering from Mr. Businessman makes me freeze up and halt my conversation.

"Sounds like someone's having a shit-storm of a day," he says to me.

What a jerk! I'm sure he'd never get fired with his stay-in touch portable office.

I straighten up and try to clean up the emotional car wreck I've just left on my sister's voice mail. "Gilly, you know, please ignore everything you just heard. I don't know what I was saying. Probably the pressure of going home, seeing the family, and dreading GranAnna's funeral. You take care of yourself and do what you have to do. I'll be fine. Okay? Forget this call even happened. Love you."

Hastily, I click end and power down the phone. My heart aches, yet feels hollow from the day's activities. I'm spent, like I've run the New York Marathon in five minutes flat.

"You know, you could have reviewed and edited your message before you hit send," Mr. Businessman says to me.

"I'm sorry?" Why is he talking to me? I pull my headphones out of my bag and plug them into my now-off phone. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

"With technology as it is," he says, speaking up, "you have the choice of reviewing a voice mail before actually ending the call. Most systems have the option of a review, deletion or editing, so see, you didn't have to send a message you didn't want to. Especially when you seem to be so brittle right now."

"Brittle? You think I'm brittle?" I snap out. Okay, Hale, get a grip. I'll be sitting next to this guy for two hours. Where is that flight attendant with the drink cart? I know airplane wine is usually the equivalent of fly spray in taste, but I'll take what I can get.

"And you're on edge, too," the guy continues. "You know, I'm a pharmaceutical rep. I can suggest a few pills that might settle your nerves. Is it a fear of flying thing or a manic-depressive thing? I hate to see a beautiful woman upset."

Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ! Aside from Curtis, who is incredibly gorgeous to me, all the other men who've ever hit on me (it seems) have been fat, homely, or macho balls of crap completely full of themselves. This guy is no exception.

Mr. Businessman reaches for my hand sitting on the arm rest and pats it in a friendly way. He has officially invaded my personal space. "It'll be okay. Just tell Howie what's bothering you."

You are, Howie.

I try to move my hand, but it's no use. "The length of this flight won't suffice in getting out all that's bothering me, Howie. I'm a very private person, but thanks for the offer all the same."

I suppose in some parallel reality, Howie might be considered nice looking with his thinning light brown hair and chocolate eyes, but I'm far from interested. I'm still in love with my husband—my ex-husband, that is—with his crystal blue eyes and thick black hair that I used to love running my fingers through.

"I see you're not married," Howie comments. "Maybe we could have dinner together when we get to Atlanta. I'm staying at the Hilton downtown."

This time, I jerk away my hand with more gusto. "Thanks, Howie, but I'm only connecting through Atlanta. I'm on my way to a funeral."

He sits back, as if burned, and nods. "Have it your way. I'll have you know I was Pfizer's top sales guy last year, thanks to Viagra. You don't know what you're missing."

I don't know what that has to do with the price of tomatoes, but I smile politely. "I'm sure I don't." I reboot my phone and click on the music player icon. I cue up the Tiesto ClubMix I downloaded this afternoon and close my eyes to escape into the rhythm and beat of the trance and electronica before we take off.

In my mind, I relive the events of the afternoon. The surprise. The humiliation. The expulsion. And then, the phone call. Through all of that, I haven't even had time to grieve for a woman I haven't seen in years, but in the depths of my soul, I wonder at my own loss and how I'll ever overcome this. How will I manage to get back on my feet? I seem to be some sort of ship that is lost at sea with no direction, no engine, and no sail.

The flight attendant reminds me of my destination over the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentleman, as soon as you all get seated, we can be underway on our flight to Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International."

Then Pensacola.

Then to Mom and Dad's house in Haven Harbor.

Home.

For whatever awaits me.
CHAPTER THREE

"There she is!" my mother, Sarah Hale Martin, shouts out to me as I emerge from the gate area and past the TSA checkpoint for departing travelers at the Pensacola Airport.

Mom is shorter than I remember and a little bit chubbier, but I'd recognize that face anywhere, even after five long years. It's nearly the same face I see in the mirror every morning, only Mom has more wrinkles and laugh lines.

I tug off my headphones and leave them cradled around my neck as I wave to my parents. I feel like death on a cracker and probably look like something that was rode hard and put away wet. Both ridiculous sayings of my father's that I am now mimicking in my old age.

My father, Sam, stands behind my mother, wearing his maroon Shriners windbreaker. I'm surprised he's not wearing the fez, too. He's aged significantly in the time I've been away from them. I mentally calculate that he's a ripe old eighty years old, although he's nowhere near being a hobbling senior citizen. He holds my mother's seventy five year old hand just as he's done my whole life.

"There's my Little Kid," Dad says as I approach. He releases my mother and pulls me to him, crushing my messenger bag between us. He holds me so tightly that I literally feel his strength transfer over to me. He's always been a magic elixir and touchstone in my life.

Hmmm...forty-five years old and I'm still his Little Kid.

I breathe deeply and smell his Old Spice cologne like the familiar friend it is. His beard is a bit scratchy, but it's the best thing I've felt in a long time. He pulls back and plants a big wet kiss next to my lips. "It's good to have you home, Hale."

"Thanks, Dad." I turn to my mother in her pink track pants and aqua-colored fleece jacket. "Mom, I'm so sorry this is what brought me home."

She reaches up and hugs me to her. She smells of Estee Lauder and her freshly-dyed blond hair that is sticky with too much hair spray. I see some things never change.

Mom sets me back. "Your GranAnna would've been happy to know you came home."

"Was she..." I trail off, wondering how to ask this. "She didn't suffer, did she?"

Mom smiles, the countless wrinkles around her eyes fall into place. "She went in her sleep. We should all be so lucky."

Dad points down at my rolling bag. "You have more stuff than that?"

"No, this is it. I wasn't sure what to bring. I figure if I need anything, there's always the mall."

"Oh," Mom exclaims. "They've just built a new one near our neighborhood. Every store imaginable. You wouldn't believe it. We've got Best Buy, Barnes and Noble, Steinmart, and a brand, spanking new Publix grocery store."

I snicker to myself. Like Manhattan doesn't have every store imaginable all on one tiny island. Kudos, though, to Haven Harbor for upgrading into a new century.

Dad takes the suitcase from me and puts his arm around my shoulder as we turn toward the escalator. I notice Mom is limping slightly, so I slow down and let her go ahead.

"Your ankle bothering you?" She fell up an escalator at the mall twelve years ago and it's troubled her ever since.

"Well, the cold weather doesn't help," she explains. "I have a new Reiki Master, though, and she's been working out some of the kinks. Particularly when it comes to my aura. She's been strengthening my shields and empowering my chakras. It raises the vibrations throughout your body and then your muscles and bones perform better."

What the...

My mother has a Reiki Master? "Since when do you strengthen your shields and empower your chakra?"

Mom puts her sunglasses on—even though it's dark outside—and pulls her fleece tightly across her chest. "Oh, it was on one of those trashy TV shows I can't get enough of. I've really opened up my mind, Hale."

"Your mother loves her television," Dad pipes in.

"But I—"

"I bought this jacket with the gift certificate you gave me for Christmas, Hale. How do you like it?" Mom asks.

I close my mouth from trying to speak and swallow the guilt of merely shuffling off a static, impersonal gift certificate to the people who birthed me. Yet, Mom seems happy. "I think it's great. L.L. Bean?"

"No, it's from the J Jill catalog," she says proudly. "It took me seventy-five years, but I'm finally hip, don't you think?"

She laughs heartily until she begins to cry for no reason. Well, okay, there's a reason. Dad and I stop and gather her into our arms. She quivers underneath us and I know it's more from the embarrassment of strangers in the airport seeing her like this than the physical act of mourning her mother's passing.

"Come on, old lady, let's get you to the car." Dad kisses her on the head as he teases her.

My parents' fifty-five-year love and dedication to each other astounds me. My soul aches for what they have together. Respect, friendship, companionship. I thought I'd had that with Curtis, too, but the hospital always came first.

I quell down the emotional lump threatening to strangle me and follow my parents out to the parking lot where their shiny, new Cadillac sits.

"New wheels, Sam?" I ask.

"It's my Gator-mobile," he says as he stashes my suitcase into the trunk.

There's a big University of Florida alumni sticker in the back window and a Korean War Veteran license plate attached to the back.

My parents met in the 50s in Gainesville after Dad served in the Navy during the war. After a June graduation and July wedding, they moved to Boston for him to take a job with Seaward Shipping. Mary Evelyn and I were both born there, ten years apart. Dad loved being a harbor master in Boston, but when the weather became too harsh for his bursitis, we moved south and he became the harbor master for the Port of Pensacola. Besides, it was also important for my mother to be near her parents in Haven Harbor, since Grandpa Jack had Alzheimer's and was fading fast. Mary Ev was twenty-two and setting off on her own in Manhattan and I was twelve, adjusting to the weirdness of entering junior high school as a stranger, an outsider, and a Yankee. When Gilly was born on my first day of eighth grade, I at least felt like I had a comrade in arms.

My mother breaks my reminiscence with her cool hand on my arm. "Are you okay, Hale? You look jaundiced. You're not coming down with something, are you?"

I shake my head. "I do not look jaundiced, Mom, honestly. I'm fine. Just tired. It's been a long day and I had to rush around to get down here."

"And we appreciate it," she says sweetly, with a mirror of sadness apparent behind her eyes. I can't believe how "normal" she's acting in light of taking care of her mother for so many years and now not having her in her life.

I try to make idle conversation. "So how is everything with you guys?"

Mom sighs. "Too bad it's dark and you can't see all the damage still from Evan, Denise, and Kristina. I don't think we'll ever bounce back from those storms."

Ah, the hurricanes of past years. Mom is on a first name basis with these storms as if they're troublesome family relatives who visited, stayed too long, and left a mess for others to clean up.

I blink into the darkness, trying to show some interest in my surroundings, but I'm just too exhausted. It's after ten p.m., central time, and I know both of my parents are more than likely tired, as well. "Why didn't Mary Ev come pick me up?"

"Mary Evelyn's hosting her monthly Bunco party tonight," Mom says matter of fact.

Oh, sure. Because that's so much more important than seeing your sister after five years. Typical. Mary Evelyn and her ridiculous dice game she and her friends get together and play like a cult. It's just an excuse to ditch the spouses and kids so they can drink margaritas and mint juleps and break their South Beach, Paleo, or Atkins regimens. I guess I shouldn't deny her such a simple pleasure, especially when Meghan and I make such an effort to attend wine tastings regularly.

Dad opens the car door and helps Mom into the back.

I move in to stop her. "No, let me sit there."

"It's all right. I can stretch out." She groans getting in.

Dad nods and plops a Navy Veteran cap on his head that's been sitting on the front seat. "Get in, Little Kid."

I slide into the car, smelling the rich scent of the new leather interior. I stow my messenger bag and purse on the floorboard next to my feet. Dad pulls out of the parking space and steers toward the pay booth. I try to give him money, but he won't have any of it. I sigh, guiltily, because I'm glad he didn't accept it. With no job now, I need to watch every nickel, dime, and quarter.

Out on I-10 headed east toward Haven Harbor, my dad turns on talk radio. A repeat performance of Rush Limbaugh's earlier show. I try to block out the blathering and focus instead on my mother in the back as she details GranAnna's last moments.

"I spent all day with Mother until she threw me out and told me to go home. She said she was tired of being a burden on her family. I told her—"

"It's all a bunch of Barbra Streisand!" Limbaugh calls out over the radio waves.

My dad laughs. "That's right! You tell 'em, Rush."

I turn in the seat and glance at Mom laid out in the back. "So, were you with GranAnna at the end?"

Mom clears her throat, perhaps it's too emotional, but I can't really tell in the darkness of the car. "No, I got to the nursing home this morning right after. They said she went to sleep after the nurse bathed her." Mom pauses for a moment and then says, "She really hated that place, you know? She always prided herself on living on her own after my papa died. But she had deteriorated, Hale, like you wouldn't imagine."

"How so?"

Mom sighs. "Her mind was still sharp as a tack, but her body failed her. She couldn't do anything for herself. She couldn't walk, couldn't feed herself, and couldn't go to the bathroom without a nurse. It was no way to live. I think she finally told her mind to give up."

I stare out of the car at the highway whizzing by me. Ironically, I can understand what Mom is saying. GranAnna was always a strong-willed person, so with her body atrophying, it had to have been frustrating. She never did like it when doctors ordered her around or tried to prescribe too many pills to her. GranAnna's parents had been against modern medicine, thinking prayer, instead, was the best cure for anything that ailed you.

Mom sniffles a bit and reaches for a Kleenex out of the box sitting next to her. "Maybe we'll talk about this later, sweetie. It's still too fresh now." She blows her nose and then says, "You know, Millard Hicks' son was arrested for bootlegging?"

I shake my head. "I don't know who Millard Hicks is, Mom." Much less his son. She talks to me like I still live here and keep tabs on the locals and people I went to high school with. When I left home, I. Left. Home.

"His son is the one who was two years ahead of you in school. The one with the cleft lip, remember? Millard owns that catfish restaurant on Highway 111. You had a senior dinner out there before graduation."

Did I? Maybe I did. I've never been a fan of the bottom-feeding catfish when there's so much better seafood available to eat. My memory isn't what it used to be now that I'm on the uphill climb toward fifty. Fifty years old in only five years. Jesus. It's depressing acknowledging it in my head. What a picture of an American woman I am: forty-five, divorced, unemployed. I'm the epitome of a bad cliché. Next thing I know, I'll be having hot flashes and growing dense black hairs out of my chin and upper lip.

A shoulder tap brings my attention back to Mom. "Here, read this, Hale."

I take the slick pamphlet she offers, but can't make out the words or pictures. "It's too dark, Mom. I'll read it at home."

"Sam, show her the light up there," Mom insists. "You've got to see this. It's from my spiritual advisor. She's helping me cope with Mother's death among other things."

Dad takes his hand off the wheel and punches an overhead button that illuminates the entire front seat. The car swerves a little bit and I reach for the sissy bar, trying to slow my rapid-fire heartbeat over the prospect of dying in a ditch on the interstate where all I'll be remembered by is a make-shift memorial cross and dead flowers on the side of the road.

I glance at the brochure, entitled The Dharma Within. This is not my mother's typical modus operandi. She's a good, Southern Baptist girl, raised on fire and brimstone sermons, potluck suppers, and communions of grape juice and crackers. Next, I'll see a red yarn Kabbalah bracelet on her arm and learn that she's taking Bikram yoga.

Mom rubs the back of my hair. "Read it out loud, I want your father to hear this."

He's still mumbling his agreement with Rush Limbaugh, so I reach over and turn the radio down a smidgen. "Dharma means the Ultimate Truth inside us. The full expression of who we really are. Our higher self. The god or goddess within. Our divine unlimited human potential."

Okay, this is simply weird. GranAnna is dead and the one time I'd think Mom would turn to the congregation of the First Baptist Church of the Good Shepherd, she instead turns to a Dharma Reiki Master?

Dad asks what I'm thinking. "What the hell does that mean, Sarah?"

"Sam, let her finish, for heaven's sake."

I continue reading as my parents bicker. "Reiki Master Dharma Louise-Ann..." I pause. "Louise-Ann?"

"Keep reading," Mom prompts.

"...Louise-Ann helps to invoke and call forth your full divinity for complete acceptance of obstacles in your life. She will give guidance to help you live a spirit-led, abundant life and identify where you're not in the flow with the Spirit. Reiki Master Dharma Louise-Ann will remove whatever is blocking you from feeling and experiencing the true emotions of life that lead to joy, love, abundance, health, and passion."

My father snickers. "Passion, eh? I like the sound of that."

"Sam!"

I rub my temple with my fingers, pressing at the nagging pain that's persisted since wheels down in Pensacola. "Mom you're not seriously paying someone to help you grieve, are you?"

She reaches forward and snags the brochure from me. "To each his own, Hale. Don't judge me. I'm still your mother and will bend you over my knee."

I can't help but laugh. "I'd like to see you try."

Dad tilts his head my way and laughs as he waggles his eyebrows at me.

"Can I turn off this interrogation light now?" I ask, not waiting for them to say I can or can't.

Mom leans forward. "You know, Hale, with the light on like that, I can really see your grays. You should get them touched up when you get back to New York City." She sits back and sighs. "You're just like me and Mother. We both started going gray in our late thirties. Next thing we know, you'll go through The Change. Then that'll mean no more grandbabies for me."

I flail my skull a bit on the headrest and sigh... hard. Before I can let the multitude of emotions stirring up in my belly take flight to my brain, my father slams the brakes on.

"Samuel Martin!" Mom screams.

"What?"

"You almost sent us to heaven along with Mother."

"Clam down, Sarah," Dad says, his version of calm down. It's the seafarer in him. He switches lanes to get around the slow pulp wood truck that caused the commotion. "I've maneuvered vessels a lot bigger than this one with no problem."

"Your father, Hale. The retired harbor master who thinks he can treat everything like it's a traffic jam in the Port. I tell you what. His reactions aren't as snappy as they used to be, are they, Sam?"

Dad looks at her in the rear view mirror. "Whatever you say, my love."

Mom strokes the back of my head again. "On second thought, sweetie, I have some color rinse under the sink at home. We can take care of those grays in a snap."

My mom's "rinse" is that cheap stuff she buys at Walgreen's that smells to high heaven of ammonia. Plus, her hair is much, much blonder than mine—a real vibrant champagne color. If I put that stuff on my scalp, I'd look like a skunk.

Mmm... I could go for some champagne, though. It's a misnomer that it's only for special occasions. The bubbliness has actually been scientifically proven to uplift spirits in times of trouble and damn, do I need that.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don't care that the bottle of wine Meghan gave me at the airport—that somehow made it past the TSA screeners without being confiscated—isn't the proper temperature because I intend to imbibe on it as soon as I get to my room. The tang of the vintage is what I need to help me enjoy something this wretched day. I was denied that inalienable right to go out and get smashing drunk after losing my job. I think I'm entitled to a nice glass of wine to ease my burden.

Then, looking out the window again, I wonder if Reiki Master Dharma Louise-Ann can fit me into her schedule. Maybe her medicine is stronger than what my PCP can provide. Who knows?

Knowing what lies ahead, I might need the strength to make it through the next few days.
CHAPTER FOUR

"Just like it was the last time you left it," my dad says, pulling the Cadillac into the long driveway of 2444 Hitchcock Terrace.

Home.

Not really, though. Home is my one bedroom on the Upper East Side. The one I sublease from my published writer friend who couldn't take Manhattan anymore and moved to a small town upstate on the Canadian border. The apartment where I've made camp since moving out of the trendy SoHo loft Curtis and I shared for nine years. The one I insisted he keep.

This house is... well what is it now? What does it signify? A place to visit? A safe haven from life's storms?

In the brightness of the full moon and chunky stars above, I peer across the well-tended lawn with the perfectly manicured rhododendrons. Mom always did have a green thumb. Me, I kill anything that's not of the plastic or silk variety.

The house looks smaller than I remember. Dark brick with white trim and shutters. A four bedroom, two story, cookie cutter house, just like the many others in the Fox Hollow Ridge development of Haven Harbor, Florida. Sarah and Sam bought into "Phase One" back in 1980 when we left Boston. Today, the community boasts its own Methodist and Baptist churches, a pre-school, elderly community center, and the obligatory Wal-Mart Super Center open twenty-four hours a day.

Last time I was here was when my father had his retirement party from the Port Authority five years ago. We'd opted to stay at a local hotel because family friends were staying at the house. That and Curtis and I wanted some privacy, away from the family madness. He had actually been a good sport about getting away from the hospital and we'd had fun being together.

That was then. This is now.

Dad eases out of the car and helps Mom from the back seat before going to the trunk to retrieve my case.

"Let me do that, Dad," I say. He shouldn't wait on me.

"Sam, did you feed the dog before we left?" Mom asks. "I hear him in there scratching at the garage door."

"I fed him, Sare."

"Did you?"

"I said I did."

"Well, then why is he pawing like that? It's only going to leave marks on the inside and we'll never be able to sell this house," she snaps with frustration lacing her speech.

Cujo, our half Beagle, half German shepherd is the king of the house at eighteen years old. He's a runt of a dog body-wise with the snout, ears, and paws of the larger breed. Just adorable. I can hear him whimpering, as if he knows I'm here and someone will actually play with him.

"What do you mean, 'sell the house,' Mom?" I ask, hoping the whole cul-de-sac can't overhear our banter.

She waves her hand in the air and then digs for her house key. "Oh you know... someday." She loops her arm through mine and we walk on the gravel path toward the front door. "Sam, go check on that damn dog!" she shouts over her shoulder.

"Shhhh! You'll wake the Montieros and the Billinghams." Dad follows along, trying to drag my case over the uneven path. It would make much more sense for them to ditch this old design of the early 80s for a safer, smoother sidewalk. One that won't threaten to trip up old people and break their hips.

There's a wreath made of plastic apples and pine cones on the front door. Not a leftover Christmas wreath, but a welcoming one. Mom has had a wreath on the door as long as I can remember. Primarily because my cousin, Nancy Jean, makes them and sells them at local arts and craps fairs and on her overly advertised Etsy site.

Dad buzzes by us and Mom fumbles for the light switch. The house smells of butter and sugar and I figure Mom spent a good part of the day baking a pound cake. GranAnna's recipe, of course. Mom always makes GranAnna's pound cake when something's bothering her.

"We're putting you in your old room, Hale," Dad sings out. He tromps up the open staircase, headed to the top floor and the bastion of my teenage years.

Suddenly, I hear the clickety-clack of paws on the kitchen tile and next thing I know, there's Cujo, licking at my pants.

I bend to scratch his over-sized, floppy ears. "Cuuuujo-wuuuujo. Where's my good boy? There he is." He licks my cheek and I feel overwhelmed with love, affection, and home. "How is the puppy? How. Is. The. Puppy?" I rub him profusely when he rolls over on the floor for a good belly scratch.

Cujo joined our family as a tiny puppy when someone abandoned him behind the church dumpster. The minister put out a plea to the congregation and my parents answered the call. They fell in love with him the moment they saw his face. And even though I didn't live at home, he's always been referred to as "Hale's puppy" because he bonded with me instantaneously.

"You must be starving," Mom says from the next room. I walk through the den, past Dad's new leather Barcalounger, into the spotless, all-white kitchen. "Those airlines are so cheap these days. I saw on '60 Minutes' where American Airlines saved over a million dollars per year just by taking the black olives off their in-flight salads in first class. Clara Billingham, next door, said you're lucky to get a soda." Mom goes to the fridge and pulls out a huge item wrapped in gold foil. "You know, they can't even serve you peanuts any more on flights because of all the nut allergies? Who ever heard of nut allergies?"

I hoist myself up onto one of the barstools at the counter. They're the ones Dad made back in the 60s from barrels and cushions from an old boat. "A lot of people have nut allergies, Mom. My friend, Meghan, is allergic to pine nuts."

Mom looks up and scrunches her face. "Oh, Meghan's just your 'friend' now?"

I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean my elbows on the counter. "Meghan and I were friends before Curtis and I started dating, you know that. I couldn't very well cut ties with her simply because her brother and I got divor—"

Mom turns her back before I can finish the word. "Fiddle-dee-dee," she says, pulling a plate from the cabinet.

Who is she? Scarlett O'Hara?

She clears her throat and eyeballs me with gusto. "We don't say the 'd' word in this house."

Ah yes...I forgot. The three unmentionable, whisperable words in the Martin household: cancer, Catholic, and divorce. My mom was raised to be against all three.

GranAnna defeated breast cancer in her fifties, but we were never allowed to acknowledge it or commend her on the battle. Scary Evelyn's first husband had been a Catholic (i.e. "heathen" in Mom's eyes) and had died in a car wreck. Leave it to me to pull up the rear with the third taboo word. Divorced. And from a doctor, no less, the ultimate failure.

I certainly can't tell them I lost my job earlier today.

I watch Mom move around the kitchen in a buzzing firefly of activity. The clock over her shoulder reads a little past eleven, but she's wide awake. And, in full hostess mode.

Changing the subject, she says, "I've got potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, tomato slices, and corn muffins."

"I'm not particularly hungry." My stomach growls its disagreement.

Mom pushes her blond hair out of her eyes, although it wasn't really there to begin with. "I insist. People have been bringing stuff over since around five-thirty and we've got to start eating it or else it'll go bad. Come on, sweetie."

I slide off the stool and walk around to the fridge to view the containers inside. I might as well eat. My nausea over the day's activities has subsided a bit and I find myself wanting to stuff myself until the pain, confusion, and betrayal from work is gone.

"I've got a Virginia honey-baked ham. The Montieros gave us a gift certificate for Christmas and so I just had to use it," Mom says. "I thought this would be a good time since the house will be full of people and they'll need to eat." She pulls at the foil to reveal a large, pink mound of meat.

My queasiness returns instantaneously. I can't remember the last time I ate ham. Curtis hates ham, so I cut it out of my life. Then again, I don't know when I had pork for that matter, save the magnificently grilled pork loin at Meghan's Thanksgiving party two years ago that went so well with the Trimbach Pinot Gris Reserve. Maybe it was so enjoyable because Curtis and I were still a couple then. I think of the wine upstairs in my suitcase and can't wait to try it. I've wanted to get my hands on a bottle of that stuff for a while now as I was going to write an article on the vintner and present it to Bernie with the plea to let me write my own pieces and move up at The Oenophile. Guess that idea's out the window. I can still enjoy tasting the wine, however.

Stifling the roiling sensation of my stomach, I say, "I don't want any ham, Mom. Thanks."

She seems appalled. Like I've insulted her. Or the Montieros whom I don't even know. "But Hale, there's plenty."

"Mom," I say, trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. "I don't eat pork. Or beef for that matter."

Astonishment paints her face. "Well, that's just silly. What do you mean you don't eat pork?" She waggles a piece of ham from the end of a fork and plops it onto my plate.

I shirk back in horror as the boiled, baked, whatever food product lands in the middle of my CorningWare, next to the creamy potato salad. My sodium count is soaring from simply looking at this and my blood pressure raises a notch. "I only eat chicken and fish. Sorry."

Mom shrugs and retrieves the offensive porcine product off the plate. "Well, if I saw you more regularly than every five years, I might know things like that."

A tinge of pain hits me right between my eyes. "Mom... not tonight, okay?"

Dad shuffles into the kitchen and frightens Mom by clutching her on the back and rubbing her shoulders. "What have you got in those bags, Little Kid? Rocks?"

I smile at the intonation of his endearment. "Just clothes, shoes, and I have my laptop with me so I can... err... do some work."

Mom's interest piques. "You can't tell me that magazine expects you to work during a time of bereavement. Well, I never."

"No, it's not that," I snap. "It's for my writing. I finished my new manuscript and want to get it to my agent."

Mom's light eyes darken. "Oh, that. Well, that's not really work, now is it, Hale? That's more like a hobby. Like your father's needlepoint."

"Sarah! That was our secret."

I quickly chew and swallow the potato salad, ignoring Mom's dig at my writing, and then laugh. A good belly laugh that feels like heaven escaping from me. "Really Dad? Needlepoint?"

Dad takes my abandoned piece of honey-baked ham and cuts it into cubes. "My doctor told me it would be good for my arthritis. And it's excellent eye-hand coordination. I'm quite good at it." He winks at me and scoops the ham into his palm. "Cujo! Get in here boy. Treat time!"

"Sam, don't you dare," my mother protests.

Cujo bounds into the kitchen, sliding into Dad, and sits up on his hind legs to beg for the meat. What a way to live, begging for food to be put into your mouth. But wasn't that what I did in my job? I sat there, day in and day out, waiting to be fed work. Assignments that I consumed like a hungry dog and devoured until they deemed to feed me someone else's stories again. My creativity was muted. My muse was told to shush. Now, the future is mine, isn't it? No one to report to, no stupid rules to follow. Only my instincts and my writing.

"Did you hear what I said?" Mom asks, bringing me back into the conversation.

I'm a selfish git thinking about myself and my depressions when I'm here for my grandmother's funeral. Good Lord! My mom lost her mother today. I don't need to burden her with any of my current and perpetual life challenges.

"No, sorry," I say. I attack the potato salad again, but the mayonnaise-y sweetness sours instantly in my belly. "What did you say?"

"Your father and that damn dog. He feeds him from the table. He feeds him from his chair in front of the television. I find food all over the place. I should just follow him and that mutt around with a dust buster twenty-four/seven."

Cujo takes the final lick from Dad's palm and then lavishes his tongue across his snout to show his pleasure. Dad, in turn, wipes his hand on his pants and reaches for Mom.

"Come here, old lady."

"Saaaaaaaam!" she shrieks as she's spun around.

Dad plants a big, wet kiss on her mouth and then pops her on the right butt cheek. Then, he reaches over and tweaks me on the end of my nose, disappearing into the den.

My heart sings out at their affection after all these years, yet it aches for what I lost. How did Curtis and I lose that? We used to not be able to keep our hands off each other. We even had sex that one time on the beach in Miami on New Year's Eve while the fireworks were going off. Course, that was before his hours changed and everything became about her... his hospital.

I shake my thoughts and get up for a Diet Coke. I can always depend on my mother to have plenty. However, the can I retrieve doesn't exactly look like my drink of choice. "What's this?"

Mom stops covering the ham back up and turns to me. "Oh, Mary Evelyn introduced me to it. It's Rally Diet Cola. It's much cheaper than the real thing. I buy it in bulk at Sam's Club over in Pensacola. Try one."

I pop the top and take a tentative sip. It's okay, but it's definitely not my high octane soda I love so much that I should have it fed intravenously to me throughout the day. I'd much prefer a slow-drip of a nice, white French table wine, but then again, Americans look down on consuming alcohol during the day like our European counterparts. Think how much more relaxed everyone would be if we didn't have such a stigma against the consumption of alcohol. How much more we'd get along and have a laissez faire attitude. It's not like the Europeans are slackers who don't get their jobs done. They just put a higher price on the bounties and pleasures of life than we do. Now, I can't stop thinking about my wine upstairs and when I'll get to taste it. The nectar of the grape, that's what I need.

"It's good, isn't it?" Mom asks proudly.

I nod my head and smile... and lie.

"So, how is Mary Ev?" I ask. "I haven't heard from her in a while."

Mom opens the dishwasher and starts cramming dishes in, although there isn't any room left. "Oh, you know your sister. She's a real trooper. She's constantly underfoot. Over here all the time with her kids in tow. They make a mess every time they come over. Why, JD pulled down my new curtains the last time he was here." Mom's face turns red and she grits her teeth a bit when the plates clack together. "But did your sister stop him? No. She just said, 'I prefer you don't do that anymore.' Huh. Prefer? I never gave my children the option of 'prefer.' It was do this or do that or else."

Ah yes, I remember that well. For me, it was "the look." I knew if I got "the look" that the next thing I'd get was Dad's bedroom slipper across my butt cheeks. Back in my days, it wasn't child abuse to get a good smack on the ass when you were a brat. And I was. Constantly. As the middle child—not the boy they had expected—I had to do anything I could to get attention.

Now, I rinse my plate and hand it to my mother, wondering how she's going to get it to fit into the tight space of the dishwasher without it breaking. It fits though, by damn.

"I'm sure Mary Ev's a great mother."

Mom snickers. "She certainly got an early start at it."

I nearly gag on the Rally Diet Cola over Mom's dig at my sister. Sure, Scary Ev got knocked up by the first guy she slept with and then he died before Daniel was even born, but I'd never heard Mom refer to my older sister in anything other than saintly terms.

Not thinking, I say out loud, "The fact that Mary Ev has a twenty-five year old son and eight year old triplets, still astounds me."

Mom wipes at an imaginary spot on her silvery sink. "I told her not to take those fertility pills, but she didn't listen to me. Why, she was on birth control pills years before that and it's been scientifically proven to cause multiple births."

From what I've garnered from the traditional holiday newsletters Scary Evelyn and her milquetoast husband, Darren Stevens (no, not the one from Bewitched), an investment banker and graduate of Auburn University, their lives revolve around the triplets: Samantha (named after Dad), John David (JD for short) and Natalie-Jo. Strangely, Samantha and Natty-Jo are identical twins and JD is a fraternal twin. Just showed up in the womb one day. That's what Mary Ev gets for chowing on Clomid like she did.

I haven't seen the triplets in five years. They're bound to be quite different little people now.

I take another drag of the decaffeinated soda that's not doing anything for me. "Well, Mary Ev is a wonderful mother, I'm sure," I repeat for lack of anything new to say.

"That's for Our Heavenly Father to decide," Mom snaps. She hangs the used dishtowel from the handle of the stove and turns to flip off the overhead light. "She's a nuisance to me, treating me like I'm one of her children that doesn't know right from wrong. You'd think she was the parent now."

Putting my arm around my small mother, I say, "Mary Ev's only trying to help make things easier for you. Especially since Gilly and I don't live here."

Mom reaches up and pats my hand resting on her shoulder. "You and Gilly have your lives. When you left for Brown University, I knew we wouldn't see much of you."

She steps away from me without another word and heads to the den. I feel there's something she's not saying, but I'm too exhausted to press. "Sam, can't you turn that idiot box off for three seconds and come talk to your daughter from New York City?"

Dad's flipping through the channels between cooking shows, a DIY program, and ESPN. He claims to hate all television, but he's always caught red-handed channel surfing. I remember growing up how he used to let me sneak and stay up late with him to watch Johnny Carson's monologues on The Tonight Show. I had all of Carnac's jokes and routines memorized.

Dad pats the couch next to his enormous chair. "Sit down, Little Kid." Used to be he would only call me "Little Kid" when it really mattered. Maybe it does now.

My heart hurts from so many things, but for a moment, it blossoms full force at the joy of seeing my parents after such an absence. Perhaps I have stayed away too long. I shouldn't let the unspoken feud with Scary Ev keep me from visiting my parents. Or how they all treated Gilly. I'm old enough to act differently.

I'm going to be on family overload for the next several days. Southern funerals don't happen fast. They drag out for days so everyone can visit and reminisce and stick their noses into your business. And Anna Hale's visitation and service will be no different. There will be people coming over with covered dishes, desserts, and casseroles. There will be a two-day meet and greet at the funeral home, followed by a church service and a graveside ceremony. Then the after party. The family reunion where I get to stand and recite the same information over and over to relatives I don't know, don't remember, and won't see again until the next funeral.

I wonder if I'll see anyone from Haven Harbor High School. Or the church? GranAnna was a pillar of the community, so surely I'm liable to see some of the old gang. If they're still around.

Suddenly, I wonder if I'll see him.

I shake the question away and I look over at the clock. "You know, guys, I think I'll turn in." It's almost midnight here, which means it's one a.m. eastern time. I want nothing more than to crash hard and sleep for days.

"You look beat," Dad says. He reaches over and rubs my hand. "Your mother put fresh sheets on your bed and there's lots of toilet paper in the upstairs bathroom from Sam's Club, in case you need to use the crapper."

I chuckle and bend down to hug Dad, breathing in the scent Old Spice and old man. "Charming as always, Daddy."

Mom walks me to the bottom of the staircase. "What time do you want me to wake you up?"

"Whenever you need me. I'm sure it's going to be busy," I say, looking down at the tiny, chubby woman and wondering how in the world I ever got to be taller than her.

"Mary Evelyn will be here first thing to take charge," she says with a sigh. "So the earlier you get up, the better."

Bending slightly, I kiss Mom on her wrinkled forehead and hold her close. "I'm here for you, Mom." My chest expands in a bit of a pressure pull; an ache, perhaps, over being needed.

"Thanks for coming home, sweetie."

I take the stairs two at a time, holding onto the railing for safety's sake—out of habit—and turn left. I stop in the bathroom for a cup and then dip into my old room. The room that housed me from twelve to eighteen and several summers after that.

The aroma of mothballs tickles my nose, as does the smell of dog. I see a Lands End doggy cushion with "Cujo" embroidered on it and realize the puppy has taken up residence in my former space. As well as Dad's needlepoint kit.

Overcome by the full day, I unzip my suitcase and withdraw the bottle of wine and the bar tool.

I take the time to study the bottle, read the marketing blurb and appreciate the creative label. The moment I've been waiting for to test out the Casal Di Serra Verdicchio.

At the sigh and pop of the cork, I slink to the floor next to my bed, grip the bottle tightly, and pour myself a taste.
CHAPTER FIVE

Out of habit, I reach for my wine notebook and my favorite gel pen. I note the color and age of the wine, swirl, and sip appropriately, thinking that maybe I'll write a piece on this amazing vintage and submit it as a writing sample to one of The Oenophile's competitors.

But as the delicate wine coats my insides with its distinctive fruitiness, I look around and am distracted by my surroundings. The Pucky Huddle country curtains. The antique canopy bed. The candy striped carpet (with the hole burned into it underneath the dresser from that first—and last—time Jenny Stanwick and I tried smoking a cigarette.) This room has barely changed in the twenty years I've been gone. It's like a shrine to my teen years.

My shelf of knick-knacks—crap from high school events, family trips, and presents from friends—hangs on the paneled wall next to framed, hand drawings of Care Bears I did so long ago. Programs and posters from the three school plays I was in decorate the wall next to my bed, along with class photos, a senior prom picture—what was my date's name again... Steve something? I remember he worked at the IGA and drove a Chevy IROC—and my trophies from cheerleading and tennis.

My pulse picks up seeing my District IV Fiction Writing award from tenth grade. The judges had said I had "a lot of potential." I've been writing stories since forever and a day and that was the one time I was praised for it. Dragging my finger along the dusty, black casing, I remember Mom framing the certificate for me, calling me her little Margaret Mitchell, only without the whole being killed by a cab and writing one novel thing.

Turning my attention away from my writing, I continue perusing the room. There's still a Rick Springfield—the man is still hot though even in his sixties—poster on the far left wall from the "Living in Oz" tour I went to see up in Birmingham in 1983. Course, my sister had chaperoned that trip... no fun. Corey "I wear my sunglasses at night" Hart had opened for him and they both were staying in the same Hyatt hotel as us. Scary Ev wouldn't let us hang out in the lobby to try and catch glimpses of either star, saying we were too young to hang with "showbiz trash."

Standing up at the foot of the bed, I rub my hand over the comforter. It's the same thick, red satin one GranAnna gave me for my sweet sixteen birthday. The same b-day said Jenny Stanwick made out with Allen Bergeron on said comforter on my bed. The guy whom I'd had a good flirtation going with. I can't believe the comforter is still in one piece considering—from the doggy smell—that Cujo seems to use this room as his now. This blanket survived longer than my friendship with Jenny Stanwick did.

I sit down on the bed, the lumpy mattress somehow familiar to my backside, and I settle in. On the large nightstand is my stereo, complete with tape player, turntable, and eight-track. It was quite the bomb back in eighth grade when I got it for Christmas. There's also a stack of 45's on a metal rack, thick with dust from lack of use. I set the wine bottle and my cup down and thumb through the selections. Pointer Sisters, Hall and Oates, Rick Springfield, of course, The Bee Gees, Kool and the Gang, Jermaine Jackson, Olivia Newton John, Peaches and Herb, Donna Summer and a novelty record of "Who Shot J.R. Ewing?" by T.R. Dallas. I bet I could get a pretty penny for that on eBay.

I select Stacy Lattisaw's "Let Me Be Your Angel," remembering this song from a high school Homecoming dance, and slip it onto the record player. I make sure the speed is right for the small record. The needle scratches the vinyl, but the heavenly voice sings out from the speakers like it's yesterday.

Topping off my cup with the scrumptious vintage, I lift off the bed and cross to the bookshelf. There sit my yearbooks from my time at Haven Harbor High School, HHHS. As I peer at the annuals, I let the languid taste of the pear and peach dance along my tongue before I swallow and enjoy the finish. What I wouldn't give for a nice piece of grilled salmon and asparagus to go with this wine.

On the floor, there are huge, empty bottles of Gallo wine I used to melt candles over. I was an oenophile back then, only I didn't know there was a name for it. Mom and Dad used to drink Gallo with their dinner and I'd always beg for the packaging, thinking having wine bottles with drippy wax designs would give my room a European bistro look. Or at least a "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant" Billy Joel feel. Bottle of red... bottle of white... it all depends upon your appetite.

See, even then, I longed for New York City and the finer side of life.

In reality, I just wanted to feel grown up and taste the wine. So, I would sometimes sneak a taste of the less-than-stellar Chablis or Burgundy they had stashed in the back of fridge. Imagine that, my parents refrigerated red wine. Meghan freaked when I told her that story. Course, she was more appalled that my first taste of wine came from a gallon jug. At least back then, they didn't have it in a box.

As the high-pitched strains of the Stacy Lattisaw song echo ever so softly through my former bedroom, I pad over, sock-footed, careful not to disturb the bottles in their resting place, to the yearbooks, selecting the one from 1987. My senior year. What can I say, I blended in for someone not from 'round here. Cheerleading was my life, as was playing tennis, hanging with my friends, and riding around in Dad's old Karmen Ghia with Prince's "1999" cassette tape blaring from a boom box in the back seat. Prince made me want to change my phone number to 777-9311 to be different from everyone else wanting 867-5309. (Okay, that's a really vague reference.)

Plopping on the bed, I begin turning through the pages of the yearbook. As tired as I am, the memories pass over me in an exhilarating flow, energizing me surprisingly. Page by page. Face by face. Football games, clubs and activities, band, cheerleading, sports, and all the people.

One particular person pops into my mind again and I flip through the glossy pages to seek him out. I search for the tennis team. He'll be in that group photo. Back row, behind me, if I remember correctly.

Ah yes... there he is on page one hundred thirty in his tight white shorts and tennis shirt that stretches across his chest. He's squinting because the sun is in his eyes. We all appear exhausted because we'd just finished practice. None of us look our best.

Well, he does, of course... sweat and all.

I skip ahead more in the book for a better picture of him. Amongst the senior portraits—the only color section in the annual—I connect with those emerald green eyes I remember so well from another lifetime. He's wearing a tux with a bow tie that's way too thick for today's fashion, but his sandy brown hair, shaggy in his eyes, looks soft and silky.

Yep, that's him. Jordan Valvano. Hunk extraordinaire.

Quarterback of the football team. Tennis team captain. Student body president. Recurring star of my high school fantasies.

I laugh in spite of myself and feel that old, familiar ping in the pit of my stomach thinking of Jordan and the hours I spent worshiping him from afar. I'm not quite sure he ever really knew I existed, other than being that girl on the tennis team with the kick-ass backhand.

Of course it was the best because he was the one who taught me. Tennis lessons every Thursday over the summer of my thirteenth year, right after moving to Florida. Jordan had been focused on tennis and tennis only, whereas I'd been more engrossed in that adorable mole on his left cheek and those amazing green eyes. But I had a mouth full of metal back then and some scary, past-its-prime, winged, Farrah Fawcett "Charlie's Angels" hair. But he'd taught me tennis moves like no one else had and I was smitten.

I shut the yearbook and twist around onto my back, staring up at the canopy ceiling. I balance the porcelain bathroom cup full of wine on my stomach, which is remarkably flat as I'm lying here. Not that I'm fat, but that getting older pooch seems to be gone at the present moment. Ain't gravity fun?

With a long sigh, I wonder what ever became of Jordan Valvano. Last I'd seen of him was at our post-graduation party at The Hotel Grand down by the water in Haven Harbor, sitting by himself and gazing out at the bay with a beer in his hand. He was big on contemplation, I recall. He went off to... Florida State University? I can't remember. I'm sure wherever he went and whatever he did, Jordan Valvano made something of himself.

Not like me.

Full scholarship to Brown University with a degree in English, followed by a master's degree at Columbia, should have catapulted me up the ladder of publishing and editorial success, but I got interrupted along the way by a pair of killer blue eyes that had the ambition to someday be a chief surgeon. So, my dreams went on hold to help support Curtis through his final schooling, internship, and residency. It was okay. I believed in him, particularly that part where he said he'd take care of me.

A groan escapes from somewhere deep in my throat. I nab the cup off my stomach, sit up, and drink the wine, stopping to appreciate the bouquet and fullness of it and make some final notes. Then, I roll to my side and clutch the large, fluffy pillows around me, forming them into a mock person I can curl up next to—the way Curtis and I used to cuddle—that I can hold on to as this next wave of intense depression passes over me.

I'm discovering a new emotion every hour since the firing. Shock, horror, disappointment, denial, and betrayal. Now I'm just into the plain, old fashioned, pity-party phase.

Too bad I don't have paper hats, streamers, and noise makers to make it complete.

My stomach hurts. My head hurts. My heart hurts.

The hot tears escape from my eyes and trickle sideways down my face. I don't even bother wiping them away. A cleansing is necessary at this juncture. I just lay there, fully dressed, wrapped around the pillows as Stacey's "Let Me Be Your Angel" continues to play over and over, and lulling me to sleep.

~~ ~~

I peel my eyes open and am greeted by a curious set of brown ones, huge as saucers, looking scrupulously at me.

"Who are you?" the little boy asks in a loud whisper.

Ah, JD. Scary Ev's son.

Sitting up on my elbow, I try to get my bearings. Oh yeah, I'm at my parents' house, in my old room. In Haven Harbor, Florida.

Looking at JD, I say, "I'm your Aunt Hale."

"Mommy's sister?"

I smile. "That's me. I haven't seen you, JD, since you were this many." I hold up three fingers, wondering if the showing of the age on your hand trick still impresses an eight-year-old.

He scowls at me. "I'm John David Stevens and I'm older now," he says. "You're in Cujo's room."

Sitting up and stretching from sleeping in the same position all night, I swing my legs off the bed and onto the carpet. "Well, it used to be my room when I was growing up," I say. The stereo is still going, so I snap it off. "Is your mom here?"

"She's helping GranSarah with breakfast," he says with a snaggle-toothed smile. "I want blueberry pancakes."

The thought of food makes my stomach rumble its approval. In fact, the smell of fresh coffee and crisp bacon frying—microwaving, knowing Mom—has already wafted up the staircase to tickle my appetite. "Well, JD, let me get dressed and I'll come help with breakfast, too."

He tilts his head to the side and looks at me curiously. I've seen that look a thousand times before on Scary Ev's face. "But you're already dressed."

"I accidentally slept in my clothes," I say in my defense. Like I need to explain myself to an eight-year-old. "Why don't you run along and I'll be right down."

"Okay." He stops, looks at the half drunk wine bottle on the floor and says, "I'll take this."

Moving fast, I swipe the bottle and re-cork it. "I'll take care of that, JD, thanks." Last thing I need is for Scary Ev's son to walk downstairs with an open container of alcohol that his aunt gave him. I'd never hear the end of it from my sister.

JD bounds noisily down the stairs screaming, "Aunt Hale's awake!"

I flee to the bathroom, not wanting to see my sister quite yet, especially with me looking like something the cat dragged in and the kittens wouldn't have. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and take the world's fastest shower. As I'm rinsing off, I notice there's still a P-Touch label between the handles that Gilly put in there many years ago that reads, "NSYNC Showered Here." I can't help but laugh.

Dressing in my jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt Meghan gave me for Christmas, I head downstairs, my pulse tripling in a cocktail of anticipation and trepidation.

I hear Mary Evelyn before I see her.

"Daddy, stop it. You know you're not supposed to be eating junk like that."

"I'll eat whatever I want," Dad snaps. "I don't need my kid correcting me."

"Dr. Perkins said you've got to watch your cholesterol and those muffins are nothing but artery busters. I don't get why you buy these, Mom," Mary Ev says. Then she adds, "And I'm no longer a child. I'm fifty-five years old."

I hear Dad snicker. "You'll always be my child."

Okay, time to face the music. I take a deep breath to steady my pulse and then I step around the corner and walk into the kitchen that's abuzz with activity.

"There she is!" Mom exclaims.

I stash the bottle of wine in the fridge and go to give Mom a hug.

"Did you sleep well, sweetie?" she asks.

Dad pipes in, "You didn't wake up to find out, did you?"

Same old Dad. Same old joke. Same old belly laugh from me. "Right, Dad." My eyes shift to the kitchen table where Mary Evelyn sits. Her light brown hair is skunked down the middle with a streak of prominent gray. White, actually. Her eyes look sad and tired, but her smile is fake, as usual. She stands and crosses over to me.

"Hale, it's soooooo good to see you," she says in her sing-songy Southern accent. "Isn't it just awful about GranAnna?"

I wrap my arms around her, trying to conjure up some feelings for this person who tortured me as a little kid—okay, maybe torture is overstating it, but she was the quintessential evil older sibling—and has had little to do with me ever since. At least she gives me the courtesy of a civilized hug in return.

"Hi, Mary Ev. You look good," I say, stepping back.

"As do you, Hale. What is it this time? Jenny Craig? Weight Watchers?"

Heartache. But I'm not about to admit that to her. Nor will I fall prey to the shot across my bow. I feel my smile flatten. "Neither. Clean living."

Dad snickers over his newspaper, since that's another one of his many sayings.

Mom hustles me over to the table. "Now sit. I have scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, grits—"

"—Georgia ice cream," Dad corrects.

"—and homemade biscuits," Mom continues, unfazed. "Your GranAnna's recipe."

Mary Ev walks to the pan full of scrambled yellow goo. "These aren't Egg Beaters, are they, Mother?"

"No dear." Mom fills a mug for me with steaming black instant coffee. "Those Egg Beaters taste like they're mud-filled to me."

"Eggs never killed anyone," Dad chimes in.

"Yes. They kill a great number of people each year," my sister says.

Mom ignores her and continues to crack the eggs into a large bowl, readying them for scrambling.

Mary Evelyn throws her hands up and morphs into Scary Ev with that beady-eyed look she gets. The one that can send you to Hell and back in a matter of moments. She's used it plenty on me, but to see her use it on Mom appalls me. "What about your cholesterol?"

Dad rattles his pill box. "Already took my medicine. Now Sare, bring me a plate. Those sausages smell incredible."

Mary Ev turns to me. "Do you see what I have to put up with every day? They never listen to me. I might as well be talking to myself." She stabs two sausage patties with a fork and plops them unceremoniously onto a plate for Dad. "Fine. Eat this garbage. See if I care when your arteries clog up and you wind up in intensive care. God knows, there's no reason to eat the healthy turkey sausage I gave you last week."

Dad rolls his eyes at me and then reaches over to smack Scary Ev on her butt. "I ate that sausage last week, young lady. Remember, you're not too old for me to whoop you good."

"Mary Evelyn, there's no need to worry about us," Mom says, ever so sweetly as she moves the eggs around in the pan. She seems completely unmoved by my sister's wrath. I don't understand why she lets Scary Ev talk to her that way.

We fill our plates with the steaming food and eat in chilled silence. I can't believe I'm actually dealing with my sister before I've had a (proper) caffeine fix. I sip at the Folgers crystals still floating, undissolved in my cup. Sure, it's not the Guatemala Antigua blend I usually get from Starbucks each morning on my way to work. Then again, I guess that ritual will have to stop so I can keep those dollars in my coffer until I find a new job.

Which will be when exactly?

Out of habit, I stir together my eggs and grits and crush up my bacon—okay, so I'm eating a little bit of pig this morning—into one gooey, delicious pile on my plate. Sarah Martin's no culinary genius, but nothing says home like one of Mom's humongous breakfasts.

"Where are the kids?" I ask with my mouth full.

Mary Ev reaches for one of the biscuits and takes a bite without buttering or jellying it like the rest of us. "They're in the den watching Nickelodeon."

"JD looks very grown up."

"He's a terror," Mary Evelyn says. "The doctor says he has A.D.H.D. and we're going to have to put him on medication or else it's going to drive Darren insane."

Mom knocks her coffee cup against the saucer. "I wish you wouldn't do that, dear. So he's a little hyperactive. Most little boys are. He'll grow out of it."

"I know how to take care of my children." Mary Ev is obviously displeased at having her parenting decisions questioned. Nothing ever changes. She never did take instruction of any type kindly. Not from her teachers in high school or the boss at McDonald's where she flipped burgers after school or the acting coaches she worked with when she ran off to New York. That's why she didn't get many gigs because she was labeled as "a problem." It didn't matter how tall and beautiful she was back then. No one wanted to work with a diva. Especially one who was never wrong about anything. It was always everyone else's problem and not Mary Evelyn's.

"So Hale," Mary Ev starts. "How's Curtis?" She covers her mouth dramatically with the back of her hand. "Oh, I forgot. The divorce and all. Must be lonely by yourself in the big city of New York." My sister bites into the biscuit and I secretly wish for it to turn to shit in her big, fat mouth.

"Curtis is doing just fine," I say through my pain. I won't let her see me sweat, though.

Mom toys with her grits. "Fiddle-dee-dee."

And at the word divorce, Scarlett is back in 'da house.

I scrape a fork full of eggs, bacon, and grits and hold it in the air while it cools, ignoring Scary Ev's jab at me. I won't let her get my goat. Not when we're here for GranAnna's funeral. I don't see why my sister can't be decent for once without trying to pick a fight. "So what's on the agenda today, Mom? What can I do to help you?"

Mom stares forward for a moment, her coffee cup poised in front of her mouth. She's lost somewhere, seeking something in her mind. Maybe she's doing one of her mental Dharma chants from Reiki Master Louise-Ann. I reach over and touch her cool skin. "Mom?"

She jumps a bit and returns to the here and now. "Oh, well, we need to go over to Mother's and get The Book so we'll know what to do. I didn't have time to go get it yesterday."

Mary Evelyn rolls her eyes, sighs, and sits back in her chair.

I don't get this. "The Book? What book?"

"I can't believe you're sticking to that, Mother," Mary Ev says. She pushes out of her chair to get up and nab a napkin.

Mom turns toward my sister. "I will honor what my mother wanted," she says. "I don't need you fighting me every step of the way, Mary Evelyn."

"Mom, what book are you talking about?" I press.

Dad blows his nose in a loud, honking manner. "Your GranAnna spent the last few years writing out her funeral—"

"—orchestrating it, you mean," my sister snarls.

"—of how she wants everything to happen," Dad says, completely ignoring his eldest child. "You know, the ceremony, the music, everything."

Mary Ev crosses her arms and furrows her brow which makes her look much older than her fifty-five years. "It's pathetic."

"It's thoughtful," my mom says sharply.

It's intriguing.

I return my attention to my breakfast the best I can. Most of my appetite is gone and I can't fully enjoy the deliciousness of the mixture on my plate, thanks to Scary Ev's stares, Mom's sighs, and Dad's nasal challenges.

"What do you think, Hale?" My sister knows she's completely dragging me into this for no reason. Bet she thinks she's going to throw me under the hearse.

I scrunch my face up. "Whatever GranAnna wanted, right? And whatever makes it easier on Mom."

Scary Ev gives me the Evil Eye and mouths "suck up" at me. I resist the urge to either stick my tongue out—kindergarten-ish—or flip her off—high school-ish—but I do neither. She's already trying to push my buttons and I won't give in to her drama. Not yet. Not when I've only been around her for fifteen minutes. I don't know if I can stomach several days with her. It's apparent she's itching for a long-overdue fight.

I wish Gilly were here. My sweet little sister. With her, there's safety in numbers. But I know how hard it is for her and Haven Harbor—this house—is the last place she'd want to be.

Mom twists the water faucet off after rinsing her breakfast dish and dries her hands. "Sam, we're going over to Mother's. Please watch the triplets for us, will you?"

He nods. "Whatever you need, my love."

Mom bites her bottom lip and her eyes start to glaze over with a sheen of tears. "Well, come on girls. Let's go find out how to get a woman ready for her journey to heaven and her ultimate date with Jesus."

A single tear escapes her eye as she turns away, headed to her room.

"Don't forget The Book." Dad blows his nose again for emphasis.

Mary Ev rolls her eyes... again.

I sigh.

This is going to be an interesting day.
CHAPTER SIX

Half an hour later, Mom slides the key into the lock, turns the handle and opens the lid to a whole can of memories.

I haven't been to GranAnna's home in what seems like ages, but the whole place still smells of Old English furniture polish and Oil of Olay.

As a kid, I wasn't allowed to "play" at GranAnna's because the place was a museum. Milk glass and aged china everywhere. Antique furniture, tapestries, and fabrics meant to be looked at and not used. Not to mention the one hundred year old baby grand piano with the gold-leaf demitasse set on top of it. Whenever Gilly and I would visit, we were relegated to the den area of the kitchen to play only on the hand-woven runner. We used to race Match Box cars in the grooves of that rug. It was okay, in GranAnna's opinion, to have fun, as long as it was properly structured and monitored.

GranAnna would scowl and tell us it was better to use our imagination as a toy then to buy actual blocks, dolls, or crayons. So, we would play Wonder Woman and Super Girl in GranAnna's big yard, climbing the big magnolia tree as high as we could and then jumping out of it into the monkey grass as though we were attempting to fly.

Now, walking through the kitchen, I sense the loss of a time gone by, of simpler days when we didn't worry about jobs, bills, husbands, or security. Back then, it was good enough just being kids, having a blast doing whatever and being ourselves.

GranAnna was the first person to encourage me to use my imagination for all it was worth, saying we could take ourselves anywhere and be anything we wanted to be in our minds. It had almost been as if she was wishing her words were true from the distant look in her eyes whenever she'd talk like that. I always felt like GranAnna had secrets, or so my imagination conjured up.

Now, Mary Evelyn walks over to the bookshelf next to the phone in the hallway and picks up a picture of Gilly at age seven. Buck-toothed, pig-tailed, and freckled to the high heavens. My older sister sighs. "She was so cute then. What happened to her?"

I ball up my fist, not surprised at Scary Ev being so judgmental. "She grew up to be a beautiful young woman."

Scary Ev harrumphs and replaces the photo. What does she know about Gilly and the prejudices she's had to deal with in her life – mostly from her own family? My chest aches over the narrow-mindedness of the people in Gilly's life. Certainly, my elder sister has never reached out to her in any way, form or fashion. But GranAnna always understood Gilly for some reason and never treated her differently.

Mom breezes by and turns into GranAnna's bedroom. She was only in the nursing home for two months, so everything in her house remains pristine and in place, except maybe for a thin layer of dust. GranAnna would hate that, knowing how anal she was about cleaning all the time. Her four-poster bed is decorated for a true lady with frilly, lace pillow cases and a hand-sewn quilt. A picture of Mom at age five sits on the bedside table, along with another one of her at twelve with Grandpa Jack. Mom was such an adorable little girl with curly blond hair cascading around her face in perfect Shirley Temple-like ringlets. I hear Mom also used to do a mean tap dance back in her day.

Mary Evelyn goes to the vanity table and starts digging through GranAnna's jewelry, like a greedy pirate in search of buried treasure.

"Mary Ev! You shouldn't be in there," I scold. I mean, GranAnna hasn't been dead twenty-four hours and my sister is pillaging her belongings? Tacky, tacky, tacky!

Glaring at me, she says, "Mind your own business, Hale."

She pulls out a two carat square-cut emerald ring and forces it down on one of her chubby fingers. Admiring herself in the mirror, she says, "I've always loved this ring. I think I should get it, don't you, Mother?"

Mom waves her off, headed to the closet. "Girls, we'll have time for that later. Right now, I need to get The Book."

Right... The Book. Can't wait to see it.

The inside of GranAnna's closet is a costume designer's veritable wet dream. Clothes dating back to the twenties, thirties, and forties are draped neatly on padded hangers. GranAnna never threw anything away. Vintage doesn't even begin to describe these items that smell slightly of a mixture of moth balls and cedar. Shoe boxes line the left wall, topped with a multitude of hat boxes. Carrie Bradshaw, eat your heart out.

I chuckle inwardly as I peer over Mom's shoulder. GranAnna sure loved her fashion. And her white gloves, too. She was such a proper Southern lady. I mean, talk about the stereotypical Miss Daisy. That was Anna Hale. Never a hair out of place or a wrinkle on her clothes. She was always dressed to the hilt and was front row center at church every Sunday. It's what people expected of her. I remember wanting to play with her hats when I was younger, but that was a definite no-no. Some of them dated back to her Depression Era years. I'd love to get this stuff to a vintage store in Manhattan to see what kind of money I can get for my Mom. Then again, to me, it's all priceless.

"The Book is in one of these," Mom says. She stretches for the light green hat box on top of the stack. She's simply too short to reach it, so I step in.

"Let me." I snag the box she was aiming for. "This one?"

"I think so."

I slip it down and am surprised at how much it weighs. Like there are bricks in it. "Just what's in this book?"

Mom takes the container from me and returns to the bedroom. "Everything. The service, the music, who's to speak, what to do about the casket, you name it."

Scary Ev, now wearing the pearls Grandpa Jack got GranAnna in the Orient, groans. "I still say it's morbid to have your funeral planned like this. Morose and completely controlling."

"Oh, and trying on all of GranAnna's jewelry is just fine?"

"Now girls. Stop that." Clicking her tongue, Mom says, "When I want your opinion, Mary Evelyn, I'll ask for it. Now, take off my mother's pearls and be of some use to me, will you?"

When my sister turns away, Mom whispers to me, "Honestly, you'd think she was a little child. I certainly don't need her here underfoot causing trouble."

Whoa. This is a first! The mostly-ignored middle child in me wants to dance in triumph, but the adult in me stays rooted in place. If my sister can't act like a grown up, at least I can.

Mom opens the box and pulls out a large, three-ring binder that's covered in blue felt with a white eyelet border. I can tell GranAnna took her time detailing and decorating this to make it special. At first glance, it's a normal-looking photo album, but it's so much more. I gasp as Mom opens the cover and there, staring up at me, is a black and white, eight by ten of GranAnna that I've never seen before from about 1930-something. Very Joan Crawford-esque, only without the scary Kabuki makeup, can of cleanser, and wire hanger fetish. Instead, it's very glamorous and totally in the realm of true babe-dom. GranAnna's skin is perfectly porcelain, her lips dark with stain, and her eyebrows precisely sculpted into a fine line above seductive eyes.

"I've never seen this," Mom says.

"Anna Hale was a knockout," I exclaim and then let out a high wolf whistle. This seems very different from the church-going, pound cake-baking grandmother I knew. Here, she seems so glamorous... and carefree.

Mom smiles. "Yes, she was, wasn't she?"

She opens up the three-ring binder and removes the picture encased in a plastic covering. Turning it over in her hand, we see a note in GranAnna's chicken scratching. "Please frame and put on top of the casket."

Mary Ev's screws up her face in a most unpleasant manner. "That's horrible. I can't believe this is what we're going to do. If you'll let me, I'll gladly make all of the arrangements, Mother, and then we can dispense with all the silliness surrounding GranAnna's plans for her funeral."

Mom levels her eyes on my sister. "Mary Evelyn Martin Stevens. I'll thank you to do as I wish and not give me a lot of lip. Your GranAnna wanted things done a particular way and I'll be damned if you're going to fight me. Now, be quiet."

I eyeball Scary Ev with a "Yeah, what she says" look and return my attention to The Book. We scan through it, flipping the pages in awe over the detail of work GranAnna has put into this. She has a list of songs she wants played, including the sheet music from the hymnal that she pasted in. There's even a preference for preacher. "Don't let Reverend Lester Snead at First Baptist do the service. Bring back Brother Joe Frank Sparks, if he can make it or is still alive," the note reads.

There's a list of the flowers she'd like—calla lilies—as well as the seating arrangement, who will read what particular scriptures, and what the graveside service will be like. I'm surprised to see she wants everything be held at the funeral home and not at the church.

Mom skips to the tab labeled Casket. "I know she put this cherry-wood box on layaway about ten years ago," Mom says, looking at the picture pasted to a piece of white paper.

"She put a casket on layaway?" Mary Ev asks. Her tone is nearly a bark. Before Mom can scold her, yet again, my sister turns away and leaves the room. "I'll be waiting in the car."

In the back pocket of The Book, I see a stack of envelopes that are stamped and addressed. I sort through them and recognize a couple of the names as church friends of GranAnna's. However, an address in Boca Raton surprises me.

"Who's Stanley Miller?" I ask, waving the envelope.

Mom looks at it and shrugs. "Looks like she wrote some goodbye letters. How sweet of her. I don't know who this Miller man is, maybe a pen pal? She had them over the years." Mom takes the stack of letters and puts them in her purse. "We'll..." she stops and hiccups a bit, staving off tears, "...mail these later."

I flip to another section of The Book. "Look, another note."

Mom halts a choked tear. "You read it, Hale. It hurts to see Mother's handwriting and know that she's gone."

I peel the piece of stationery out of its protective plastic page covering and read the scrawlings of my grandmother. I remember a day when she had the most beautiful penmanship, but years of advanced arthritis caused her handwriting to deteriorate. Still, she loved to write.

I can certainly identify with that. I don't know what I'd ever do if I lost my ability to type my manuscripts. The words flow so easily from my head to my fingers to the keyboard.

But I shake myself out of thinking about my goals and desires and focus instead on deciphering GranAnna's final wishes.

Clearing my throat slightly, I gasp at what I'm reading.

"What does it say?" Mom presses.

"It says, 'Under no circumstances is there to be an open casket for the public. There will be a showing for immediate family members only before the casket is sealed for the ceremony.'" I pause for a moment to check my mother's reaction. She seems stunned by this revelation. Open caskets are pretty much the norm around here. My eyes drop back to my grandmother's words and I read the final line out loud. "'Sarah Beth, if you've ever obeyed me before, I implore you to grant me this final wish and not allow anyone outside of the immediate family to view me. I have my reasons.'" I glance at Mom. "Is it a vanity thing?"

"No," she says flatly. "Well, maybe. There could be something more to it. I don't know what it is, though."

I fold the note back in the cover and ponder the request. I think about the goodbye letters and wonder who this Stanley Miller person might be. Suddenly, this funeral planning has become a heap more interesting.

~~ ~~

"Mrs. Martin, let me tell me how sorry I am for your loss," Jackson Powell, the funeral director, says to Mom when we step into the antiseptically white funeral home twenty minutes later. "Miss Anna was a wonderful woman and I'm honored to be taking care of her in these final hours."

Jackson Powell is lean and lanky and reminds me of the actor who played the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. (What was his name?) Powell's hair is greased down and his eyes look a bit hollow. His suit appears as if it hasn't been dry cleaned since the turn of the new millennium and he smells slightly like a grilled cheese sandwich. Jackson Powell's a bit too cheery for my tastes, but I guess after doing this for so long, one becomes anesthetized to the sadness surrounding death. Honestly, how many times can you say "I'm sorry for your loss" and really mean it?

"Thank you, Mr. Powell. Mother certainly will be missed," Mom says sweetly as she shakes his hand.

He points us to the right, to a large parlor full of couches and chairs. "I picked the Heavenly Bound Suite for Miss Anna," he says. Then he whispers. "I expect we'll have a full house. I've never met a more dedicated, proper, Christian woman."

Mom nods, puts her hand on her chest and smiles her approval. "That's exactly the room Mother wanted." She hefts The Book onto her hip and cocks her head toward the room. The death tome sticks out underneath her arm like a mountainous bulge.

Bulge...Bolger! That's it! Ray Bolger. That's the guy who played the Scarecrow. Phew!

"Can we discuss some of Mother's preferences, Mr. Powell?"

"Of course, Mrs. Martin."

While Mom follows him into the suite, my heartbeat accelerates abruptly when I read the placard outside the room.

Hale.

Sure, Hale is my grandmother's last name—the oddball name I got saddled with from birth as a way to keep the family name going—but to see it displayed in such a morbid setting makes my stomach revolt against the Southern breakfast I gorged on. Flashes of Bernie sneezing on me yesterday and ordering me out of the office surface and cause me to breathe heavier, hashing out the details of what happened, trying to hit the stop or pause button in my mind so I can go back and correct everything. It's not some Netflix DVD I can package up and return, though. The images are vibrant and vivid. A permanent download into the memory bank. Not merely created thoughts from my writer's mind, what ifs or suppositions, but the reality of what happened to me. The realization that I have no job, no recommendation, no money, seeps around me like overflowing water, threatening to drown me in the death of my career.

Is this placard a symbol, a sign or a message?

I look again. Hale. In big, bold, block letters. And in front of it, a guest book. I sip in air through my nose. This isn't about me. It's about my grandmother. My grandmother is dead. Anna Hale is dead. Not Hale Martin.

I grasp the wall and beg my mind to stop creating dramas that aren't necessary at this juncture. I'll deal with my professional demise and work future when I get back to New York. After I've done my daughterly duties. I can't give in to the madness Bernie and Shay Publishing caused by tossing me out on my ass. This isn't the time or place to think about how I'll pay my rent or even what folder my resume is saved under on my laptop.

I'm wigging out because I don't deal well with death. I mean, who does, really? I never knew my father's parents, but I remember when we lost Grandpa Jack to his long battle with Alzheimer's. It was more of a relief to everyone than a sad occasion. And I'd only been twenty at the time and pretty much comforted Gilly who'd been ten and terribly affected by his death. That helped me get through it, knowing I had to be the mature one she looked up to.

It's just that this sense of death is so prevalent in my life right now. The death of my marriage. The death of my job. And now the death of my grandmother. It certainly leads to gaping wounds that need to be sutured shut.

Suddenly, I'm tossed back to the here and now as the overhead Muzak cranks up with the strain of "Bless Be the Tie That Binds." It was one of GranAnna's favorite hymns. And believe me, she knew them all.

I remember sitting at the piano with her when I was like fifteen or so and she taught me how to play "Amazing Grace." I bet I could still manage to tickle that piece out of the ivories. Only this time, no one would whack my knuckles with a ruler for hitting a wrong note. GranAnna always got such joy from hearing me play it—correctly. Of course, my talent was nothing compared to Gilly's. She took to the piano like it was an extension of her. I guess that's why she's working in the music industry, although she could easily be one of the artists she promotes.

I tug my cell phone out of the back pocket of my jeans to see if Gilly has called me back after the idiotic message I left her from the plane. The readout shows the phone is "searching for signal," so I guess I'll have to try again later. The walls to this mausoleum-like place are simply too damn thick for Virgin Mobile's network.

The front door to the funeral home opens and Mary Evelyn sweeps into the foyer holding the outfit we picked up at GranAnna's for her burial. My sister shoves it at me.

"Here. Mother left this in the car."

I take the creamy silk suit wrapped in a dry cleaning bag and drape it over my arm.

Mary Ev looks around and bites down hard on her bottom lip. She sighs noticeably. "Not as nice as the church, but it's what GranAnna wanted. God knows we can't go against The Book."

"Why don't you put a sock in it?" I hiss through my teeth, hoping Mom and Mr. Powell don't hear me. "This is rough for Mom, Mary Ev. You're not helping."

She puts her hand on her hip. "Oh, that's right. The great Hale is here to swoop in and save the day. Then what? You'll go back to your glamorous life in the city and the rest of us will return to daycare shuttles, doctor appointments for our parents, and monitoring their medication."

I lower my voice to an even keel. "You make it sound like you're the only one with responsibilities. Let me tell you, that's as far from the truth as it can be."

Mary Ev waves me off like an annoying gnat. "I don't care about your responsibilities, Hale. You may be here acting all gracious and generous, but I'm on to you."

What the hell?

"You need to not start this now, Mary Evelyn."

Mom steps from the parlor suite. "Girls. What's going on?"

Scary Ev laser beams her apparent hatred at me, but turns a sweet smile on Mom. "Nothing we can't handle. Did you get everything arranged?"

"Yes," Mom says. "Mr. Powell has seen Mother's wishes and will carry them out." She looks at me. "Oh good, you have the suit. Thanks, Hale."

I toss a smirk my sister's way for good measure and hand the bagged outfit to Mom. I follow her to the back room as she gives it to Mr. Powell.

She places her hand to her heart for a moment, dealing with the surge of emotions, I'm sure, and then relinquishes the clothes to the funeral director. "As per Mother's specific wishes, here's her best suit. She bought it for Easter Sunday in 1987. Never gained an ounce over the years at all and it still fits her like a glove."

Jackson Powell graciously takes the belongings from Mom and pats her on the back. "We'll take care of everything, Mrs. Martin, don't worry about a thing. That's what we're here for."

The tears overcome Mom and she reaches into her pocket for a wad of Kleenex. Dabbing her eyes, she says, "We'll be back at six o'clock tonight to start receiving people."

I pick up The Book from the table where Mom and Mr. Powell were looking through it and then come to Mom's side. Looping our arms together, I point her toward the door.

"Let's get you home," I say.

Mary Ev walks ahead and holds the door open for us. I half expect her to drop it on me, but she smiles instead. Psycho Sybil-like Sibling.

My sister draws the car keys out of her purse and says, "It's going to be a long night."

A small laugh escapes my mother. "A long night? A long day, dear. We have a lot of phone calls to make."

"Who are we calling?" I ask, helping Mom into the front seat of the car and passing The Book to her.

She places it in her lap and holds on to it protectively. "We have to get in touch with the organist, Brother Sparks, and the videographer."

I shut the car door and adjust in the backseat. "Did I hear you correctly? A videographer?" That sounds out of the ordinary.

"Yes, it's right here in section six." Mom opens The Book and reads. "Mother writes, 'Please capture the event on tape as a way of remembering how I brought the whole family together.' There's a phone number of who she wants to do it."

Mary Evelyn starts the car with force and stares at me in the rear view mirror. "Now do you think this book is asinine?"

A videographer? At a funeral?

Umm...yeah.

I hate to admit it, but I'm starting to agree with my sister.
CHAPTER SEVEN

At ten of six, Mom, Dad, and I walk into the foyer of Powell Memorial Funeral Home that now smells of the sweet hydrangeas and azalea blossoms which are tastefully displayed out front.

The Muzak plays overhead in a dreary organ drone, but it's what GranAnna wanted. I scribble my signature in the guest book using the feathered quill that sits underneath the "HALE" sign, lit by a single votive. Inside the suite, candles are scattered about, providing a homey glow to the large parlor of endless couches and rows of arm chairs.

"Everything's perfect," Mom says.

I gasp when I glance to the back wall and see the cherry wood casket centered in the room. My chest hurts in a hollow ache at the realization of what I'm seeing. It's GranAnna.

Why isn't anyone else bothered by this? Not even my mother. Then again, she spent a good portion of the afternoon with her Chi machine for her sore ankles and meditating in the lotus position. That was after her one hour, closed-door phone session with Dharma Louise-Ann where she had a transformative Tarot card reading. Never in my whole life would I have picked my mother as one who'd go for all of this New Age stuff, but it seems to be agreeing with her. Who am I to buck that?

I mean, look at her. She's the picture of peace, calmness, and serenity. Maybe I need to check out that Chi machine when we get back tonight. Either that or take it back to Manhattan with me as my carry-on.

Mom steps into the Heavenly Bound Suite and places her purse on a table next to the door. "Mr. Powell certainly has seen to Mother's wishes," she says.

She's dressed in a smart black pantsuit with floral embroidery around the neckline. It's a bit Wal-Mart-ish for my taste, but she wears it well. Her blond hair is teased appropriately and forms a bit of a hat around her head thanks to an ample dose of hair spray.

Dad steps to her side and takes her hand. He's in a blue dress shirt and simple, pressed gray slacks. No need for a suit and tie tonight as this is merely the open house/meet and greet portion of the program.

I'm in my traditional black. Shirt, skirt, tights and spiky black heels, all great sale purchases from Century 21 down near Ground Zero. It wasn't too hard to pack for this trip since I'm such a good East coaster and typical Manhattan-ite. Everything I own is black. And it all matches my mood.

But I'm putting that aside and burying my desire to wallow around in my own problems. Instead, I think ahead to the steady stream of people who'll be filling this building soon. Friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and relatives aplenty.

GranAnna was the youngest of thirteen children. The siblings are almost all gone now, but there's a whole passel of nieces, nephews, and cousins, enough to fill the Georgia Dome. People I only know by name, but would never recognize in the grocery store as relatives. Mom and Scary Ev, of course, will know everyone on sight, so I'll have to depend on them for re-introductions. Maybe we should require everyone to wear name tags? "Hello, My Name Is... Benjamin, Your Second Cousin, Twice Removed. Nope, name tags weren't in The Book. I'll just have to wing it.

As if reading my thoughts, Mom says, "Now, Mother's wishes were for this evening to be about anyone who wants to come visit the family, up until nine o'clock. Then, tomorrow from ten until two, we'll have another open house for the general public. From two to three, only immediate family will be allowed in the room and the casket will be open for viewing. At precisely three p.m., the service will begin."

And not a moment later. Shame on me, I'm starting to think like Scary Evelyn.

On cue, the door to the funeral home bursts open and in tromps Sammie, Natty-Jo, and JD, with Scary Evelyn and her husband, Darren, following on their heels.

"Now, kids, what did I tell you in the car?" she snaps at them. "This is a grown up event and I prefer that you act like good little girls and boy, do you understand me?"

"There she goes with that 'prefer' again," Mom mumbles.

The two girls are exactly the same person with their long, blond ringlets and dimpled cheeks. JD favors Darren's side of the family more and sticks close to his father's leg after the scolding from his mother.

Darren smiles when he sees me and steps forward for a bear hug. "Well, if it ain't the gal from the Big Apple." He squeezes me to his six-foot-two frame and then sets me away from him. "How's life treating you, Hale?"

Not the most appropriate question, but I smile at my brother-in-law. "No complaints here, Darren. And you?"

"The stock market's solid, all three kids have college funds started and Auburn football just made a run for the national championship, so I can't complain either."

Ahhh, the important things in life. I went to an Ivy League college to get away from the southern football obsession.

Of course, poor Daniel, Scary's oldest son from her first marriage, had to join the Air Force to get college paid for because Mary Ev and Darren thought it would be best that he work for what he wants. No one expected that he'd be shipped off to the Middle East for the foreseeable future with no leave for a funeral that's not one of his parents. He's totally the forgotten grandson, but he seems to prefer it that way.

Before I can say anything else to Darren, Mary Evelyn hustles over. "Darren, Cousin Nancy Jean is looking for you." She sneers, as if to say his talking to me isn't important at all.

"Oh right, she was going to give me the name of the guy who did the paneling for her den. I want him to re-do my office."

Darren pats me on the shoulder, takes JD's hand and leads him deeper into the parlor where our cousin is sitting with a couple more people I have no idea who they are.

"Mary Ev," I say to her before she can get away. "Can we have some sort of system here for introductions?"

"What do you mean?"

I put my hand on my hip. "Basically, I don't know who anyone is. It would be nice if you could introduce me or remind me who people are. You know, a buddy system."

"How so?"

I think. "You know, like 'Hale, you remember Mrs. Smith, don't you?' Something like that."

Her expression flattens and she looks around for a moment. "I suppose I could do that."

I smile. "Thank you. See, that wasn't hard, was it?"

"Don't push it, Hale. I have very little patience for you while having to take care of Mother and Daddy."

She's a freak of nature. How are we related? "What do you mean?"

"Just don't flirt with my husband anymore, okay? You have one of your own somewhere in the world, right?"

Stab to the jugular. Bitch.

"You're delusional, Mary Evelyn."

I gaze across the room to where my brother-in-law is talking shop with my wreath-making cousin. Darren's a nice enough guy. A bit on the financial nerd side. And, God bless him, he puts up with Scary Evelyn for whatever reason. He's a good father, too, shepherding the triplets together away from Mom as she goes over final details for the evening with Jackson Powell. Do I want him? No. Not just no... hell no. Scary Ev needs to get over herself.

A blue-haired old lady steps over to me and taps me on the arm. "Are you one of Sarah Martin's daughters?"

"Yes, I'm Hale."

"The oldest?"

"No ma'am," I say. "I'm the middle girl."

"Oh, well, that'll do. I'm Minerva Powell, Jackson's wife and the sec'etary here. I wanted to let y'all know there's a private family suite through yonder with a bathroom, refrigerator, and telephone for your family's use only. Y'all'll probably want to put your purses and things in there for safekeeping and out of the way."

"Oh, thanks for letting us know, Mrs. Powell."

She reaches for my hand and pats it comfortingly, like she senses my uneasiness with the whole death thing. "I understand what you're going through, my dear. These are difficult times and we do our best to ease some of the tension." She drops my hand and whispers. "Ya'll'll find Co-Colas, coffee, and bottled water in there."

I smile and nod my thanks as she walks off toward the office and disappears. I take this opportunity to scoop up Mom's purse and my bag and head to the private room. Through the swinging door, I find an immaculately white kitchenette with a shiny steel refrigerator and sink. I stash the purses under the small table, then I tug out the bottle of Cavit Pinot Grigio from my bag that I got at the grocery store earlier today. I stick it in the fridge between the Sprite and Diet Dr. Pepper. It's a standard, anytime-is-perfect blend that will be a welcomed respite from the evening's activities. This kitchenette will be my refuge when I'm on total relative overload.

My heart aches in my chest in anticipation of seeing the people who will be here to say goodbye to GranAnna. I try to picture her sick in the nursing home in her final days, but the only image I can conjure up is one of her playing Frisbee with me in her back yard when I was thirteen. She could toss that disk like no one else. Then, we'd go inside and make gingerbread men with raisins for their eyes, nose, and mouth. I was only allowed to eat one cookie because she said Hale women tended to be "hippy" and she didn't want me having any disadvantage in life. She certainly always had the body of a young girl and never got over a size six in her life. GranAnna had a set of long legs on her that rivaled a Rockette of any era. She even taught Gilly and me how to do a kick line one time.

I laugh at the memory as I retrieve the wine bottle, uncork it, and pour myself a serving in a paper cup. Since this is a favorite of Meghan's and mine, there's no note taking, smelling, or sampling; only enjoyment. A nearby bouquet of flowers reminds me of the pink azalea bushes that bloomed around GranAnna's house. She was so proud of those flowers and the fact that the Haven Harbor Chamber of Commerce always photographed them for their web site. I suppose it's better to remember GranAnna in her element than to think of her weak and suffering in a place other than her beloved home.

Out of habit, I can't help but swirl the amber liquid around in the paper cup and take a good sniff, breathing in the nose. I focus on the wine and think of the things Meghan's taught me about tasting. The vintage is pale, almost clear in color, with a vibrant citrus, apricot, and honeysuckle nose. I usually prefer drinking this with a hearty, cream-sauced pasta, but it's also a good sipping wine for any occasion, which I need tonight. I take a taste and savor the feel of the cold liquid in my mouth. It's crisp on the palate with good acidity. Medium bodied in so much that I make out its flavors of lemon citrus with hints of green grape. Swallowing, I muse on the finish and mentally praise the wine makers for their efforts on my behalf.

I'm jostled out of my bliss when the swinging door hits me square on the butt. The wine swooshes over the edge of the cup, however, I'm quick enough to save it from spilling on the floor and down the front of me.

"God, I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was in here," a deep voice says behind me.

The New Yorker in me wants to spin around and deliver a few choice words to this jackass who barged into the family-only room. Then, I remind myself I'm in the South and I need to mind my manners.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

Wiping at an imaginary spot of wine on the front of my skirt, I turn toward the intruder. No need to let him think he's easily off the hook. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just startled, that's all."

Startled is an understatement as I lift my eyes upwards to meet the brilliant green stare. A familiar one at that.

No... startled isn't the correct verb that works here at all. Geez, I'm a writer; I can do better than that. An immediate, emergency, red-light flashing, full sirens to the ER myocardial infarction zipping through my body would be a more appropriate description of my reaction as I inhale a deep intake of breath for fortification.

For standing right in front of me, shining a genuinely friendly smile at me is none other than Jordan Valvano. In the flesh.

And oh, what flesh.

"Hale?" he asks, scrutinizing me. "Hale Martin, right? It is you."

He knows who I am? Well, blow me over.

"J-J-Jordan. Jordan Valvano. Fancy meeting you here."

The voice that sounds out comes from within me, yet it echoes the tone of a twelve year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. I'm too old for my voice to crack and my speech to falter. Why is it after twenty years, the sight of this man has turned me back into a swooning teenager?

Unfazed by my silly quip, he holds up a small video camera. "I'm working."

I don't understand. "Working what? The funeral?"

"Yeah," he says. Those pearly whites of his damn near sparkle and I wonder if he uses some sort of white strip treatment on a regular basis to get them that spectacular. "Your Mom called me this afternoon to videotape your grandmother's funeral."

Oh, that's right. The videographer. It's Jordan?

His eyes widen and he reaches a large hand across the space between us to grip my upper arm. I worry that my workout time at the gym has been limited as of late and I might be a bit on the flabby side. Jordan doesn't show anything other than sympathy toward me at this moment. "I'm really sorry for your loss. Your grandmother was a nice lady."

"Thanks, Jordan." I glance at the video camera wrapped around his hand and try to understand what he's said. "You make a living videoing funerals?"

He laughs; a deep, rumble from his belly that reaches out and tickles me. "Actually, I'll video anything: weddings, birthdays, births, you name it. But recently, I started offering funeral video services since this is such a huge retirement community."

"Isn't that a little bit morbid?" I ask, not meaning to dis his vocation or my grandmother's wish that he be here.

"No, not at all," he says with a twinkle in those green eyes. "As my website will tell you, funerals are like family reunions, so I'm around to capture relatives seeing each other for the first time in a long time and the joy of family. It's actually become quite lucrative and a popular thing around these parts."

"Well, good for you, Jordan." Although, I wonder how much money a forty-five year old man can make doing this. Surely, he's got something else that helps pay the bills.

Quickly, I investigate his left hand and I see it's free of jewelry. As is mine. I quit wearing my two-carat ring and diamond dusted band when the divorce was final. Curtis wouldn't take them back, insisting I hold on to them. So I tucked them into my underwear drawer next to my sexy negligees that are also growing mold. Most of the time, I miss the feel of the stacked rings on my finger. Right now, I relish the sense of freedom.

Jordan places his camera on the counter. "I came in here to change the battery and figured this was out of the way."

"It's supposed to be for family only, but make yourself at home."

I take a moment to check Jordan out. I mean really check him out. I always appreciated his looks in high school and time has been good to him. He's tanned and tall, not wrinkled or weathered in any way. He's trim and fit, no poochy belly or man boobs. His sandy brown hair no longer falls into his eyes, but is pulled straight back into a ponytail.

Yum.

My stomach flip-flops in a delicious free-fall to my feet and back. Man, I haven't had that sensation in a long, long time and it feels amazing, to say the least. I sip my wine again and watch as Jordan fiddles with his equipment. (The camera, that is.) He's certainly stayed in shape and I can't help but admire his tight ass in the form-fitting gray slacks. The black button-down shirt compliments his expansive back and I actually feel I might drool all over myself if I keep eyeballing him.

What's wrong with me? This is a funeral. My grandmother lies in state in the next room. I'm one sick puppy undressing this guy with my eyes. But, it is Jordan Valvano, after all.

"So, Jordan," I say, trying to sound composed. "Do you still play tennis?"

He peers over his shoulder at me and snaps his fingers. "That's right. You were on the tennis team in high school. You had one hell of a backhand."

Saluting him with my wine in a paper cup, I say, "You taught me well."

Leaving his camera alone for a moment, Jordan leans his hip on the counter. "I taught you?"

"Yeah, don't you remember? My mom paid you for lessons for me one summer."

He stares at me as if searching his memory bank and then he smiles. "Oh yeah, I remember. You had braces back then, right?"

Gritting my teeth together, I flash him my impeccably straight grin. "That was me."

He looks me up and down, totally checking me out. I can feel his eyes on me, skimming my legs, my waistline, my bust line, and then my face. I suck in and await his appraisal. "You sure grew up real nice, Hale," he finally says in a lazy accent and then adds on a wink for good measure.

Did Jordan Valvano just overtly flirt with me? Did he compliment me on my looks? Or has it been so ridiculously long since I've had social mingling with a man that I've lost all sense of conversational techniques? I met Curtis when I was finishing up my master's in Creative Writing at Columbia University. We clicked instantly as we waited in line for our double-lattes at the Starbucks on 111th and Broadway.

But this isn't then. It's ten years later. Ten years of hurt, neglect, aloneness, and those long hours waiting with dinner on the table for someone who never came home. The patients that came before me. The hearts that needed mending while mine broke from loneliness.

That's the past.

This is now.

And Jordan Valvano, adolescent crush extraordinaire, is standing before me smiling. I need to be smart and not screw this up, like everything else in my life.

Think Hale. Be smart. Be. Smart.

"Hey, it's really great seeing you after so long." Trying not to fiddle with the hem of my blouse, I say, "I, um, need to get back out there. The receiving line's about to start. Maybe we can go grab a drink later, you know, when this is done tonight, and catch up."

There. That was confident and bold, but not too hussy-like.

Just two old friends meeting up.

Well okay, Jordan and I were never exactly friends. But still. We can be nice. We can be social.

He reaches his hand out. I slip mine into his and enjoy the warmth of his touch as we shake like good business associates. The corner of his mouth tips into an endearing smile and I feel my legs wanting to give way underneath me.

"I'd like that, Hale," he says. "I'd like that a lot." Withdrawing his hand, he scoops up his camera and opens the door for me. "After you."

Trying not to be rattled over my encounter with Jordan Valvano—okay, so the guy earns his money as a videographer, he's still hot as hell—I slip over to my parents who are conversing with a very shriveled-up old woman.

"Hale, sweetie, come see your Aunt Foyle."

Aunt who?

Mom takes my hand and pulls me over to her. I feel someone watching my every move. Jordan has his camera trained on me as I reach to take the tiny, old lady's hand. Great, he's recording my ass... that'll be good for posterity. Literally.

"This is my Daddy's little sister," Mom says. "Lelia Foyle Hale Thomas."

Little, as in pecking order, I assume. "Oh, Grandpa Jack's sister. So nice to see you again."

Aunt Foyle squeezes the crap out of my hand. Quite a grip for someone in her late eighties. Her skin is as wrinkled as a Shar Pei and there's a fine trace of snuff on the corner of her mouth. Ah yes, I remember stories of Aunt Foyle and the snuff boxes she used to keep around her house. It always grossed out GranAnna since she was such a proper lady and was horrified by her sister-in-law's nasty habit.

"I sure miss Anna," she says, her voice breaking.

Nodding, I say, "She's at peace now with Grandpa Jack."

She lifts her eyes and squints to get a good look at me. "Sarah Beth?"

"No, Aunt Foyle, I'm Sarah," Mom interjects. "This is Hale. My middle daughter."

"Are you married?" Aunt Foyle asks.

"No, ma'am." I gulp down hard. Not anymore.

"Are you a lesbian?" she nearly yells out.

Killing a pained expression, I ignore the question and try to press on. Mom steps in, though. "Hale lives in New York City and works at a wine magazine."

Not anymore to that, too.

I cringe at the technicality, but this isn't the time or place for editing my resume. Besides, I'm surprised Mom even got that much right. Since I work (worked) at a magazine, she's always assumed I was a writer of the articles and not simply the senior copy editor, so we've made strides here, not that the details matter anymore.

Aunt Foyle levels her eyes on me. "You like sleepin' with other women?"

Anger seethes through me, but I hold my tongue. Good Lord, Jordan Valvano is recording all of this and somehow thinks I'm from the Isle of Lesbos now. I sigh hard. "No ma'am. I'm not. I mean, I don't... I'm not what you think I am."

God, this is embarrassing.

The old woman continues to pump my hand. "Oh you're the one who they named after the family. Hell of a name for a baby girl, I tell you what. Hale. Should've been a grandson's name. A grandson for Anna and Jack. They deserved that instead of a whole passel of girls."

My mom presses her wad of Kleenex to her mouth and I don't know what to do to get rid of the old woman in front of us.

Dear old Dad steps in and wrenches Aunt Foyle's iron grip from mine. "Foyle, old gal, let me find you a nice place to sit. He ushers her away.

I widen my eyes and mouth "thank you" at him.

Mom lets out a small moan. "You can't change Aunt Foyle. She's old and she gets confused about things, Hale. Her mind is jumbled. Don't let her upset you."

"I'm not upset, Mom. She just got me mixed up with—"

"Fiddle-dee-dee. Look who's here! It's Clara Billingham."

Mom moves forward and hugs her next door neighbor. I move away and take my position in the receiving line next to Mary Evelyn. We're in order according to GranAnna's book: Mom, Dad, Scary, Darren, the triplets and me. I feel Gilly's absence like a huge, gaping wound, but I try not to dwell on it. Her relationship with everyone but me certainly puts the "dys" in "dysfunctional." It's better for her that she's not here.

Better for me? Well, that's another story.

As the never-ending stream of friends and relatives flow by me in a manner of sweaty handshakes and powdery-smelling hugs, I look about, watching as the tall man with the ponytail captures these moments on his video. At one point, Jordan lowers the camera from his eye and winks at me. I want to grin back, but this is a solemn moment and a sober time to mourn the loss of a loved one. Now isn't the time to flirt with a hottie like him.

From the apparent weight on my chest, I feel I may suffocate from the myriad emotions cascading over me. I furrow my brows and think about escaping for another taste of wine. Oh, how I wish Meghan was here with me to act as a buffer.

"You could at least try to smile, Hale," Scary Ev's order cuts into my thoughts.

"It's a funeral, Mary Evelyn. It's not exactly the place to put on a Disney-produced Broadway musical to delight the children." Yes, I'm being snarky, but she needs to piss off right now. I'm bombarded with relatives from a lifetime ago, a school crush that seems to have reared his gorgeous head, and a mother who refuses to acknowledge the facts of life and nature. It's a lot to deal with.

"You're no help," my sister tears at me. "It's a good thing I'm here for Mother and Daddy."

"As am I, Mary Ev. Now, quit telling me what to do. I'm not ten anymore."

She grits her teeth. "Then don't act like it."

I open my mouth to say something, but I stop when I hear a small commotion in the front foyer outside the Heavenly Bound Suite. Laughter fills the air as the voices rise. Some kind of boisterous reunion is taking place. I envy their joy and exuberance of seeing old friends and reacquainting with relatives.

Mom leans forward and snaps her fingers to get my attention. "Hale, sweetie, go out there and see what's going on."

Yes! I'm saved from this doomed receiving line.

Scooting around the back of everyone, I weave between the random gathering of cousins from Pascagoula, Mississippi, talking about last year's batch of Gulf hurricanes and I make my way toward the foyer. Over the top of the gathered group of people, I see the jet-black, dyed, spiked hair. My heartbeat picks up a million pulses per second as I hear the newest visitor speak to Reverend Sparks and his wife.

My eyes fill with tears at the recognition.

"Well, we were headed down to Miami Beach for the Winter Music Conference to promote Kaskade's new album and we thought we might as well swing in here and see the fam. It seemed like the right thing to do."

There are at least nine earrings in her right ear and her tight leather skirt is anything but appropriate for this occasion. However, she's the most beautiful person I've seen here tonight. Well, aside from Jordan Valvano.

She must sense that I'm behind her because she turns toward me. Her face brightens as if lit by a thousand sparkling spotlights.

"Hale, Hale, the gang's all here," she says with happiness in her voice and spreads her arms wide in invitation.

Barely being able to find my voice through the lump in my throat, I say, "Oh, Gilly, you came."
CHAPTER EIGHT

I gather my baby sister to me and squeeze the ever-loving mess out of her. Sure, we e-mail, text, and call each other, but it's nothing like real contact. It's been way too long since I've seen her in person. I know it's been five years, at least.

I rub the back of her head, then wipe at the tears that have escaped from my eyes. Gilly reaches into the pocket of her tight leather skirt and hands me a bit of folded toilet paper she has with her.

"Haven't I always told you to wear waterproof?" she says with a grin. "Especially to events like this."

I smile as she wipes under my eyes diligently. "Clinique discontinued their waterproof eyeliner. I have to make do with what I can get now."

I gaze at her immaculately drawn-on dark, smoky makeup. She was a Goth girl in her last years of high school and she certainly hasn't toned down much with her current rock and roll appearance.

"Remind me to send you some She She Cosmetics eyeliner," she says. "It's what all the rockers use and it's a lifesaver." Gilly smiles brightly and I note the diamond stud in her nose. Man, Mom's going to shit over that.

We hug again and I pull her away from Brother Sparks' group.

"Did you, um... get the voice mail I left you from the plane?"

Gilly's precisely plucked brows furrow together and she reaches into her purse for her cell phone. She swipes her finger over it and reads the display. "Dude, my mailbox is totally filled. The past twenty-four hours are a blur to me. We were partying with P. Diddy, Usher, and Missy Elliot in L.A. after some party the iTunes people threw and then I was trying to line up some promotions in Tampa and Miami when Mom called and left a message at my apartment."

Relief washes over me. Good, Gilly didn't hear how desperate and alone I sounded. She came here because she wants to be here, not because she felt sorry for me. "Oh, so Mom told you."

"Yeah, why, Hale? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

I sniff and try to compose myself. No need to get into the firing from the job and the missing of Curtis thing now. Everything's going to be all right. I've got my Gilly here. Safety in numbers.

Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I hug her to me and lower my voice. "I'm fine. You're going to have this incredibly messed up voice mail from me, but just ignore it. I mean, really. I must have been drunk. Or something. Stupid, mainly. Not thinking."

Her brow lifts up this time. "You, Hale? Magna Cum Laude, Ms. Master's Degree? You're anything but stupid." She takes my hand and squeezes it in her own. I drop my eyes and see the shiny, black polish on her fingernails and silver skull rings galore. Oh yeah, Mom's going to love these touches, as well.

"You know what I'm talking about, Gilly. Life's shit got me down, what can I say?"

She swings our hands back and forth. "You're still hurting over the break with Curtis?"

"No. I'm fine," I lie, hoping she believes me. "I have to get on with my life. The section as Dr. Curtis Fletcher's ignored wife is over. Closed. Complete." The words sound convincing.

"You should come see me out in San Francisco."

"I... I can't, I have—" What do I have?

"—a job," she interjects. "Yeah, yeah, I know. One of these days I'll get you out to the Left Coast. You'll love the city. We'll drive up to Sonoma and Napa and you can visit every winery in the two valleys. It will be perfect for you."

I close my eyes to imagine the rolling green hills covered with rich, plump vines of grapes waiting to be picked. The juniper and thyme and lavender scents fill the very air. "I'd like to go to wine country," I say with a resigned sigh.

Gilly laces her arm through mine and hugs up to me. "You're going to be fine, Hale. You always are. That's why I've put you up on a pedestal and made you my hero."

My heart expands for the love I feel for my little sister. For all the pain she's had in her life that I couldn't prevent or stop. All that matters is she's here. Now, if only Mom, Dad and Scary Evelyn are so accepting.

"Are you by yourself?" I ask.

She hitches her head toward the door. "Chris is finding a place to park the rental car. The lot's pretty full out there."

Ahh... Chris. Not only have they worked together for three years, they've been together as a couple for that long, as well. It's nice to know that some things do last.

I usher Gilly into the Heavenly Bound Suite, knowing Chris will catch up with us eventually.

"Are you sure you're up to this?"

"It's family, Hale. How bad can it be?"

I smile through my apprehension and press ahead. Mom and Dad are passing off Homer Huckmiller, the man who used to tend GranAnna's lawn, to Darren and Mary Ev as Gilly and I approach. I'm unsure of what's about to happen, but here we go.

"Mom... look who I found out in the foyer," I say softly.

Mom pivots and stops dead in her tracks for a minute. Dad does the same. My entire body tenses in the utter, frozen fear that they're going to cause a scene and demand that Gilly get out of here. When she'd left their house in a devastating expulsion five years ago, they'd explicitly told her never to come back. Despite the informative call from Mom, I'm sure they never really expected Gilly to actually show up here for fear that she would embarrass them further somehow.

Yet here she is. My little sister, with her head held high, proud of who and what she is. I won't let her go away again.

"Mommy? Daddy?" she says in the voice of the precious little girl I remember so well. "You called. I came."

Mom's face falls and tears shoot out of her eyes like a sprinkler on a hot summer day. Then, before I know what's happening, she encompasses Gilly into an embrace, swinging her back and forth, left and right with all the force of a mother bear protecting her beloved cub. "My baby..."

"Oh Mommy," Gilly says into my mother's shoulder. "I'm soooo sorry about GranAnna. I'm going to miss her something fierce."

Mom pulls back and kisses my sister on the cheek, tears mixing with her love. "Sam, would you look who's come home to us. In two days, I might have lost my mother, but I've gained back two daughters. What do you think of that, honey?"

Dad smiles, his eyes slightly shiny with moisture, although I'm sure he'd deny it. "Come here, Little Bit." He pulls Gilly to him.

Yep. I'm Little Kid and Gilly is Little Bit. Just like old times. Maybe those wounds of five years ago have scabbed over without too many scars to all involved.

Caught up in all of the love in the room, I reach past Darren to where Mary Evelyn is standing, oblivious to what's going on. I nab her hand and tug her toward me as she's finishing up the conversation with Mr. Huckmiller.

"What is it Hale?" she asks a bit annoyed.

"Look who's here!"

Mary Ev's grin runs away from her face and that traditional Scary Ev look replaces it, showing off the harsh lines around her mouth and the unhappiness in her eyes.

Gilly peels herself from my parents' joyful embraces and gives Mary Evelyn a beaming grin. "Hey Mev," she says.

I can see my sister isn't pleased to be called Mev, Gilly's pet name for her when she was first learning to talk and couldn't enunciate Mary Evelyn. "Well. I never thought I'd see you here, Gillian."

To Gilly's credit, she doesn't take the bait. "I have every right to be here, Mev."

My older sister nods, but doesn't budge in her effort to be genuinely pissed off.

Our attention shifts to the new visitor who enters the room, dressed in an expensive leather coat and decked out in black. Gilly waves. This must be the infamous Chris.

Mary Evelyn hisses like a snake and I fear she's going to spew her venom on all of us. "How dare you, Gilly? How dare you? Flaunting your disgusting lifestyle in our faces. And at GranAnna's funeral!"

I won't put up with this. "Mary Evelyn be quiet. Gilly's here and that's all that matters. Can't you get along and leave judgment to the courts?"

"Girls, girls... really," Mom says, tugging uncomfortably at her collar. "There are people around."

"Yes, there are," Scary Ev says. "And everyone's going to see our sister and her hedonistic ways. Think of your blood pressure, Mother. You should tell her to leave right now."

Mom flattens her mouth. "I'll do no such thing."

"She's not leaving," I snap.

"No, I'm not," Gilly says. "Neither is Chris." Pointing at her friend, she continues. "Hon, I want you to meet my parents, Sarah and Sam Martin. This is Chris Carlton. My girlfriend."

And we're off.

~~ ~~

I pour another cup of the Pinot Grigio and pass it to my sister. "Well, that went well, don't you think?"

Gilly puts her purse next to mine in the private family room and reaches for the wine. "Surprisingly, Mom and Dad seem cool about all of this. What gives? Did they get brain transplants that I don't know about?"

The cold wine trickles down the back of my throat and quenches the fire boiling inside over Scary Evelyn's attitude. Maybe I can write a freelance article on tempering your anger with the fruit of the vine.

Instead, I say, "They miss you, kiddo. You were their miracle, change-of-life baby and always made them feel young. With you gone, they're sensing their advanced age."

She shrugs. "Maybe so. Seems like something more, though."

"I think they've found some sort of spiritual bliss in their old age. Mom's seeing a Reiki Master who's working with her third eye and chi and other stuff like that," I explain. "It's all to get her through GranAnna's death, but she seems to have achieved this higher plane of existence or something."

"And Daddy?"

"He's doing needlepoint for his arthritis. You know him, he doesn't show too many emotions and now he's sort of walking through the motions of life. I think he misses harbor mastering."

"Well, he seems to have accepted me all of a sudden," Gilly adds. "That's all I've ever wanted. I just remember how angry they both were at me for coming out of the closet. Like they'd failed as parents or something."

"That's in the past, Gilly."

"I suppose so." She flips one of her skull rings over and over for a moment. "You know, they tried to send me to one of those 'Pray the Gay Away' camps?"

I almost gag on my wine. "They what?"

"Yeah, after they threw me out of the house, Mom called and said she'd read all these books and stuff that she bought online to the tune of several hundred dollars, and that there are these camps where people with 'my problem' can go for prayer and healing."

"You've got to be kidding me." I had no idea.

Gilly sips the wine and continues. "Mom said they would let me back into the family if I agreed to go, but I just couldn't. Instead of just accepting me for me, she wanted to change me and I couldn't deal with that. So, I walked and didn't look back."

"I'm so sorry, Gilly." I wrap my arm around my sister and squeeze her tight. "I think things are going to be better now. Time actually does heal wounds and all the rest."

"I suppose."

I nod my head. "Now, I guess we'll have to wait for Scary Evelyn to chill with old age, huh? Not that I ever see her relaxing or giving control away to anyone else... ever."

My sister waves her hand. "I don't give a flying shit what Mev thinks about me and my life. She thinks I'm going to turn her gay by merely looking at her. There's enough prejudice in this world without getting it from your own flesh and blood."

Chris slips in through the swinging door and smiles at us. "I didn't mean to cause trouble coming to this funeral with you, hon."

I go over and hug Chris to me. "I, for one, am glad to finally meet you after all of these years of e-mailing and Skyping."

Chris's smile spreads. "You, too, Hale. Gilly's right to have made you her hero."

I feel the blush creep over my skin. "Well, she goes on."

Chris isn't Goth like Gilly, but her makeup is flawless and her skin is smooth. She has dark, short hair styled perfectly and she's wearing classy diamond earrings that complement the simple black wrap dress. She's what you'd call a lipstick lesbian. Someone you'd never peg as a girl who likes the ladies. Of course, my family never suspected that was how Gilly would turn out, either.

I don't care, personally. To each his or her own. Whatever makes you happy and such. We're all people just looking for love on this crazy planet. Who am I to say Chris and Gilly can't or don't have it together? Or shouldn't? It's an asinine argument in this day and age.

Chris threads her fingers through Gilly's and looks at me. "We should go out for drinks after this."

"I think I'm still drunk from the iTunes after parties," Gilly mutters with a laugh.

"There are bars around here, aren't there?" Chris asks.

I snicker and then have one more taste of the wine. "Yeah, chain restaurants like Ruby Tuesday, O'Charley's, and some local pubs. But I have to pass tonight," I say with a sly grin.

Gilly pulls away and gets a Sprite from the fridge. "What, hot date tonight?"

I feel my cheeks flame, so I turn away. How exactly do I classify this get together with Jordan Valvano? It's hardly a date, but then what's with the liquid, warm reaction throughout my body as I imagine sitting across a table from him drinking wine and chatting intimately?

"I'm, um, going out for drinks with an old high school friend later."

Gilly rolls her eyes and chugs her soda down. "God, who? Please don't tell me Bitsy McDonald is still around these parts. I don't think I can stomach her Southern belle simp on this visit."

Bitsy McDonald was my cheerleading partner and the most popular girl at Haven Harbor High School. Homecoming Queen, Prom Princess, Class Favorite. We lost touch after high school, but it doesn't keep Mom from reporting on her to me constantly even though Bitsy friended me on Facebook. I get to see her daily selfie, pictures of her spoiled Yorkie, and posts about how perfect and special her son, Winston, is and how no woman will ever love him like his mother does. Yikes! "Bitsy's the last person I'd hang out with," I say. "We only ever had cheerleading in common."

"I wonder what ever became of her?" Gilly asks. Then, she turns to Chris. "This girl, oh my God, stick figure, boobs out to here, big hair back then, and makeup so thick you could chisel the Ten Commandments on her cheeks.

"She sounds lovely," Chris quips.

Tossing my empty wine cup in the trash, I say, "According to her Facebook profile, Bitsy is on her third husband, but this one is the one. He owns half of the real estate in Nashville, so I'm sure his money is the one. Mom rode me by husband number two's dance studio yesterday as we were out and about doing errands."

"In case you wanted to pop in for a tap lesson?" Chris kids.

"Exactly."

Gilly laughs and then presses me. "So, who are you meeting up with then?"

I take a deep breath and feel my lungs expand in my chest. "You remember Jordan Valvano?"

Gilly's eyes grow dark and wide. "The tennis hottie?"

Chris looks at her in a weird way.

"What?" Gilly says. "The guy was a hottie, even if he wasn't in my target demographic."

"The one and same," I say. "He's here tonight. He's the one with the video camera, as per GranAnna's wishes."

"This I gotta see!"

Gilly goes to open the door and peeks out, but Scary Evelyn is standing on the other side, hands on hips.

I feel like I did that time she caught Gilly and me playing dress up with Mom's wedding gown many years ago. We're. In. Trouble. And she's got "the look" on her face.

She grinds her teeth together. "The point of this event tonight is not to hide in here talking to each other. We have a responsibility to our parents to stand out there, greet people, and thank them for coming to pay their last respects to our deceased grandmother."

"Chillax, Mev. We're coming," Gilly says, pushing past her.

We walk back out to the jam-packed room and take our places in line. Thankfully, Scary Ev's triplets are between me and her, so I don't have to make shit-chat with my sister. We manage, though, over the next hour, as relatives from hither and yon reintroduce themselves. Becky Ann from Baton Rouge, Lester from Lake City, Florida. Eloise from the church and Delia from Rotary Club. Laura-Leigh and her twins from Tallahassee and Donald and his third wife, Joanne, from Mobile. A conglomerate of names, faces, and locations that mean nothing to me and have no staying power. They all ask the same questions, over and over again, like yapping reporters on speed balls. It's like being pecked to death by baby ducks.

And next thing I know, standing before me in a full-length fox fur coat is none other than Bitsy McDonald. Mrs. Nashville Real Estate Queen herself.

"Why if it ain't Haaaaaaaaaaaaaale Martin!" she hollers out at me, making my one-syllable name into one that contains at least five now.

"Bitsy, so good to see you." Can she hear the insincerity in my voice?

Bitsy swings our hands back and forth and I feel like she's going to break into that cheerleading dance routine we did in tenth grade to "You Dropped a Bomb on Me" by The Gap Band.

"Well, you just look marvelous, Hale," she gushes. "Your Facebook pictures don't do you justice.

"Bitsy McDonald," I say, not really knowing what else to say.

She dangles a very gaudy diamond solitaire in my face. "Bitsy McDonald Truman Johnson Horton Benedict."

I hold in my chortle. "That's quite a mouthful."

Bitsy tosses her orangey-colored, massively-teased hair over her shoulder. "Well, it's just Bitsy Benedict now. My divorce from Harold Horton, the real estate tycoon in Nashville, was finalized, and I got married again. Can you believe it?"

I let this soak in. Divorce certainly doesn't seem to stunt this woman, at all. In fact, she seems empowered by it. Maybe I can learn something from her. "Your Facebook didn't say anything about—"

"Oh, well, Winston is staying with his grandmother and I didn't want him reading anything on the Internet." She tugs at the tall, balding guy who's shaking hands with my father. "You remember Charles, don't you? He was a year ahead of us at Haven Harbor High."

I slice my eyes over to take in Chuck, I mean, Charles Benedict. My breath hitches in my throat. This is Chuck Benedict? The guy was second in cuteness in school only to Jordan Valvano. Now, his hair is thinking and wrinkles fan out around his eyes.

He waves a friendly hello at me and then leans in to kiss my cheek. "Nice to see you, Hale, despite the circumstances."

"Likewise Chuck."

"He goes strictly by Charles now," Bitsy says, correcting me. She trudges right along. "I see your mother at the grocery store all the time. She shops at the one in Blue Ridge Estates—my neighborhood—occasionally and she tells me all about you."

"Lovely."

"I heard you'd married a lawyer?"

"Doctor," I correct.

"Same thing, honey."

I look around to see who else is in line, who can possibly save me, but I'm on my own. Mom is talking to Brother Sparks and his wife, Dad has wandered off to the bathroom, and Scary Evelyn's chasing the triplets around and keeping them away from cousin Nancy Jean who, for some reason, has three of her homemade wreaths spread out on a couch for display... and for sale? Really? Gilly and Chris are nowhere to be found. "But, I'm divorced," I add, not knowing why I feel the need to clarify that with Bitsy.

"It happens to the best of us," Bitsy says with a laugh. "Let me just say, I'm so sorry about your Gran'momma. Bobby John and I—my second husband—lived across the street from her for a few years. She sure was a nice lady. Used to make us peach preserves and bring us magnolia blossoms from her tree."

"Thanks, I appreciate your saying that."

Bitsy keeps prodding, playing catch up for the twenty years we've been apart. "You mother said you were off in some foreign country?"

I try not to sigh too hard. "I live in New York City and have been there for several years, off and on. My husband did his residency in Toronto a while back so we lived there for two years."

I witness the reaction of a Warner Brothers cartoon character as Bitsy's eyes literally bulge out a mile from her head and her mouth falls open to the ground. Okay, maybe not, but close enough.

"Toooooooronto?" she whines out questioningly.

"Yes." Did I stutter?

Bitsy plays with the fur collar of her coat. "I'm not sure I know exactly where that is."

"It's in Ontario. Ontario, Canada."

She snaps her finger. "That's right. Toronto is the capital of Canada."

"Actually," I start, "Ottawa is the capital, but it doesn't matter." I don't feel the need to educate Bitsy tonight.

"I didn't think they had doctors up there," she says with a confused look on her face. "What with that socialized medicine and all."

I shake my head, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of her words. I won't even try to explain the Canadian health care system to her. Instead, I say, "Well, he works in Cardiovascular Medicine now at New York-Presbyterian that's affiliated with Columbia University. I've been in Manhattan now for seven years. That's home."

In typical Bitsy make-everyone-else-seem-insignificant fashion, she pats my hand comfortingly. "I just feel so sorry for you, Hale. It must be so hard for you being on your own in such a big city like that. No one to take care of you. All alone..."

Bitsy's words cut like a razor blade at my already delicate exterior I'm trying so hard to put up in the face of so much sadness and turmoil. I try to think of something confident and convincing, but the words back up in my throat like a five-car pile-up. Words are my life, yet I'm unexpectedly stumped.

Suddenly, I feel an arm snake around my shoulder in a strong, protective way as if telling me everything's going to be okay. At least for the time being. "She's not alone," the deep, familiar voice says. "Far from it."

Jordan Valvano's warm hand slides down my back and cups my waist, molding me close to him and suggesting an intimacy between the two of us. It's exhilarating. It's delicious. It's victorious.

The stunned look on Bitsy's face is all I need right now.

At that moment, I realize I may have had a shitty past couple of days, but the rest of this evening—hanging with Jordan and getting to know him better—has real potential.

And I'm going to be smart enough to not mess it up.

## Wine #2

## The wine you pair with

## that perfect meal...
CHAPTER NINE

I look at my watch. 9:21 p.m. central time. Past time to leave.

My stomach is a knot of butterflies in anticipation of spending quality alone time with Jordan. But it won't happen until everyone clears out of here.

I look behind me and see Aunt Foyle and Cousin Nancy Jean are straggling and won't leave. Go, already!

There's also an older gentleman I don't recognize who's been here all night, sitting close to the casket. Now, he's standing in front of it staring at the glossy photo of GranAnna. I wonder who this guy is. Should I go over and talk to him? I have to admit, I'm about talked out.

Releasing a long sigh, I shift my weight from one leg to the other. Have I mentioned I'm ready to get out of here and spend some time with Jordan? After the emotional roller coaster of the last couple of days, I'm feeling the need for conversation, cocktails, and companionship. I wonder if he's a wine enthusiast.

Gilly sidles up to me. "We're headed to Mom and Dad's."

Surprised, I turn. "You and Chris are staying there?"

"Yeah, under one condition," she says with a sarcastic snicker. "Separate rooms."

I shake my head. "Oh, please! They never made Curtis and me sleep in separate rooms."

"Ahhh, but you shared the bonds of holy matrimony," Chris says.

Gilly holds her hands up to stop us both. "No, it's fine, you guys. One step at a time. The fact that I'm allowed under their roof is enough for me right now. And Chris is fine, aren't you? She's dealt with her own family before, so she's experienced. It's not like Mev's going to be there with her judgmental looks and greater-than-thou attitude."

I glance over and see Scary Ev strapping quilted down coats on her triplets, jerking them tall and straight as she zips the zipper to their little throats.

"Now those poor kids," Gilly says. "They're going to be sincerely mucked up later in life. Think of the therapy bills."

"That's okay, Darren makes enough money to pay for it," I snark off as she walks away with Chris. "See you guys later."

"Hale, before you leave..." Mary Evelyn calls out.

Her mouth flattens and her eyes become steely gray. Whose eyes are those? They certainly don't belong to Mom or Dad. I swear, I think she was adopted. She has to be. A spawn of Satan, perhaps?

"Yeah?"

"There's the matter of the plane fare," she says. "Don't think you're going to stick me with that."

What a loving sibling. "No, Mary Ev, I remember. There just hasn't been time, what with everything that's been going on... you know, the relatives, the wake..."

I look back to the casket, as if I need to make my case, and I see the strange old man weeping quietly and blowing his nose into a handkerchief. Should someone go over and see to him? Does he need comforting? Is he a relative who needs a place to sleep tonight? Or a ride to his hotel?

Mary Ev nudges me and sticks her hand out, palm up. "I'll take the money now, thanks. $378."

"I have to go to the ATM. Or I can PayPal you or write a check, but then, will you require two forms of identification with that?" I ask a bit tartily.

"I prefer the money in my hand, although, your check better not bounce or you'll pay my bank fees."

What. A. Bitch.

I jerk my checkbook out of my purse and hastily scribble out payment to her. If she cashes it immediately—which she'll likely do—there shouldn't be any problem with it. So much for her act of kindness.

She takes the check, folds it and stuffs it in the pocket of her coat. "Fine. Now I don't have to pester you about it."

Right, because she has plenty of other things to harass me about. "Goodnight, Mary Ev," I say sweetly.

I turn and see Jordan putting his video camera away in its case. I have a sudden pang of guilt over the possibility of enjoying time with him when I should be with my family. Then, I think of how everyone might be seated around at Mom and Dad's in a little bit, sorting through the mystery casseroles that started arriving this morning from GranAnna's church friends. Maybe I shouldn't think of myself. I should go home and be with my parents, Gilly and Chris, and be the buffer.

"Gilly?" I call out. "I'll come with you guys."

She dashes her eyes over to Jordan as he's bent over to pick something up. "Are you kidding? You should go with the guy with the tight ass."

"But, I should get to bed and rest for—"

"What are you? Twelve again?"

Mom comes from the secret family room and threads her pocketbook onto her shoulder. Dad follows and pats her on the back. "Ready to head home, old lady?"

Mom leans her head on his shoulder and my chest contracts at how adorable they are together. When they reach us, Mom pulls me close. "Let's go home and I'll pull out the ham and potato salad from the fridge."

Oh yeah, that's exactly what I want.

I loop my arm around Mom and kiss her on the forehead. "Actually, Jordan and I were going to run out for bite, if that's okay. We weren't doing anything at home, were we?"

Mom looks inquisitively at me. "Jordan Valvano?"

"Yeah, Jordan. Why?"

"I didn't know you were interested in him."

"It's nothing, Mom. Just old friends getting together."

She pulls her key chain from her purse and starts wrenching away at a big, gold key. "I'm going to sleep as soon as I eat something. Tomorrow's a big day and we start early. Ten a.m., Hale." Passing the key to me, she says, "Take this so you can let yourself in when you get back. Don't stay out too late."

"Mom, I'm forty-five. I don't need a curfew."

"Fiddle-dee-dee."

I remember the mystery man at the casket. "Say, do you know who that man is over by the—" I stop when I see that he's slipped out. Disappeared in fact, like he was never there. I didn't imagine him, did I? "Oh, never mind."

I kiss Mom again on the cheek and then lean over and kiss Dad. He wraps his arm around Gilly and they all head out of Powell Memorial. Nice to see everyone's finally getting along.

"I got a lot of great video," Jordan says to me.

I lift my eyes up to his green stare and I smile. Damn, he's a good looking guy. He's like a fine Bordeaux wine; just gets better with age. I'd like to pop his cork and breathe him in.

"Great... great," is all I can say, feeling a little breathless. I tuck the house key into the front pocket of my shirt and adjust my small purse up under my shoulder. "So, where are we off to?"

"What are you in the mood for?" he asks with a curious look.

"Anything but honey-baked ham and potato salad."

"I beg your pardon?"

I laugh. "Sorry, inside joke. Anything is fine with me. I'll take an Arby's roast beef at this point."

Jordan nods his head. "You know, that doesn't sound half bad. I've got an idea."

He starts off and I realize I have no transportation. Being presumptuous, I say, "I assume I can ride with you? No wheels."

Tugging my coat off the front rack, he holds it for me as I slip into it. "I'm happy to be your taxi, Miss Hale."

He. Is. So. Cute.

He grabs the remaining coat off the rack—leather, of course—and escorts me out of the funeral home. Mom and Dad's Caddy is pulling away and that leaves one, lone car in the parking lot. A classic, black Mustang from the 1960s. The same car Jordan drove in high school. I always fantasized about riding with him in that car... and doing other things.

"After you," he says and then smiles down at me. At five-seven, I don't usually feel short, but Jordan's well over six feet tall.

Trying not to be shy in his presence, I trot along to the car. He opens the door and deposits me in the front seat like a true gentleman, stashes his camera equipment in the trunk, and then comes around to his side. The motor purrs to a start and he turns to look at me. His features are shadowed in the pale light that's coming from the parking lot, setting off the depth of his eyes and the fullness of his lips.

I swallow the lump that's formed in my throat and threatens my air supply. "So, where to?"

"I'm cool with the Arby's idea. Seems like a time for comfort food, right?" he says.

Great. Me and my big mouth. So much for chat over a nice meal and a full-bodied glass of hearty red. "Umm... sure."

He puts the car in gear and pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway. "We'll run by there, grab the food, and take it to my place. How's that?"

My heart stops for at least ten minutes—or so it seems—until I force myself to speak. Answer him, Hale! Is he expecting something from me? Do I want to give it to him? All I can think of is that I haven't had sex in looooooooong time. That and my legs aren't shaved and I have no protection. Wait a minute! I need to get over myself.

I breathe in deeply. "Sounds great, as long as you've got something interesting to drink. A nice Zinfandel would match up with the roast beef."

He winks. "I think you'll be surprised."

~~ ~~

This is the best meal I've ever had in my life. Well, in the last forty-eight hours, at least. And I haven't eaten anything remotely in the vicinity of the beef family in years.

I don't want to even think about the nineteen grams of fat from the yummy Arby's sandwich (with extra sauce) or the thirteen grams of fat from the order of curly fries. They'll probably show up on my chin and/or hips in a week, but right now, I don't care. And the smooth Bearboat Pinot Noir he offered me (impressive) slides down easily and actually compliments the grease and the salt. I won't turn a snotty nose up to anything. Not like Meghan would. She's not here and I am. All I know is the food is delicious and exactly what my body was craving.

Among other things.

Jordan has a very stylish, one-bedroom house that overlooks the Gulf on a dead-end street at the end of Haven Harbor. It's actually not very far from GranAnna's. The design is sleek and modern with straight lines and bold colors. The décor and furniture is directly from the pages of the West Elm catalog.

The expansive living room opens into a black and stainless steel kitchen that Jordan tells me he did over two years ago. I can see his handiwork in the details of the tiled floor and spiffy new appliances.

The living room is painted a slate gray with two framed posters depicting Havana in the 1930s. I can feel the tropical heat and salsa just looking at the hues of reds, oranges, and yellows in the pictures.

We're sitting on the floor, on chunky silvery cushions that have seen better days, but they're trés comfortable. A glass coffee table hosts our picnic dinner and is scattered with various travel and cooking magazines. I fantasize momentarily about Jordan preparing me an exotic dinner and feeding it to me here in this dimly lit room.

For now, I'll enjoy my roast beef, Pinot, and fries.

I finish off the bottle in front of me on the coffee table and lean back against Jordan's leather couch.

"I haven't eaten like this in forever. I sure have missed it," I say with a resigned sigh.

"You're not one of those no carb people are you?"

"No, but I don't usually eat beef or pork. Can't tell you the last time I did." Well, okay, about five minutes ago.

"I live off this stuff." Jordan wipes his mouth. He got the beef 'n cheddar sandwich and made quick work of it. Won't gain an ounce, though, probably. The guy always did have a high metabolism in high school. Looks like some things don't change. "I bet you're used to fancy New York restaurants, huh?"

Setting the wine glass next to me on the floor, I shake my head. "I used to be. When I was... " I trail off and look at Jordan. Do I tell him I'm damaged goods? Do I admit I'm a failure at keeping my man happy? It's not that bad. People get divorced every day. It's part of who I am now. So why not fess up? Yeah, sure. Why not? "My husband liked to go out to a nice dinner when he wasn't on call at the hospital."

He squints at me. "Past tense?"

"Ex-husband," I correct myself.

He smiles. "Ah, well then."

Jordan lifts off the floor and pads into the kitchen to retrieve a couple of Corona and slices of lime. "I was married once, too," he says off-handedly.

I watch as he covers the top of the bottle with his large thumb and then slowly flips the drink upside down so the lime floats all the way to the bottom. He rights the long-neck and sets it on the table without spilling a drop. What a pro.

"Impressive." Getting back to the revelation that he's been married, as well, I say, "Was she anyone I know?"

"Nah," he says, looking down into his own beer. "I met her in California. She was from the Baja Peninsula."

Interesting. "Mexican?"

"Sí."

"¿Bella?" Was she beautiful? Look at me remembering college Spanish.

He doesn't look away from me as he rests the beer bottle on his lower lip. "Muy bella."

For some reason, I feel like he just said I am very beautiful. And for the first time in a long time, I believe it.

"So what happened?" My taste buds adjust from the smoothness of the wine to the tanginess of the beer. I await his answer.

Jordan slips off his shoes and plops down against the couch next to me. He toys with the bottom of his sock for a moment and then speaks.

"Eh, she was only using me to get into the country. You know, to secure a Visa. We met on the Internet, she came to visit, it was a short courtship, and we were married eight months before I figured out what was up." He takes a deep swig from the beer. "The divorce was quick and painless."

I nod and then drink from my glass again. "Is any divorce really quick and painless?"

"Yours wasn't?"

I pull my bottom lip with my teeth, wondering how we got on this topic. But let's be honest. "No, it was painful."

"Do you still love him?"

Interesting that of all the friends and family who've been with me through the heartache of my divorce, no one's ever asked me this question. How do I answer? My soul cries out "oh hell yes!" yet, I'm not sure if the actual words can leave my mouth and be true. So, I take the coward's way out and shrug.

Jordan's eyes darken in the faint light. "Sounds like your heart was more involved than mine."

I want to change the subject. This isn't helping to bring me out of my divorced-jobless-mourning doldrums. "So, what were you doing in California?"

He notes the shift in topic and is kind enough to let it alone. I don't want to think about Curtis right now or wonder what he's up to with his mistress of a hospital. I almost wish there had been another woman in his life. At least then, I could have confronted her, had words with her, and demanded that she leave my husband alone. How does one fight an entity? A job? A responsibility?

I need to pay attention to the here and now. Jordan Valvano is draped out like a piece of sex on the gray carpet, the top two buttons of his shirt open to reveal his dark chest. Looks like he takes advantage of the added sunshine they get down here. He's all that matters now. Right now.

"I got my master's at USC," he answers.

"Really? In what?"

"Biology."

Then why are you living back here videoing funerals?

"Did you ever work in your field?" I prod.

He drinks down his Corona and then reaches for the last of his fries. "Yeah, for a bio-tech firm in San Diego. I got tired of the corporate bullshit. It wasn't for me. The rules. The late nights. The endless reports."

"I know what you mean." Up until two days ago, without even realizing it, I was a gerbil on a round, metal wheel. I wasted time sitting in an office editing other people's words and surviving through dull, unproductive story meetings where people in love with the sound of their own voices blathered on and on preaching Shay Publishing policies and procedures. Guess I should have listened more.

Now look at me. I'm eating fast food—pressed, chopped, and processed beef, no less—I'm drinking a red wine meant for a rich-flavored meal, and I'm hanging with Jordan Valvano, a.k.a. A Sex God.

I point at the Cuban posters. "Those are great retro prints you've got there. Too bad we'll never see Cuba in our lifetime. I hear it's exquisite."

"Oh, it is," he says. "I was there three years ago."

"But how?"

"I went in through Mexico."

"I didn't know you could do that. I mean, I knew you could go in from Canada," I say, rambling.

He looks up at the pictures. "Havana looked like it had been frozen in time. Old timey cars, sidewalk cafes, and lovely people. Food that would break your heart just from the spicy aroma. It certainly wasn't close to the scary communists we've been told about. And the best part of being there... no American chain stores or advertisements. It was refreshing."

"I'll bet. I went to Bermuda for my honeymoon and it was the same way," I say. "Candy-colored houses with white roofs and flowers everywhere. Not one billboard in sight."

Jordan stares at me for a minute and then spins up onto his knees to clear away our paper wrappings and empty fry boxes. I fear he's going to ask me to leave, right when I'm feeling so at home and comfortable. That's what I get for constantly bringing Curtis and my marriage into every conversation. All reminders of what a failure I am at certain things in my life. Not very appealing to the opposite sex.

I need to enjoy myself. Chill out and all those other clichés. Hoping Jordan will take the hint, I reach down and peel my chunky black shoes off and wiggle my stocking toes in the rug.

I finish my beer and watch as he stashes the trash away in a hidden compactor. I can see he takes pride in living here and keeping it looking nice.

"You wanna kick this party up?" Jordan calls out from the kitchen.

Oh good, he doesn't want me to leave. "What did you have in mind?" I ask coyly. Spin-the-bottle? Seven Minutes in Heaven? Sex a la carte? No... no... no...

He goes to the freezer and removes a bottle of liquor that looks like tequila with something white in the bottom. Jordan reaches for two low balls, comes back to the living room and plops down next to me.

"You don't have to be home anytime soon, do you?"

Somewhat breathless by his presence and his scent—definitely Tommy Hilfiger cologne—I pull my legs underneath me and say, "I'm all yours."

I feel the blush paint my face as soon as the words come out, but Jordan isn't bothered. He winks and sets the glasses down. "I don't share this with just anyone," he says, pouring about an ounce of the cold, amber liquid into the glasses. "I brought this back from my trip to Mexico last year."

"What is it?" I ask. It looks like moonshine in the unmarked bottle. I really hope that's not tequila. The last time I had tequila was after I finished my master's at Columbia and my buddies and I ended up at a loft in SoHo shooting Cuervo Gold until I puked my guts up in some stranger's bathroom. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. At my ramped-up age, I don't bounce like I used to in my twenties.

Biting my lip, I say, "I'm not really big on this stuff. You have any other wines to taste?"

Jordan laughs. "Come on, Hale. You'll like this. It's not tequila. It's mezcal."

"Mezcal? I'm not familiar with that."

He hands me the glass and takes one for himself. "It's a tequila cousin. Distilled from the agave plant. Try it."

Jordan tosses the liquid to the back of his throat, seeming to savor the feel and taste. "Ahhh... now you."

Okay, what do I have to lose?

Being the wine connoisseur that I am, I swirl the fluid around in the glass and then take a sniff. It gives off the aroma of a good scotch, which I'm not a huge fan of either. I take a tentative taste.

"Throw it back," Jordan says with a laugh. His eyes have a sparkle and life to them that's playful and teasing and I want to be just like him. Carefree and easy. Well, not easy like easy, more like easy like a Sunday morning.

I shoot the mezcal and cringe as the potent alcohol chars my throat. It's a smoky, caramel taste that finishes well in my mouth, despite the initial shock. I do have to cough, though.

"Smooooooth."

Jordan laughs and pours us another shot. "I was in Oaxaca, where the best mezcal is made. All these villagers have stills in their backyards where they make special batches of this stuff. The guy that gave me this bottle said it's ninety-five percent alcohol. He tells me, 'What a privilege to participate in a ritual of a country that has lasted four thousand years.'"

"That's deep." I blink hard knowing I need to be careful about drinking too much of this concoction.

An hour later, though, it doesn't matter. I'm gone. Not a sloppy drunk, but a sappy one. Jordan is now sitting close with his arm behind me on the couch. He's told me all about his travels through Mexico and the people he's met there.

As I watch him pour another shot of mezcal into our glasses, there seems to be some sort of wavy haze surrounding him in a colorful rainbow. His sandy hair seems golder and brighter and his eyes are like emeralds shining out from underneath lashes that are too long to be wasted on a guy. Am I in some sort of bad Pixar animation or has the room suddenly liquefied?

"Zzzzordan... I think I've drank'ed toooo much to drink of this stuff. You're starting to look like Rainbow Bright to me."

His chuckle is deep and reverbs throughout the room. "Oh yeah. I f'got to tell you mezcal is known to cause hallucinations. Just ride it out."

Great. He could have shared this before I drank so much.

We clink glasses again and I notice something white and round in the bottom of mine. "Is that a worm or am I hallucinating that, too?"

"No, it's a worm. Actually, it's a butterfly larva. You have to eat it, Hale."

"Like hell I do." My stomach rolls in protest even thinking of it. Or maybe it's the Arby's beef brigade fighting back in my system.

Jordan's arm moves from the couch to my shoulder and his hand dangles dangerously over my right breast. "You have to eat it. It's pickled from being in the mezcal so long."

So am I.

I push the glass away, in essence pushing Jordan away, which is the last thing I want to do. My body tingles at the contact with him, the playfulness from our drinking and banter. I want more. But not until we dispense with the eating of the worm, or larva or whatever the hell it is. "I'm not the type of girl who eats worms, pickled or not."

His face becomes ever so serious and he moves in closer. "Eating the worm is a sign of heroism."

I giggle and hide my face in the crook of his arm. "It's a marketing gimmick."

"Maybe so. But if you're not going to eat it, I will." And with that, Jordan downs the liquid, insect and all, and swallows noticeably.

I collapse in uncontrollable laughter realizing what he's just done. Next thing I know, I've twisted around and my head is in his lap. His muscular thighs flex under my shoulders and I try not to panic. This is what I want. Isn't it?

I hide my face in my hands and can't control my giggling. "Sorry, I'm a bit of a fraidy cat."

Jordan moves my hands aside, exposing me. He gazes down at me and traces his hand down the side of my face to my chin. "No Hale, you're beautiful."

It feels like my heart is going to pound out of my chest from the pressure of hearing these words from this man.

I can't speak.

I can't breathe.

He's touching me.

Jordan Valvano is touching me.

And I'm not thinking of Curtis or all I've lost in the last few days. Okay, so maybe I am a little, but Jordan Valvano thinks I'm beautiful. I must be gawking adoringly at him right about now.

"Hale. That's an odd name for a girl." His thumb trails across my bottom lip.

The sensation of his hand caressing me so delicately clashes with the painful emotions of how I got my name. "It was supposed to be my brother's name," I say quietly. "But... he died."

Jordan's face changes to show his shock. "Your brother died? Jesus, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

"It's okay. You didn't know. Don't worry."

I look up at the ceiling that's now a swirling mass of psychedelic patterns and colors thanks to the mezcal. I breathe deeply, though. "Yeah, see, I'm actually a twin. A surviving twin. My brother died when we were two days old because he had a hole in his heart. The doctors couldn't do anything to help him. They didn't exactly have the neonatal care back in the sixties like they do today. Since my parents didn't think they'd have any more kids—more specifically a son—and Mom's Hale family name wouldn't go forward, they changed my name." Tears threaten behind my eyes. Or maybe it's an effect from way too much alcohol.

Jordan's hand cups my cheek, stroking my face with his thumb. Every nerve impulse in my body is on fire and ready for what might happen next.

"What was it first?" he asks so softly I can barely hear him.

"Anna. Like my grandmother."

"I like Hale better for you."

"I get to carry on the family name."

His head moves in closer. "That's an awfully big burden to put on such a pretty girl."

"I've managed," I say in a sigh. The look in his eyes tells me he knows how to take the pain away.

I want him to.

Oh, let him kiss me. Let him kiss me. Pleeeeeeeeeeease.

And then, as if he reads my mind, he does.
CHAPTER TEN

I wake up needing to pee something fierce, but there's an iron grip around my waist. Oh yeah, it's Jordan.

After rolling around on the floor and kissing like teenagers for a bit, we had moved back to the couch. But the alcohol—or our advanced age—was too much and we ended up falling asleep.

Now, I look at my watch and see it's three-thirty in the morning. Christ! I've got to get out of here. Get home. Get to my own bed. GranAnna's funeral is in seven hours!

I manage to move Jordan's arm and slip away from his protective grasp. Taking a moment, I give him the once over to make sure he's for real. That I'm actually here. His eyelashes fan on his cheek and his breath is steady as he lays there. It's a shame I'll have to wake him, but I do need a ride home.

Quickly, I scoot off to the bathroom to relieve myself and splash some water on my face. The mirror seems a bit wavy, a tad bit like a fun house, then I realize it must still be the effects of the mezcal. Man, that'll teach me.

Back in the living room, I ease onto the couch and can't resist running my hands through Jordan's long hair. At some point in our make out match, the leather stay in his ponytail came loose and his sandy hair was released into my hands. Pure silk. This guy could have easily been a model in New York or LA, but he'd chosen biology, travel, and now, living in his hometown videoing memorable events.

I try to rouse him. "Hey Jordan?"

"Mmmm... "

"Jordan?"

He reaches for me. "Mmmm... hmmm... "

"It's really late. I need a ride home."

He stretches in his sleep and comes awake; those green eyes—with the dark, dilated pupils—dreamy and ever so sexy. "What time is it?"

"Too early. Too late. I've gotta go."

Jordan drives me to my parents' house, cutting the engine before he gets too close. The neighborhood is old and quiet and a Mustang at the ass-crack of dawn certainly stands out.

"I had a lot of fun," I manage to say. I'm sure I look a mess with the effects of the alcohol and sleeping on the couch, but Jordan reaches across for me.

He moves his lips over mine, searching and seeking. I open my mouth as his tongue slides in and takes over. Matching him stroke for stroke, I delight in the act of merely kissing. Lips meshing. Tongues dancing together. The dip in my stomach. The ache in my chest. I've missed it so much. Kissing's a wonderful expression. Two people, giving so much of themselves. Mouths searching, breaths combining, souls touching.

Maybe there will be time for more of this later. For now, I need a few more hours of sleep, a long, hot shower, and a gallon of coffee to make me into a real person. One who needs to grieve the loss of her grandmother.

Jordan and I pull apart. "I had a great time, too, Hale," he says. Then he studies my face for a moment. "Say, why didn't we go ever out in high school?"

I chuckle. "If I remember correctly, you dated girls from Pensacola."

He tosses his head back and laughs hard. "No I didn't, I just hung out at the beach there a lot."

"No matter. That was then. This is now."

He leans in for one more quick kiss and motions me on my way. "How long are you in town?"

"At least another couple of days."

He winks and smiles. "We'll definitely have to do this again. See you in a few hours." And with that, he starts the car and drives away.

I walk down the sidewalk like some sort of sorority girl sneaking back in after an all-nighter at the frat house and then glide in through the front door. The place is dark and quiet, with only the low hum of the heating unit sounding out.

Quietly, I tiptoe up the stairs, trying to remember the exact spots where the steps squeak that will give me away to my parents sleeping below. I really don't need a lecture from anyone right now. I just want sleep.

In my room, I strip to my underwear and collapse within the satiny comforter, pulling the pillows around me for warmth. Only this time, I don't think of them as Curtis, but rather as Jordan.

The musky scent of him clings to my skin, lulling me to sleep.

As I'm drifting off, I realize that perhaps GranAnna's demise might just be, after all, my salvation.

~~ ~~

I manage to drag my ass out of bed when Gilly comes in to rattle me at eight-thirty. Remarkably, I don't have a mezcal hangover thanks to an early morning Tylenol dosing. Now, I'm just bone tired. I think the past two days have taken their toll, physically and emotionally.

Gilly sits on the edge of my bed. "You must have gotten in late," she says. "Dad and I stayed up to watch Letterman and you were still gone when I went to bed at one a.m."

I rub my hands over my face, not caring about all of those beauty advisories in every magazine that tell you not to push against the grain of your skin or else you'll get wrinkles. At my age, with plenty of moisturizer, no children to drive me to the brink of extinction, and never having smoked, I'm faring well in the battle against gravity. The gray hairs, well, that's another challenge that only Miss Clairol and I can fix.

"I got in a little before four," I say through a yawn.

Gilly bounces on the bed a bit too gleefully for my taste, considering there's no caffeine in my system yet. "Dish the dirt, Hale!"

I pull the pillow up next to me and look at her through slitted eyes. "Nothing to dish. We ate dinner, drank too much, kissed a lot, and then fell asleep. Then, he drove me home."

She seems horrified. "That's it?"

Sitting up, I swing my legs off the bed. I go to my suitcase and put on a t-shirt and shorts to cover up. "Yeah, that's it. I'm not a skanky ho or anything."

Gilly follows me into the bathroom like she used to do when we were growing up. "Oh, I know that. I just thought... well, it was good for you to get out and socialize... and, you know, get past Curtis."

I gulp down a cup of water from the bathroom sink and savor the cold liquid coating my throat. My chest aches as I look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is disheveled. My lips look like they've been thoroughly kissed. A lot. My eyes seem different. Not bloodshot, but laced with guilt. Why do I feel like I cheated on Curtis? I didn't. The divorce was finalized months ago. I need to cut myself some slack and get on with my life. Not that Jordan Valvano is necessarily the perfect man for me, but he's a step in the right direction.

"What?" Gilly asks, gazing at me in the mirror.

My heart squeezes, like a fist is wrapped around it. "Nothing. I need to get ready."

I can see she wants to press further. She wants to dig and interview me more; however, she knows enough to back off. I realize she cares, but we have a funeral to attend and all it encompasses today. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, Hale," she says. "It's okay. It's just that we used to confide in each other. I miss it."

Turning, I draw her to me and hold on tightly. I remember back to the night of my bachelorette party at the cheesy strip joint when Gilly pulled me aside and broke down into tears about how she couldn't stand being there with the men on display because she was gay. It was the first time she'd said it out loud to anyone who cared. And I kept her secret, never outing her or letting her feel like she was different from before she told me. She was my little sister whom I loved and that was all that mattered then, now, and forever.

Rubbing the back of her spiky hair, I say, "I'm always here for you, no matter where we live or what we're going through. We'll always have this. Understand?"

"I do," Gilly says, her voice muffled in my hair.

"What are my girls up to?" Mom interrupts, topping the stairs and coming into the bathroom. She assesses the situation, but instead of questioning further, she smiles our way. "I've got scrambled eggs and ham steaks in the kitchen when you're ready."

"Enough with the ham!" I say with a laugh. "You're pushing it at me like it's heroin and you're the dealer."

"Fiddle-dee-dee, Hale."

"You sound happy this morning, Mom," Gilly notes.

"Well, Dharma Louise-Ann and I talked on the phone early this morning. She gave me a spiritual reading for today, telling me I can't dwell on losing Mother. That she's on a higher plane of existence and in a better place. She's at peace."

Gilly screws up her face. "Who the hell is Dharma Louise-Ann?"

Mom pulls my sister close to her. "She's changed my life, Gillian. Not only is she a Reiki Master who's been helping me with my tired old joints and painful knees, but she's a Metatron-Attuned Rainbow Energy Therapist and she's enabled me to harness my inner chi for greater peace and spirituality."

My sister's face goes blank. "A Metatron-what? I thought you were a Southern Baptist."

Mom spreads her arms wide. "I'm a spiritualist now."

I try not to giggle while Gilly swallows hard and says, "Where's my mother and what have you done to her?"

"Now, Gillian. Don't be rude. Your mother has found something that works for her," Mom says. "In fact, it's because of Dharma Louise-Ann that I understand your lifestyle more and can accept you as you are."

Uh-oh, she did not just go there.

Gilly looks as if she's about to cry. She may be one of the hottest concert promoters in the country, but she's still a little girl when it comes to our family.

"I-I-I don't understand," she says softly.

I usher her and Mom out of the bathroom and into the small den area at the top of the stairs. A conversation like this shouldn't take place in a room with a toilet. They both sit on the couch and I lower myself into the aged Boston rocker opposite them.

Mom takes Gilly's hand. "Gillian, I've realized in my old age that everything's not black and white. There aren't explanations for everything. And I can't control the world around me or how people are. What I can control is myself, my feelings, emotions, and attitudes. That's what Dharma Louise-Ann has taught me. She cleared my chakra and empowered my spirit for a level of acceptance I've never understood before."

"So, you're saying you now accept my homosexuality?"

Mom pauses and thinks for a minute. "It's not so much acceptance, my dear, rather it's an understanding of who you are as a person. You're still my flesh and blood and I didn't do anything 'wrong' raising you that made you the way you are."

"No, Mom, you didn't."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. I'm with Gilly on this one. Where is my mother? Someone get some blankets 'cause hell just froze over.

"And you've gotten all of this out of a few Reiki sessions and some Tarot card readings?" I ask a bit too flippantly.

Mom turns to me. "Dharma Louise-Ann has experience dealing with all sexualities. Why, she's currently in an exciting lesbian partnership although she's also lived in a polyamorous threesome. She was even married for fifteen years, so she's an expert in all of this. I trust what she has to say. I value her insight and it's helped me become more open to others around me."

I can't believe my mother actually uttered the phrase "exciting lesbian partnership," much less "polyamourous threesome." The only threesome Mom's ever been involved in is frequent afternoons with Dad's AmEx and the sales racks at Steinmart. Whatever works, though, and whatever brings Gilly back into the fold. Or me.

When my parents shut the door on my little sister's lifestyle, a layer of ice formed around my heart toward my folks over how they could so easily cut one of their own out of their lives. Well, that and the prevalent position Mary Evelyn weighs in their existence. As if she can do no wrong and she is now the parent. I can't do anything about that because Scary is Scary and she'll always be that way. However, the hurt over the treatment of Gilly, well, that was years ago and perhaps the old saying that time heals all wounds is appropriate here. If Gilly can get over this, then I certainly can, too.

With the death of GranAnna, I do recognize that my parents are getting older and that each contact with them, every phone call, and every visit may be the last one. I certainly don't want to be filled with resentment and guilt over having distanced myself from them all because of my sisters.

Mom seems pleased with herself for having finally gotten this admission out. I'm glad to have been able to help here.

"Tolerance is a lesson you always taught us, Mom," I say. "Growing up, you said we shouldn't judge people by their skin or by their religion. I'm glad to see you're so accepting of Gilly now."

"Fiddle-dee-dee," she says. "Leopards can change their spots." She pats Gilly on the leg and stands, smoothing the front of her house coat as she turns toward the stairs.

"Mom?" Gilly takes a deep breath. "I didn't want to mention this because of GranAnna's funeral, but Chris and I are getting married. I've been holding off on it because I wanted my family there and I knew how you and Daddy felt after I came out and I thought—"

Mom's face lights up. "Do you want us to walk you down the aisle, dear? Just like in that gay wedding episode on 'Friends?'" Mom turns to me. "What? I watch the re-runs."

Gilly looks at me and we both crack up. "Yeah, Mom. Exactly like that. I'd be honored."

"First things first, Gillian." Mom heads down the stairs, but calls back up to us. "Let's get GranAnna on her way to her date with Jesus first."

I cock my head to the side. "See, Gilly, she's still a Southern Baptist deep down."

~~ ~~

At ten of ten, our family entourage steps into Powell Memorial Funeral Home that is decked out and ready to send GranAnna on her heavenly way. Dad takes our coats and hangs them up as Mom moves in with The Book clutched to her bosom. I smooth my hands down the front of my double-breasted DKNY suit—the one I wore on my interview several years ago when I got my job at The Oenophile—and hope my tailored black pants are appropriate enough for the funeral. I'm sure Scary Evelyn will have something to say about me not wearing a dress.

Brother Sparks appears from inside the chapel and shakes my mother's hand.

"Here's The Book," Mom says. She passes over the event-planning tome Anna Hale left for her daughter and everyone else. "Everything is in there exactly the way Mother wants the ceremony to pan out. Scripture readings, sheet music for the organist, and some other passages she pasted in."

"Don't you worry, Sarah," the minister says. He pronounces Mom's name like "Say-ruh." Syrupy and very Southern. He's a large man, salt and pepper colored hair combed over so severely that the part starts somewhere behind his left ear. He's sweating like a farm animal and drags a white handkerchief across his brow. "I'll do everything just as Miss Anna wanted."

"It's very important you do, Brother Sparks."

"I always tend to the wishes of the sheep in my congregation. Especially those who tithed as diligently as Anna Hale."

I try not to cringe noticeably. Is this guy for real? He looks like one of the televangelists who scream at people to get them to open their pocket books. I wonder what kind of verbal beating he gave my grandmother so she'd donate her Social Security earnings to him. I'm not a heathen, mind you—I'm more of a pray in your closet type—but I do have my issues with organized religion. Just like corporate America, they're all out to line their own pockets.

My cell phone rings, blaring out an annoyingly loud tone. Brother Sparks scowls at me. "Now, little lady, you know those things are rude at funerals. I hope you'll turn it off."

"Of course I know that," I say and turn away.

I don't need this sweating fundraiser telling me what to do. Placing my hand on Mom's arm, I excuse myself and head for the private family room in the Heavenly Bound Suite.

"Hello?"

"Hale, I've been worried about you!"

"Hey, Meghan," I say to my best friend over the crackle and static of my cell phone trying to cut out. Damn lack of towers here in Haven Harbor. "I'm sorry I haven't called you. Things have been a bit hectic here, as you can imagine."

"Babe, I've been calling you for two days. Does Virgin Mobile not work down there where God lost his shoes?"

I snicker at Meghan's colloquialism. "You've got me now," I say with a smile. "So, how's New York doing without me?"

Meghan sighs. "It started snowing again and I had to walk to work last night. I ran across the most fantastic Riesling from Alsace that we'll have to try when you get home. It's not too sweet at all. You'll like it."

I think about sitting with Meghan and sharing a bottle of wine, sipping the fruitfulness and enjoying the fine bouquets. It's one of the most relaxing parts of my day and the stab in my chest makes me realize I miss home even though I've only been gone a few days.

"Can't wait to try it," I say.

"So, what's been going on?" she asks.

"Well, the funeral is today," I explain, peeking out through the swinging door to see relatives begin to pour into GranAnna's suite. "Everything's choreographed, just like my grandmother wanted. Flowers, music, readings, you name it. She's even got someone here videoing everything."

Meghan scoffs. "What kind of loser videos funerals?"

I glower into the phone, like she can see me. "Hey, don't be like that! He's a really nice guy."

Silence.

More static.

"Meghan?"

"He?"

I gnaw on my bottom lip. Even throughout the divorce proceedings with Curtis, Meghan was continually steadfast that he and I could get past our differences and make our marriage work. I always admired her convictions and wished I could share them. But I gave up. As a good friend, she's continued to talk up her brother to me and has never set me up with any other guys for fear she'll encourage me to get on with my life.

"Yeah, funny, it's this guy I went to high school with," I say, my voice cracking slightly on the word 'school' like I'm a thirteen year old boy going through puberty.

"Oh. An old boyfriend?" Her judgment oozes through the cellular device.

"No."

More silence.

She. Is. Killing. Me.

I know what she's thinking as sure as I'm sitting there next to her. I've got a funeral and relatives to attend to right now. I shouldn't be defending my life to my sister-in-law. No, scratch that, simply my friend now.

"Meghan, look, I need to—"

"You had sex, didn't you?" she snaps.

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Cut the crap, babe. I can hear it in your voice. You're attracted to this guy. This Dead Body Video-er."

Annoyance skids across my skin, pulsating through my veins. I love Meghan and I understand her loyalty to Curtis, however this isn't about either of them. For the first time in a long time, it's about me. "I didn't sleep with him, okay? We just had dinner and drinks. And we kissed."

"But you want to sleep with him."

This is not the conversation to be having in a funeral home. I duck back into the private kitchen and cower in the corner, lowering my voice. "Yes, I'd love to sleep with him." There's a bit of attitude in my voice. "This gorgeous man with long, silky hair, killer green eyes, and an ass you could bounce quarters off is attracted to me. Damn right I want to sleep with him. But I'm at a funeral, Meg, that is about to begin. And I need to get back to my family."

I hope I haven't pissed off Meghan. She means the world to me and I never could have handled the last six months without her friendship.

Following a long sigh, Meghan says, "I'm sorry, Hale. You have every right to live your life. It's only, well, I miss you and Curtis being a couple."

Honestly, I say, "So do I, Meg. More than you know. But that part of my life is over and I've got to move on."

"With Mr. Video?"

I snicker. "I don't know until I at least try."

Gilly bursts in, hands on hip. "There you are. Mary Evelyn is going ape-shit because you're not out there. Don't leave me alone with her and those sugared-up brats."

I hold my finger up in the "one minute" position. "Meghan, I've got to go. You know I love you, hon. Don't worry about me. Everything will be fine. I know what I'm doing."

She takes a moment. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

"I'm not sure," I say and then smile into the phone. "It'll be fun to find out."

"What if Curtis finds out?" she asks.

"What if he does?" My heart speeds up a bit wondering, after all, what he'd think of me in another man's arms. Then, I realize those are the thoughts and wishes of a little girl. A dreamer. Time to grow up. "Look hon, I've got to go. The family is waiting for me. Thanks for calling."

"Watch yourself, Hale. Be very careful."

I click off the phone and stuff it into my purse. Before heading into the Heavenly Bound Suite, I contemplate Meghan's closing line and wonder why it sounded so ominous. So much so I can almost hear the "Jaws" theme piping from the overhead Muzak. Being attracted to Jordan Valvano is not a bad thing. And acting on those feelings isn't going to send me to Hell.

If it does, then, dammit, I'm going to have a good time before I go.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

I watch the minutes tick off the clock as the stampede of relatives and townspeople flow in and out of the Heavenly Bound Suite. I know I shouldn't be this impatient, but I'm fidgeting just standing here. Waiting for that moment when Mr. Powell will gather the immediate family, close off the room, and we'll be allowed to "view" GranAnna.

I don't want to do this. I don't want to see her that way. Stiff and unnatural in a coffin. That's not the way to remember your grandmother. I'd rather remember her sitting in front of the NBC Nightly News shelling butter beans and telling John Chancellor (then later Tom Brokaw) that he's a jerk. Or out in her lawn wearing that unstylish floppy straw hat, tending to the monkey grass that grew around her enormous oak tree. I prefer thinking of her in that smart peacock blue gown, sitting on the second row of my wedding, smiling up at me with her brand new dentures. That's how I want to remember GranAnna—animated, grinning, full of life, and not tucked away inside a cherry box she put on layaway ten years ago.

"Hey you," a deep voice interrupts my musings.

I look up into the hypnotic green eyes that kept me company into the wee hours of the morning. "Hey Jordan," I say a bit too breathily for someone supposedly in mourning.

He waggles his camera at me. "Hope I haven't missed too much. Had a hell of a time finding a parking place out there. Cars are lining up for the drive to the cemetery with three guys directing traffic."

I nod and then look down at my feet. "GranAnna was loved by a lot of people. They'll all be here today."

"Most particularly her granddaughter," Jordan says. He raises my chin up with his forefinger until I'm peering into his eyes again. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smile and he winks ever so slightly. "Would it be tacky of me to tell you that you look great today?"

I stifle a laugh—don't want Scary Evelyn looking this way—and feel a blush cross my cheeks. "Thanks, so do you."

And he does. Crisp black suit, dark gray button down shirt, and a tastefully designed striped tie with a subtle hint of color. His long hair is pulled away from his face and held with a ponytail holder at his collar. He could've just walked off the pages of a Roberto Cavalli ad in Vogue.

Suddenly, Scary Evelyn is standing beside us, glaring at Jordan. "If you don't mind, we'd really like some video of the relatives gathered in the other room. That is what you're here for, isn't it?"

Jordan smiles pleasantly at my sister, snaps off a proper Army salute to her, and heads in to do his job. My breathing intensifies and I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from telling my sister to kiss my ass.

Instead, I snark off with a knee-jerk reaction I know I should keep inside. "Mary Ev, just because you tell the rest of us what to do doesn't mean everyone has to jump at your command."

She's not fazed by my snide remark, rather she fidgets with the silk scarf tied at the base of her throat and gives me her look of terror. "You'd be smart to steer clear of him, Hale. He's nothing but poor, white trash."

"How do you know?"

"He was married to a Mexican, for heaven's sake. Mixing of the races... tsk, tsk, tsk, Hale. Isn't that a bit below you?"

"You're insane," I snap.

She flattens her mouth even further. "It's bad enough everyone here knows about Gilly's lifestyle, especially with that weirdo she calls a girlfriend tagging along. I'd hate to see you make a fool of yourself with the likes of Jordan Valvano. Especially for Mother and Daddy's sake."

"Or heaven forbid your sake," I say bitterly. Before she can retort, I walk away, searching for Gilly and Chris. Again, safety in numbers. Today's not about Scary or her bossy ways. This is about GranAnna.

I bolt toward the foyer where Dad is standing around with his golf buddies chewing the fat. I stand quietly next to him as he and Joe Tinsdale, the owner of the farmer's market over in Perdido Bay, speak in bogies, pars, and eagles. Dad slips his arm around my waist and brings me to his side.

"Why Sam, what do we have here?" Mr. Tinsdale asks. "This beautiful model can't possibly be related to your ugly ass." He smacks Dad on the back and whoops it up until the other old man golfers chime in.

"Damn right she is," Dad says. "This is my Hale. My aspiring author. You know, she's got a New York agent and is working to get her books published. Just you watch, she'll be bigger than that man up in Maine one of these days."

Joe Tinsdale looks confused, so I jump in to explain. "Dad, no one will ever be as big as Stephen King."

"You write them there dirty books?" Mr. Tinsdale asks with a leer.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, the ones with lots 'a sex."

I bite my bottom lip momentarily wondering how I got into a conversation like this with a seventy year old. "Well, I write about life and the truth and what real people experience, so sure, there's sex in there."

Dad snickers. "We're very proud of her."

They are? That's comforting to know.

Turning my head as the old men around me snort laughter, I see a new arrival at the funeral home. It's him! The mystery man from last night. He's wearing a dark suit and has a single white rose in his hand. I've never seen anyone look so sad in my entire life.

Nudging my father, I lower my voice and whisper, "Do you know who that is?"

He looks around and I finally have to indicate with my head to whom I'm referring to. "Who him?" he asks.

"Yeah, don't be obvious."

"Oh Hale, I'm so old I can't remember people's names or faces. Maybe he was a Rotary Club friend of your grandmother's. Why don't you go talk to him?"

Maybe I will.

I remove myself from Dad and the golfers and walk toward the small man. I stop and watch as he takes the feathered quill and writes his name in the guest book. When he's finished, he moves into the Heavenly Bound Suite and takes the same chair I saw him occupy last night. He's about as out of place in this room full of Hale relatives as a bottle of Dom Perignon at a beer-swilling Oktober Fest. The man fishes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabs his eyes while staring at the cherry wood box before him.

What is this guy's deal?

I move to the guest book to investigate and I see:

Charles Miller, San Clemente, CA

That's a hell of a long way to come for a funeral, I think, unless he's immediate family. I swear, as bad as my memory is, I've never seen this man at a Hale reunion, wedding, or other funeral. And I've had to attend most all of them.

Miller... Miller... I think back to the letter in The Book addressed to a Stanley Miller in Florida. Could this Charles Miller be related to that Stanley Miller? Who knows? Sleuthing isn't my strong suit, yet none of this makes sense.

GranAnna would be the last to have a friend in California, no matter what Mom says about having pen pals. Why, the only time GranAnna ever left Florida in her life was to come to New York for my wedding—which took an act of Congress in itself to get her out of town and on an airplane. She was a homebody. Born and raised outside of Pensacola, grew up in Destin, and settled in Haven Harbor when she married Grandpa Jack.

There's a niggling sensation in the back of my head about Mr. Charles Miller. I don't know what it is yet. It's probably just the writer in me always looking for people's goals, motivation, and conflict. Maybe I should go talk to him.

Mom snags me as I pass by her, telling me to get back in the receiving line. I step in next to my brother-in-law, Darren, who seems very quiet and reserved this morning. I guess Scary Ev told him he's not allowed to talk to me or something for fear that I'm flirting with him. Yep, that's on the top of my list of things to do. Riiiiight.

I see Jordan Valvano videoing cousins and family friends gathered around sharing stories about my grandmother and her life. How wonderful that someone's time on the planet affected so many and left such a mark with people. Wines do that, too. With each vintage and each year of the grape, it leaves the flavors of the moment and the inspirations from the earth that it takes on. Wines have personalities, just like people. And wines, like good friends or treasured relatives, have staying power.

That's what I hope to do with my writing... have stories published that will stand the test of time, be passed down from generation to generation, for entertainment and pleasure.

Time passes excruciatingly slow and I think my face is frozen into this fake smile I've got plastered on. I do realize how wonderful it is that folks have made this effort to come pay their last respects to my grandmother. However, talking to people like this—lying about my job!—is physically and mentally exhausting. Why did GranAnna torture us to have to meet and greet guests through the lunch hour? I'd passed up on the scrambled eggs and ham this morning—which I shouldn't have done—in lieu of extra servings of watered-down instant Folgers crystals (I've got to send my parents a French press and some real coffee grinds) to drown out the alcohol in my system. Now, all I want to do is eat.

I lean over. "Mary Evelyn, you're a mom. Do you have snack crackers or candy in your purse?"

You would have thought I'd asked for a rock of crack from the expression on her face.

"No! And I don't have any tea or cucumber sandwiches either. This is not a garden party, Hale," she hisses at me. "Besides, there will be plenty of food at Mother's after the graveside service. I swear to God... "

I sigh hard and continue putting on a good face. Only another half hour before the family-only viewing of GranAnna, which I will not participate in. People continue to stream in and I'm amazed Powell Memorial can hold so many Anna Hale fans. Mom, Dad, and Scary wander off to talk to yet another shriveled blue-haired lady, leaving Darren, me and the triplets to hold down the family receiving line.

Where is Gilly? Why have she and Chris abandoned me like this? They're probably in the family room eating cookies and pounding back sodas. Hell, if they can do it, so can I. I pivot to leave Darren standing there by himself when I'm intercepted by none other than Bitsy McDonald's mother, Jimmie. I mean, who names their daughter Jimmie?

"Why, if it isn't Hale Martin! Let me look at you."

Jimmie McDonald hugs me hard to her, leaving a splotch of powder and makeup on my left shoulder. She smells of Anais Anais and cigarette smoke.

"Hey Miss Jimmie," I say in a sing-songy voice I don't recognize as mine.

"It's so wonderful to see you, sweetheart. Look at you in that amazing suit. You came back to us all skinny and pretty."

My fake smile falls. I mean, how do you answer this? I wasn't aware I was fat and ugly when I was in high school, Jesus. Compared to her anorexic daughters, Bitsy and Belinda, who could—or wanted to—compete?

Bitsy was... well, Bitsy. And Belinda had paved the way for her little sister at HHHS with her own name brand of beauty and bitchiness. Belinda was supposedly this big, hairy deal, all because she'd gone off to Hollywood and guest starred as Hula Girl #3 in six episodes of Fantasy Island back in the 80s.

I remember my Southern upbringing and grin through the torture of having to deal with yet another McDonald two days in a row. At least this one's not wearing fur.

Miss Jimmie looks to my side where Natty-Jo is holding my hand as she clings to her Loves-a-Lot Care Bear. "What an adorable young'un. Are you the one with all them babies?"

I look over at Darren who is standing there, as per usual, dumbfounded and nerdish, picking something out of his teeth. He's a lot of help.

"Excuse me?"

"I knew one of Anna's granddaughters had all them grandbabies and I figured it must have been you, Hale. You always did like to baby sit. I remember reading a long time back that you'd gotten married."

"Yes, well, no... I mean, Natalie-Jo is one of Mary Evelyn's children. You know, my older sister? She has triplets."

Jimmie McDonald isn't getting this. I guess it doesn't help that Natty-Jo and Sammy look remarkably like I did at the same age and not a smidgen like their mother.

"This is their father, Darren," I say, trying to drag another victim into this conversation.

"Oh, you're Hale's husband," Jimmie says gleefully. "So nice to meet you, Darren."

"No! Darren is my sister's husband." Why is no one listening around here? I'm supposed to be a writer, yet I'm having great difficulty communicating.

Jimmie McDonald reaches over and ruffles Natty-Jo's hair. Sammy and JD run by at that moment and Darren tries to corral them all together.

"Well, look at all of them. Are they identical?" the older woman asks, setting a pair of glasses on the end of her nose to get a better gander at my nieces and nephew.

"The girls are identical and JD is fraternal," I say.

Jimmie is confused. "They're not all identical?"

Is she kidding me? "Well, two are girls and one's a boy... what do you think?"

Darren frowns at me like his wife normally would, but I don't care. "The girls came from a split egg and then JD was fertilized separately," he explains. "See, my wife was on fertility pills and we had to test her ovulation every—"

"Would you excuse me please? My mom's signaling for me. So good to see you, Miss Jimmie."

I ease away from the seventh grade health class lesson and look around for Charles Miller. Now might be a great time to corner him and find out his connection to GranAnna. Yet, I don't see him anywhere. Great, just my luck. Maybe I can catch up with him later as there's something tapping away at my brain about him. I see Miss Jimmie coming in my direction so I head straight for the private family room and respite from these strangers who like to test my resolve.

Besides, there's a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz Reserve in there that Gilly picked up for me last night, thinking I'd make it home in time for a glass with her and Chris. It's one of my favorite, affordable brands. The blackberry taste is smooth and spicy, with a hint of cedar. Perhaps a good sniff from the bottle is the aromatherapy I so need right now.

All right, maybe a taste or two, as well.

~~ ~~

"I'm only going to say this one more time, Mary Ev, so listen to me and listen good. I do not want to see GranAnna in the casket. You got it?" I say forcefully.

"You're a pigheaded ass, Hale!"

"Mary Evelyn Martin Stevens!" Mom says with gusto as she walks into the kitchen area in the nick of time. "How dare you talk to your sister like that? Thank God Mother's not alive to hear the words that come out of your mouth. She always said you were a true Southern lady. Now act like one."

I'm shocked that Mom is taking my side. She faces me and frowns a bit. Placing her hands on my shoulders, she relents. "I understand your reasoning, Hale, and I respect it. You want to remember your grandmother a particular way. A week ago, I would have been very upset with you. But now that Dharma Louise-Ann has shown me inner peace and direction, I know where you're coming from and I won't step on your rainbow aura."

Umm... okay? "Thanks, Mom. Nice to know someone understands."

I glare over her shoulder at my sister who is positively livid because she's not getting her way. Gilly hangs back, propped against the kitchen counter. I'm sure she's happy she's not the problem child at this point.

"How long will this take?" I ask.

"An hour," Mom says. "As per The Book." She snaps her fingers, remembering something. "Oh! We mustn't have the video in there. Mother didn't want any pictures of her lying in repose. I better go take care of that. I'm sure Jordan can busy himself in other ways."

Scary Ev snorts. "I'm sure he can."

As Mom rushes away, I call out to her, "I think I'll go outside and get some air, if that's okay with you."

"Fine, dear. Be back inside at two on the dot so we can line up for the funeral." Then, she's gone.

"Line up?" Gilly asks.

"Right, GranAnna wants us sitting in age order or something like that going into the chapel," I explain, since I've pretty much read The Book from cover to cover at this point.

Gilly frowns. "You mean Chris can't sit with me?"

"No, I'm afraid you'll have to sit next to the triplets."

"Well, that's effin' stupid," Gilly spouts out.

"Your argument's not with me, sis." I pour myself a paper cup full of the deep, burgundy-colored wine and head for the door. "I'll see you guys in a while."

I make my way down the back hallway that weaves past the other unused suites at Powell Memorial. The air is tinted with the slight smell of formaldehyde and I start to gag with the realization that the dead bodies are actually processed here, as well. I don't want to think about GranAnna going through that process... not at all.

Air.

I need air.

I push open the "Exit Only" door that leads out into the carport. Walking past the highly buffed and polished black hearse—Powell has a fleet of them; two white, two black—the hairs on my arms stand at attention. The second black car is backed up to a separate entrance to my left and I fear that may be the one to carry GranAnna to her final resting in the rolling green hills of the town cemetery, next to Grandpa Jack.

I sip the wine in my cup, experiencing the fruitiness of the grape that's tart, yet sweet on my tongue. I almost had a chance to go on a trip to Australia last year for the magazine to interview the owner of the Yellowtail vineyards, but like everything else at my job, it fell through and I was sorely disappointed. I loll the liquid around in my mouth, trying to savor as much of it as I can, but the flavor falls flat in light of the event now going on inside. How can people stand in a line and gawk down on GranAnna, lifeless and unanimated? Why can't they just remember her as she was?

"It's kind of morbid, isn't it?"

I jump at the voice, but then realize it belongs to a friend. A friend who must have read my exact thoughts.

Hand to heart, I say, "Jordan, you scared hell and four dollars out of me."

"Sorry about that. What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be in there for 'the viewing?'"

I take another drink of the wine, letting it trickle down my throat this time. The spice is intense and it makes my stomach rumble for some serious food like grilled lamb chops or maybe even some greasy Chinese takeout.

"I'm not comfortable with 'the viewing,'" I explain.

Jordan steps underneath the carport and leans against a white hearse. "Can't say I blame you. I was pretty much rooted right here in this exact place three years ago when my grandfather died. I had no interest in seeing the handiwork of Mr. Powell, if you get my drift."

Oh, I got it.

My stomach growls and outs my hunger pains or my anxiety. Can't figure out which is more prominent right now. And then there's the whole Jordan factor. He looks good enough to eat. I could make a meal out of his lips and the rest of him could sustain me for at least a week, as long as there's a bottle of wine around for us to share.

He steps forward and drags his thumb along my bottom lip, causing my body to react in several pertinent places inappropriate for a funeral attendee.

"You had a little wine on your lip." He then licks his thumb and nods his head. "That's a good red."

I offer the cup to him. "You want some?"

He shrugs and reaches into the front pocket of his suit coat. Slowly, he withdraws a hand-rolled cigarette. "I think I need something stronger."

I watch as he lights the smoke. Then I realize immediately, by the distinct smell of burned rope, that it's not a normal cigarette. I've never smoked pot in my life, but I'd know that odor anywhere.

He takes in a long draw and holds it in his lungs before expelling it with a hushed sigh. "That hits the spot." His intense stare locks with my eyes and he smiles. "How 'bout you? Want a little something to get through the next phase of this operation?"

My heartbeat accelerates and I sort through the numerous options available to me. Laugh, scoff, shuck it off, take him up on his offer, or walk away. A good granddaughter wouldn't get stoned at her grandmother's funeral. Says who, though? The Book? Then again, a good worker wouldn't get fired from her job for simply having personal files on her computer. As with everything in life, there's always more to a situation than what is on the surface.

The last thing I want to do is sit in the chapel during the ceremony and cry. That's better left to the privacy of my room, when no one can see all of the pain built up over the last few days. Marijuana will lighten me up, chill me out and relax me.

I reach out for the weed and then drop my hand. "No thanks. I'm good."

Forty-five years old isn't exactly the time in life to try something new.

Or is it?

I watch him expel the smoke from his lungs as he offers it up one more time to me. "I'll smooth out the rough edges. I promise.

"Show me how to do it," I say, giving in. No one has to know. No one, but Jordan.

Taking an impressive drag, I let the sweet smoke fill my lungs, blocking out the ache of my life. Just like the effect wine has on my spirit, I feel free.

For the moment.
CHAPTER TWELVE

I stare blankly at Scary Evelyn's dictation to her children to behave once we're in the chapel. They're little kids for heaven's sake. They have no idea what's going on or why we're here, do they? Still, she scolds them and snaps them into place.

Mom holds on to Dad's arm as she stands in line, ready to proceed into the chapel of Powell Memorial Funeral Home to start the ceremony, as planned by GranAnna.

I shouldn't have gotten stoned. What was I thinking? It's only made me more ghastly hungry than I was before. I don't think I'm going to survive the length of this service, followed by a graveside ceremony, before I can dig into whatever beef-infested casseroles are at Mom's house. I could care less about my diet or nutritional preference at this juncture, I'm famished!

Scary Ev stands in front of me and turns abruptly. "What's wrong with you?"

I have no idea what my face reads like, so I frown to hopefully get her off my back. "What do you think's wrong with me? We're about to go into the funeral of a loved one."

She glares at me. "You seem... weirder than usual."

"I love you too, Mary Ev."

"Girls! Shhh," Mom scolds, clinging to the box of tissues she's got tucked under her arm. The strains of "Amazing Grace" seep out of the chapel and the double doors open to show a jam-packed room of mourners. That's our cue to enter.

Mom and Dad head down the aisle toward the first row of the chapel, followed in order by Scary, me, and then Gilly. The triplets follow her with Darren and Chris bringing up the rear. Why we have to sit in age order is beyond me. It's not like GranAnna's going to call down from heaven and say, "Sarah Beth, you didn't heed my instructions."

Or will she?

At the first pew, Mom and Dad turn in and take a seat. The row is only big enough to hold four of us, so Gilly and the triplets take the bench behind us, leaving Darren and Chris behind them. My stomach growls intensely over the chimes of the organ. Instead of smoking with Jordan, I should have run out to Burger King for sustenance. Man, I could eat about six chicken sandwiches right now.

As I sit there listening to Agnes Bateman singing the verses of one of GranAnna's favorite hymns, I try to reach deep inside for the proper emotions for this occasion, but I feel nothing. GranAnna lived a full life and her body had deteriorated. Isn't it selfish of me to cry because she's no longer here? She's passed on to a better place. I should be solemn, but joyful that she's moved on after raising a family, loving her grandchildren, and touching the lives of everyone in this room here today. Certainly, there were no regrets in her full life.

Dad clears his throat loudly, almost as if he's signaling for the reverend to get this event rolling.

Brother Sparks steps up to the podium. "Welcome all of you, particularly the family and friends of Anna Hale, a good Christian woman, strong in her faith, and determined to live her life according to the Lord's plan. Our sister has gone to live with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and we give honor to her life and her many deeds here on God's earth."

I tune out what the minister is saying, unable to stop my brain from dwelling on myself. I'm sure it's the marijuana fuzzing up my brain—I've never been able to hold drugs, even prescription ones, right; that's why I rarely do them—but there's a large, hollow emptiness bearing down on me. If I were to die tomorrow, what would I have to show that I'd been on this planet? My college degrees, some substantial credit card debt, a stash of Fisher Price in my parents' attic from my childhood, a collection of matches from hotels and restaurants from coast to coast, and a nice set of All-Clad pots and pans. My books aren't published, I have no children, no husband... I'm an empty shell of a human. There will be no one to grieve for me. No one to remember me.

Dammit, this is why I shouldn't smoke pot. It makes most people giddy and happy; it's somehow plunged me into depression and self-analysis.

JD starts kicking the back of my pew, rattling me more than I'd like. I turn and do the adult don't-do-that stare, but it has no effect on him and he keeps pounding away. Samantha is playing with a small doll she had in her pocket and Natty-Jo is staring ahead, like she doesn't know what's going on around her.

The organist transitions into "There'll Be Peace in the Valley for Me," playing from the pasted-in sheet music GranAnna had in The Book. Mom starts sniffling and Scary reaches over to put her arm around her. I feel helpless stuck on the end of the pew.

Several of GranAnna's friends hobble up on their walkers, canes, or on their own to the pulpit to read from the chosen scriptures. I sit ratcheted to the pew, like everything is moving around me in slow motion. Like a record playing at the wrong speed. Although, no one uses those things anymore. My head is cloudy and my thoughts are scattered. Did I leave clothes in the washing machine at home? Did I pay the cable bill? Am I going to miss the New York Wine and Food Fest? No, that's in October. Will Curtis remarry, have children, and forget all about me and our time together?

Then, out of nowhere I hear the tiny sobs behind me. I turn and see Natty-Jo with big tears rolling from her large eyes. Streams of them that don't seem to bother Sammy or JD. Mary Ev is so consumed with taking care of Mom and trying to keep her from crying—when she has every right to bawl!—that she ignores her own child.

Without thinking twice, I scoot around to the row behind me and pick Natty-Jo up into my lap. She clings to me with all of her might and continues to cry on my shoulder, wiping her runny nose on me. "That's okay, this isn't my favorite suit," I whisper. Poor Natty-Jo, with her heart so pure and true, crying for a woman she barely knew.

Suddenly, the flood gate opens for me, too, and I find myself weeping along with my niece. Refreshing tears a long time in the making. I cry for my grandmother and the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye to her. I cry for Grandpa Jack whom I still miss all these years later. I cry for the rift that's between me and Mary Evelyn that I have no idea how it started or how to fix it. I cry for the lost time in our family over Gilly's sexuality. I cry over my stupid lost job and how I was ushered out and I cry, most of all, for Curtis, whom I still love dearly. I cry for the loss of our love, our life, and how we gave up, how I gave up, so easily when other—perhaps stronger—people would have fought more.

But hugging my niece to me, I realize my life isn't over. There's still plenty of time for me to be happy. Truly happy. I think of Jordan, somewhere in this room, and the potential I might have with him. I think of how GranAnna always said, "life's what you make it." I think of how every year in the vineyards when the grapes are harvested, the barren, dry vines spring back to life with the fruits of a new year.

I, too, can spring back from all life has thrown at me.

"Our last reading, ironically, will be from Sister Anna herself," Brother Sparks says with a gleam in his eye.

I certainly don't believe GranAnna is going to pop out of her casket and punk us, so I sit tall with Natty-Jo cradled in my lap and listen up.

Brother Sparks reaches into a plastic sleeve and pulls a letter from it, setting it on the lectern.

He clears his throat. "Anna Hale wrote this note two days before she joined her Jack in Heaven. She called me to the nursing home and asked me to read it when the time came."

I swallow hard and will my pulse to stop pounding out so fiercely at the realization that GranAnna knew she was going to die.

He holds the paper and reads.

"To my dear family and friends:

I will not live to see all of you together, but please know I love you all very much. I have had more love in this life than I deserved from my family and other loved ones who've crossed my path. I am ready to go and I look forward to seeing the beautiful riches Heaven has to offer. I'm also looking forward to seeing all of my loved ones who've gone on before me. Please let my last words assure you all. It's good to know we can reach out to each other during times like this. Focus on the spirit of peace, loving like it's your last day and the thanksgiving of good friends and family. Never let love escape you and fight for that love so that when your time comes you'll have no regrets. Regrets are a hard thing to live with. I should know because my life has been full of them. Don't live your life like me.

Until we meet again,

Anna Hale"

Silence rings out in the small chapel. Unspoken questions ricochet off the walls, mocking each of us sitting here. I feel a whispered scream at the back of my throat, threatening to burst forth as GranAnna's words sink in. It's as if she's telling me to forge ahead, be strong, Hale, and get what you want out of life.

Because she didn't?

What do you regret, GranAnna?

As the music starts up again, playing "How Great Thou Art," a heart-tugging wail comes from the back of the church, echoing throughout the chamber.

Charles Miller is standing in the middle of the aisle, tears streaming down his ruddy, aged face.

"Oh Anna!" he shouts, his arms stretched out. "Why? Why did you leave? Why did you leave me? I wish you'd never left me! You'll be my love forever."

Holy shit!

Now, I didn't see that coming.

~~ ~~

There isn't time to deal with poor, old Mr. Miller's outburst at the end of the funeral, as Brother Sparks wraps up the ceremony and escorts us out to the awaiting cars that will take us to the cemetery.

He's obviously trying to keep things moving and cover the awkwardness that stood in the center of the aisle.

Mom, Dad, Gilly, and Chris take the Cadillac and I'm relegated to riding with Scary, Darren, and the triplets in their mini-van that smells of soggy Cheerios and baby lotion. I catch Jordan's Mustang in the cavalcade of cars and would much rather ride with him, but that's not what GranAnna's Book says I should do.

Inside the van on the drive to the cemetery, I can't hold my tongue in the deadening silence. "Is no one going to recognize the pink elephant in the room?" I press my sister.

Mary Evelyn stares forward, looking at the back of our parents' car. "That man was obviously delusional."

"Or he was in love with her," I say sharply.

"You're jumping to conclusions, Hale. Maybe he was someone who knew her in the nursing home."

"She was barely there. Besides, she was relegated to her bed the whole stay. It wasn't like she could socialize with the other patients. This man is from her past. He's that 'regret' she spoke of, I just know it." I stop and mull this over. "You don't think she had an affair, do you?"

"Hale, would you stop it? What does it matter?" Scary asks with a tinge of venom. "What are you going to accomplish pushing this issue? He was in the wrong room. That's what it has to be. Very simple. Anyway, we don't have to figure it out right now. We have to be strong for Mother. Do I have to do everything? I mean, I'm the one who lives here and takes her to the doctor and the grocery store. Don't you think I'd know if a matter needs following up?" Mary Evelyn stops herself, her breathing ragged. Darren reaches over and places his hand gently on her forearm and my sister calms down.

What was that all about? I wasn't talking about Mary Ev or how she caters to my parents without them even asking for the help. I was talking about Charles Miller and what his connection is to GranAnna. Why isn't anyone else concerned?

I look behind us at the trail of headlights following the hearse on the way to the cemetery. It's at the edge of town, on a high hillside with rolling green grass that overlooks the blue-green water in the background. On the way there, we see other motorists pulling over, some standing outside their cars with their baseball hats off in respect of the dead. Such a Southern thing, but appreciated nonetheless.

At Jubilee Cemetery, Brother Sparks, who leads the funeral procession, pulls into the one-way street that weaves up to the top where the Hale family plot sits. Where Grandpa Jack is buried.

We wait for what seems like an eternity while the casket is unloaded and set up underneath the forest green tent with five hundred point font "Powell Memorial" lettering. The driveway, as far back as I can see, is full of cars filling the narrow path up to the top of the hill where the chairs and tent sit. I step out of the van and go to be with my parents, particularly to help my mom—who's limping a bit—to walk over the graves. We file into the chairs and wait for everyone to make it up the hill.

Ironically, as the graveside ceremony begins, and Brother Sparks reads from the Bible musing on death and the afterlife, Scary Evelyn begins to weep underneath her designer-impostor Ray-Bans. Honest, solid tears, coupled with some noticeable shaking. I don't think she's faking it. Scary was never this good of an actress. Something cracks the firm barrier I have for my older sister and my heart goes out to her. She'd sat so stoically at the funeral home, but I can see at this moment that the sadness of all of this has finally gotten to her.

Feeling the need to connect with her somehow, some way, I reach across her lap and take her hand in mine. It takes a moment, but she neither resists, nor pulls away. Instead, she squeezes back and bounces our hands on her thigh.

After Brother Sparks is done with his remarks, our third cousin, Robbie Whittaker, starts singing "Wind Beneath My Wings" courtesy of a karaoke player someone rigged up. As hard as I try not to laugh—residuals of the pot—I can't help but start the giggle loop. You know, where one person starts cracking up, then another, then another, and then another until someone bursts out. First me, then Mary Ev, and then Gilly. We're suppressing our laughter so hard that the tears are gushing down our faces. From outward appearances, we're just crying our hearts out, but little do people know. I hold both of my sisters' hands and we grip tightly as cousin Robbie fails miserably to reach the high notes in an entertaining way.

At this point, I'm praying for my own end, hoping it'll be soon so I won't have to endure Robbie's falsetto of the overused Bette Midler classic anymore.

When Brother Sparks finally says, "Amen," my sisters and I echo the sentiment.

It's a strange sibling bonding moment.

And, as quickly as it happens, it's gone.

Back in the Stevens' van, I wipe away remnants of mascara and eyeliner that have smeared from all of the tears—both happy and sad—and tuck the used tissue into my pants pocket. Mary Evelyn doesn't turn and speak to me when she slips into the front seat, but I know we've reached a small plateau in our relationship. Or at least I hope so. Maybe she's human after all.

Darren cranks the engine and we're ready to go. Ready to leave GranAnna to the grave diggers who'll see to her final resting spot. Besides, she's not in there anymore. She's gone on to that higher plane Mom mentioned.

Ten minutes later, we're still sitting put, though. "There seems to be some sort of controversy," Darren says, peering out the windshield.

"What is Brother Sparks doing?" Mary Ev snaps.

I see Mr. Powell from the funeral home tap on Dad's window and lean in to say something.

"This can't be good," I say.

Mr. Powell makes his way to our car and Darren rolls the window down.

"What going on?" Darren asks.

Scratching his head, Mr. Powell seems almost embarrassed. "Well, folks," he says. "It seems that Brother Sparks done locked his keys in his car. Since he's at the head of the processional, it looks like the only way we can get out of here is if everyone backs out."

"You're kidding me." I edit myself for the sake of my nieces and nephew.

"This is ridiculous," Scary says. "We've got a hundred cars here! This will take all day."

"Yes ma'am," Mr. Powell says meekly. "Best get everyone backin' out."

Twenty minutes later, we're reversing our way out of the cemetery, the hearse included. I suppress the snicker that bubbles up from my chest as the last of my buzz wears off and the overwhelming munchies take over.

I need food. Soon.

But as I see the long, black hearse heading down backwards away from the grave site all I can think is, "I hope Jordan videoed this."

## Wine #3

## The wine you share

## with good friends

## or family...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I can't stop nibbling at the turkey meat on the deli platter as Mom, Gilly, Chris, Scary Ev, and I start setting out all of the food.

Mary Ev smacks at my hand when I reach for the tray of deviled eggs Mrs. Billingham brought over. "Stop eating everything, Hale. I swear to God..."

Regardless of her motherly dictation (or perhaps just to spite her), I pop the creamy treat into my mouth and quickly chew. "I'm not one of your kids, Mary Evelyn. This stuff is here to be eaten." And it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.

"Yeah, but not by you."

"Girls, not now. People are starting to come in," Mom says. She puts out the plastic knives, forks, and spoons next to the mountain of paper plates she bought at Sam's Club.

"Here, Hale." Gilly presses something into my back. "I rescued this from the funeral home."

Ahhh, it's the Yellowtail Shiraz. "Pour us a couple of glasses," I say.

"Are you an alcoholic, Hale?" Scary Evelyn asks through gritted teeth. "You sure do drink a lot of wine."

I do not want to deal with her right now. I don't feel like explaining my love of wine and its flavors, history, and taste. I can't help that she's so short-sighted and judgmental. "No, are you a bitch, Mary Evelyn? You sure act like one."

Gilly steps between us and pushes us apart with her hands. "Okay, okay. We don't want to show our asses in front of the neighbors."

Scary looks at her arm where Gilly touched her and then goes over to the sink and scrubs at the spot with a sponge. "I don't want your way of life rubbing off on me, Gillian."

She. Is. Evil. Incarnate.

Dad bursts into the kitchen. "All right girls. Enough." He knows something is brewing, but his diplomatic ways keep us focused on the here and now. Mary Ev's prejudices can wait until later. "Let's get things organized in here," he says. "We'll do drinks over here, casseroles over there, deli trays, breads, and condiments on the dining room table. Gilly, honey, put all the pies and cakes on the sideboard and use Mom's good silver so people can cut into the desserts."

I pull Dad to me and kiss him on the cheek, silently thanking him from keeping me from massacring my older sister.

"You, Hale, pour your old man a glass of that red wine and try one of Mrs. Billingham's deviled eggs. They're something else. She tells me she puts Gulden's mustard in them."

I smile hard and reach for the wine bottle. As a harbor master, Dad had to keep vessels of all sizes from colliding and causing chaos. He applies the same tactics to his daughters, God love him.

People file into the house, making themselves at home and fixing plates of the food as they spread out all over the place. I pile green bean casserole, more eggs, turkey meat and potato salad up on a paper plate and ease upstairs to my room for a minute to chow down in private like a ravenous squirrel. I've never been so hungry before. Damn Jordan and his high-quality pot. Although, I'll admit, it did help me through the ceremony. I should find him later and thank him.

Yeah, I know how to thank him.

Returning to the kitchen, I toss my paper plate in the garbage, grab a carrot stick, and dunk it into the ranch dressing. Mom is talking to Clare Billingham and, of course, we have to rave about her deviled eggs. Mom looks like she needs rescuing, so I come to her aid.

"Mom, there's something I need to show you," I say, and escort her down the hallway. "Will you excuse us Mrs. Billingham?"

In her bedroom, Mom closes the door and breathes out. "Thank you, dear. I needed a minute." She touches up the ends of her hair with her hand as she looks in the mirror. "Oh, I've aged ten years in the past few days."

Coming up behind her, I wrap my arms around her. "You look fantastic, Mom. As always."

I gaze at her reflection in the mirror and note how similar we are in appearance. I suppose it won't be so bad to turn out this way in thirty or so more years. Mom has crow's feet, but they're from laughter. She has a poochy belly, but it's from three children. And she has wrinkles around her mouth, but it's from years of smiling. She's had a happy life. I want that, too.

"What's wrong with you, Hale? Is there something you're not telling me, dear?"

Do I tell her? Do I explain how I've failed miserably? No, I can't. She's got enough on her mind with GranAnna and a house full of relatives. Best to let them know about my unemployment problems when I've solved them.

Speaking of solving, I wonder about the outburst in the chapel. "So, who is Charles Miller and why did he stand up at the funeral and profess undying love for GranAnna?"

Mom drops her eyes to the dresser and starts rearranging the pins and necklaces laid out on top. "Fiddle-dee-dee, Hale, that man wasn't in his right mind. Mother's only ever loved Daddy, so that was just hooey... nonsense."

"Was it?" I ask, still wondering why no one else is as curious about this as I am.

"Come on, now. We should get back out there before your sister has everyone taking servings home in my good Tupperware."

We rejoin the festivities in the kitchen, living room, and dining room. Cousin Nancy Jean is sitting at the piano playing something from the Cokesbury Hymnal with several other cousins singing along. The triplets are wreaking havoc on Mom's curtains in the living room, but Scary Ev's too busy rattling around in the kitchen to take notice.

I see Jordan across the den, standing behind Dad's big leather chair. He's not videoing right now, although it would be great to have proof of Scary Ev's brats acting out. Anything to hang over her head for those moments when she cops that "holier than thou" attitude. Instead of working, Jordan seems to be watching me as I move about the room. Sure, relatives and cousins I haven't seen in years are trying to question me on my work, my home, my life, but I block it all out as my eyes connect with Jordan's.

God damn, he's gorgeous. Breathtaking even. Must be because I'm having trouble breathing over the pensive, erotic stare he's tossing my way.

He cocks his head to the left to indicate the hallway and like a well-trained dog, I follow his command. At the end of the hall, he slips into the bathroom and wiggles his finger at me to come along.

I hurry my step to match my heartbeat.

The anticipation.

The excitement.

So maybe this "thing" we had last night was more than just some Mezcal-induced make-out session.

In the small bathroom, lit only by the tiny lighthouse-shaped night light, Jordan shuts the door and clicks the latch.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," I say back. Poignant conversation, eh?

I wonder if I should snap the overhead light on, but then that might ruin the atmosphere that's charged with static right now.

"I've been waiting to get you alone all day," he says in a soft whisper.

I lick my lips. "What about when we were smoking pot?"

He shrugs. "Doesn't count. You needed to relax then."

I can barely think over the snare drumming of my blood rushing to every major organ. "What do I need now?"

Jordan backs me up to the sink until I'm nearly sitting on it. He places his hands on either side of my hips, moving in for the kill. "I think you need me."

That does it. I'm a goner.

My eyes dance over him, drinking in every bit from his thick mane of hair captured in the ponytail to his fine, fine body I've been admiring the last two days. He's shadowed in the soft blue light that makes him seem ethereal.

This is crazy. Madness even.

But I don't want medication or therapy.

I just want to be kissed.

The guy must be telepathic.

His lips are cool at first, then they warm immediately as they move over mine. Before I realize what I'm doing, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer as he increases the pressure of his mouth. Jordan's hands clench my hips and he presses me up onto the sink. Deepening the toe-curling kiss, he slides forward, showing me exactly the extent of his arousal. For me? Wow, this is a whole new sensation in my life... well, since the divorce. I feel reborn.

Moving to my neck, his breath skims over to my ear, causing chills to cover me from head to toe. An ache rushes to my breasts and my stomach flutters away like it does for the heroines I write about in my manuscripts.

"You sure know how to kiss, Hale. We should have done this years ago." His face is a whisper away from mine.

"Yeah, I guess we should have."

Of course, what would my life be like now if Jordan Valvano had ever given me the time of day twenty years ago? Would I have ever met Curtis, fallen for him, loved him, and lost him? No! I won't think of that now. Not when Jordan feels so good, so right.

My lips part in response and I seem to be deafened by the pulse tapping through my brain. Instead of over-analyzing, I act, taking the lead in this exercise. I open my mouth more and press my tongue forward to do battle with his. He matches my ferocity, diving in and out of my mouth in an animalistic fashion. I can't get close enough to him. I need more. I tug him flat against me, chest-to-chest, pelvis-to-pelvis. Unconsciously—okay, maybe instinctively—I wrap my legs around his waist and lean back until my head touches the mirror. His hands slide under my butt and cup me as we go at each other right here in the guest bathroom of my parents' house, full of relatives stuffing themselves with post-funeral food.

"Hale..." Jordan says in a rough, passion-laced voice. "Can we get out of here? Go somewhere?"

I kiss his lips quickly, licking and tugging his bottom one with my teeth. "Maybe." I breathe in his musky scent. "I don't know."

A rumble escapes from his chest as his hand covers my breast. A fire ignites deep down in me, something I thought was long dead. Oh, baby, it's alive now!

There's a knock on the door, though, and we hear, "Are you almost done?"

Jordan sighs hard against my neck. "Not by a long shot."

I clear my throat and speak toward the ceiling. "We'll be right out."

I see Jordan raise an eyebrow. "We? You realize you just gave us away."

"I don't care," I say with a smile.

Pushing him away, I flick on the light and turn to look at myself in the mirror. It's not the picture of the quiet wine magazine editor or a budding author, but the image of a wanton woman with sex in her eyes. Jordan winks at me in the mirror and then smacks me firmly on the butt.

Confidently, he says, "We will finish this."

Opening the door, we see a short, silver-haired lady standing there, waiting patiently.

"Sorry about the wait, ma'am." He looks at me. "The lady here needed an adjustment."

What. A. Flirt.

I'm sure I'm blushing like a fine Rosé wine, but I don't care. Jordan Valvano is hot for me. Me. And I'm going to do something about it.

Soon.

~~ ~~

Jordan goes back to videoing the guests and relatives scattered about the house and I head to the kitchen to help with whatever needs to be done.

But I'm stopped outside the kitchen by a character straight out of Harry Potter. The woman seems to be in her late fifties, perhaps, and is wearing a colorful blue and gold robe with moons and stars all over it. Dozens of bangle bracelets hang from her left hand and each finger has a ring of some sort on it. She smells of incense-tinged smoke and her wild mane of dirty blond hair falls around her shoulders like a wavy cloak.

"You must be one of Sarah Beth's daughters," she says sweetly in a voice marked with a slight Cajun accent.

This has to be Dharma Louise-Ann.

"Are you Louise-Ann?"

She nods and smiles in a very spiritual way, spreading her arms wide as if to indicate the power she wields. All thoughts of laughing at the absurdity of this woman swim away as she seems genuine and caring. For what it's worth, I have Dharma Louise-Ann to thank for my mom's sudden change in attitude over Gilly and for that I'm eternally grateful to her.

"I'm Hale, the mi—"

"You're the middle child. Yes, I can tell." She waves her arms around, buffing the air like she sees something and is trying to make heads or tails of it.

"Louise-Ann, I have to thank you," I start.

She stands back and looks at me, squinting her eyes as she contemplates whatever it is she's wanting to tell me. "Thank me for what, Hale?"

"For all the things you've taught Mom. Thanks to you, her ankles are better, she's dealing with GranAnna's death, and most importantly, my sister, Gilly's back."

Louise-Ann folds her thick arms in front of her, the bracelets tinkling together. "I just shared my wisdom and allowed her to open her spirit for the acceptance of new things in her life. That's what a Dharma Reiki Master does." When she smiles at me, I see that two of her bottom teeth are missing.

Where did Mom find this woman? In the panhandle of Florida, no less?

"Well, in any event, you've given us a peace and happiness we haven't had in a long time in our family."

She scrutinizes me again. "You've had pain in your life recently, haven't you?"

I tweak my face into what I can only imagine is a "No shit, Sherlock" look. "My grandmother did die," I say, trying not to be too much of a smart ass.

Louise-Ann shakes her blond mane. "No, no, I know that, dear, but there's something more. Your aura... it's like a rainbow. I see so many different colors surrounding you, indicating multiple things. Pain, healing, a dissatisfaction with something. There's vibrant red, which signifies fear or anxiety. But there's also effervescent yellow surrounding you which indicates creativeness and success. Many conflicting auras."

"Sounds about right," I say with a sigh.

"You are a complicated woman, Hale Martin."

I lay my hand on the Dharma's arm and laugh. "You have no idea, Louise-Ann."

She continues to wave her hands around my head. "Ahhh, lots of pink around your brain, which is the true organ of our love and pain. And it's an interesting pink. Here," she points to the sides of my head, "it's vibrant pink, which indicates love, affection, and a resilient temperament. But here," she moves her hands up around the top of my head, "I see dull pink which denotes care with caution."

"Damn, you're good."

Lacing her fingers through one another and steepling her index fingers together, she says, "You have been hurt, Hale Martin, yet you've found someone who's interested. This is the time of life to take chances, surge ahead, and go with your feelings. Love will find you again. Refreshed and new. Like you've never known before."

My breath hitches in my throat over her words. Is she talking about Jordan? Does she know Jordan and I were kissing not five minutes ago? Whatever this woman earns for these revelations is certainly worth it.

"Oh, Louise-Ann!" Mom shouts out. "I see you've met my Hale."

Louise-Ann bows toward my mother and then encompasses her in a wide embrace. "I have indeed, Sarah Beth. She's the spitting image of you. You must be very proud of this one. She's going far. There is great success in her future... very soon."

Ordinarily, I'd think Dharma Louise-Ann was full of her own shit looking at her dark brown eyes, but I'm feeling like she may be on to something. Love? Success? For me? Can this be true?

A surge of power bolts through me and confidence feathers out to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my toes. Whether that achievement comes professionally or personally, I'll welcome it when the time comes, not questioning my good fortune or the opportunities that are presented to me.

A whole, new positive Hale Martin is emerging from this.

And I like her.

So does Jordan Valvano.

Dharma Louise-Ann hugs me to her and then blesses me. Not like a minister's blessing, but rather as a bit of a soul sister thing. Anyone who can see colors surrounding me and pegging my life in three minutes flat bears listening to.

"Have Sarah Beth read your Tarot before you leave," Louise-Ann whispers to me. She squeezes my arm. "She needs the practice and I think you'll like what she has to tell you."

The lump in my throat moves lower into my chest and all I can do is nod. "Thanks, Louise-Ann."

I watch as Mom leads her Dharma Reiki Master into a group of her friends and they all fall around like obedient soldiers. Scary Evelyn glares over at the group from her perch in the den, apparently annoyed with Louise-Ann's presence. Why can't she just go with the flow? I smile at her, but she looks away. So much for our graveside bonding moment. I move back through the living room where Dad is holding court with several of his Shriner buddies. Jordan's getting it all recorded, so I decide to sneak outside for a breath of fresh air.

Sitting on the cushy porch couch, I lean back and relax. My body tingles from the memory of Jordan's kisses and I ache in anticipation of what's to come later. And something—or someone—will come later. Of that I can be sure.

I feel like a teenager about to go on her first date, or better yet, a young bride about to experience the ultimate wedding night. Not something I ever got to enjoy since I was drunk for my first time in college and it lasted all of three minutes from start to finish. Curtis and I didn't have sex on our wedding night or honeymoon... at all. A cue for what our marriage would be like. I relish the thought of a first time with someone I've lusted after for so long. With someone who has unexpectedly swept into my life in a matter of days and changed everything for the better.

It is him, right? Or maybe it's me. Maybe I've found an inner strength I didn't know I had. Energy I've always felt from tasting wines and sampling their beauty. A verve for life that comes forth in researching grapes and knowing how to pair the tastes with food. Now, that lust for satisfaction seems to have boiled over into my life and the sensation is empowering and invigorating.

I don't ever want to let this power go. Hale Martin is no longer a victim of her own misfortune, but the captain of her own ship, steering into a positive future. Dharma Louise-Ann said so and I believe her.

Jordan hinted at destiny and I believe him, too.

My eyes fall shut and my imagination runs wild. Images of what Jordan Valvano will look like naked and glorious cause my skin to tighten around me and itch with delight. The scent of his heady musk fills my memory banks and his fingerprints are imbedded all over my clothes.

This is the success Dharma Louise-Ann was speaking of.

It has to be.

I open my eyes and look out across the lawn to the many cars parked in front of the house. One, in particular, catches my attention. A driver sits behind the wheel and there's a passenger in the back. How long have they been out here and why don't they come inside?

Feeling the need to be a good hostess, I push up from the couch and walk across the yard to the car. It's a dark blue Lincoln Towne Car, obviously a service for hire. And in the back sits a familiar face.

I tap on the window and wait for the occupant to roll it down. Mustering up the best of my Southern hospitality I know my parents would expect from me, I say to him, "Would you like to come into the house, Mr. Miller?"

His face lights up at the recognition of his name.

"Why young lady, I've just been sitting here waiting to be asked in. You've made my day."

The curious creature in me beams. "You may have made mine, too, Mr. Miller."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Make yourself at home right here, Mr. Miller, and I'll get you something to eat. There's plenty of food."

He eases his old bones into the large arm chair in the living room, moving the throw pillow out of the way as he settles in. "You're an angel. Please call me Charles. Mr. Miller was my father."

I snicker at his joke. One my own father uses.

"You're not Anna's daughter, are you?" he asks.

"No, sir," I say, taking his coat from him. "I'm her granddaughter, Hale."

He looks around slowly, his eyes watery and bright. "Is there a chance I could speak to Anna's daughter... your mother, I would assume?"

"Yes sir. Her name's Sarah. I'll go get her for you."

With that, I leave Charles sitting by himself in the dimly lit living room. The remaining stragglers are in the den, gathered around my father and his friends as they swap stories from their Navy days in Korea and the Pacific. My heart squeezes when I see Jordan sitting next to Dad, rubbing Cujo's belly and laughing along. Maybe Jordan Valvano does fit nicely into my life.

In the kitchen, I throw spoonfuls of various casseroles onto a paper plate and nuke it real quick in the microwave since they've been sitting out for a while. I take the hot food and plastic dinnerware to Charles and then head into the kitchen alcove where Mom and her cronies are sitting around drinking coffee.

"Mom, can I steal you for a minute?"

"Sure, dear. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I twist my hands together. "There's someone here to see you."

She stands and lays her checkered cloth napkin on the table. "Will you ladies excuse me?"

I lead her through the den, toward the living room, and am about to prepare her when Scary Evelyn halts in front of us.

"I can't believe you let that insane asylum escapee into this house! What were you thinking, Hale?"

Putting my hands on my hips, I flatten my mouth, Scary Ev style. "I was thinking that he was a grieving man who wants to meet the family of someone he obviously cared about!"

"What are you two talking about?" Mom asks.

"Mr. Charles Miller is sitting in the living room and he wants to see Anna's daughter," I say, much to Mary Ev's chagrin.

"Who is Charles Miller?"

"The man who cried out in the church," I say.

Mom's eyebrow jumps slightly and she puts a shaky hand to her heart. "Oh. My."

I nod and smile.

Mom turns to my sister. "Well, we must be polite and welcome him, now mustn't we, Mary Evelyn."

My sister glares at me, but falls in step behind us.

Mom, gracious hostess that she is, walks into the living room and approaches Charles, who has made fast work of the dinner plate I'd brought him. He does his best to pull up from the chair, but Mom signals for him to stay put.

"Mr. Miller, I'm Sarah Hale Martin. It's a pleasure meeting you."

His old eyes fill with tears as he looks at Mom with such care and devotion. "You look just like my Anna," he says.

I'm taken a back again. His Anna?

Mom takes the couch next to him and reaches her hand out to grasp his. It's trembling and covered in age spots, but he holds tightly to Mom's fingers. "Did you know Mother?"

"Know her?" he repeats with a bit of a guffaw. "Why Anna was my wife!"

Mom moves her hand to her heart and gasps deeply. "Mr. Miller, you must have my mother confused with someone else."

He's insistent though and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. "No, dear, I don't. I'll prove it."

With a terribly wobbly, aged hand, he withdraws a battered old black and white photograph and passes it to Mom. I sit close and look over her shoulder at the picture. It's of a young man with slicked-back hair, wearing a snazzy tuxedo and spats. The woman standing next to him is young and happy and totally GranAnna. I recognize her from other pictures of her at that age.

"Oh, my God!" I proclaim. Scary Evelyn comes over and sits by me to get a look at the photo.

"That's... that's... Mother," Mom says in a hoarse whisper.

"It can't be," Mary Ev snaps. "You PhotoShopped this!"

Charles frowns. "I'm sorry. I did what?"

I growl at my sister. "Be quiet, will you?"

Charles sits forward and smiles. "It is her. It was taken in Chicago in 1930. July 28th to be exact. Our wedding day."

Mom looks as if she might faint dead away. "That just can't be so. Mother never left Florida. And she certainly was never in Chicago." She looks at me and my sister. "Did she have a twin sister I didn't know about?"

Charles shakes his head, clearly wanting the picture back. "Anna was the youngest of her family. Twelve siblings ahead of her. She always said she felt suffocated in the small house here and wanted to get away. And she did. I met her when she was seventeen and my theater company was passing through on the way to New Orleans. We met down by the pier with a girlfriend of hers." Charles bends to talk to Mary Ev and me. "See, I was a Vaudeville performer. We traveled the country with our act, wherever we could get work."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. GranAnna? Involved with theater folk? My palms sweat slightly as I pass the picture back to Charles. Either, Scary's right and that's the best PhotoShop job ever, or it really is my grandmother.

"How did GranAnna end up in Chicago?" I ask. Gilly and Chris move from their lurking positions in the hallway into the room and take a seat on the floor near Mr. Miller's feet, not saying anything, but listening carefully.

Even Mary Evelyn seems interested at this point and she sits forward on the couch to get a better look at our guest. He's a darling old man, definitely the grandfatherly type you want to put in your pocket and take home with you. Wrinkles cover his hands, rough from years of work and life experience. He smells a bit of stale laundry with a hint of peppermint candy. I can see him being great with little kids, bringing them sweets and treats. And from the picture I saw, GranAnna saw something in the young, handsome Charles Miller enough to leave her parents and all she'd ever known to marry him.

"I'll tell you everything," he says and then takes a sip of the soda I'd brought for him. Tucking the beloved photo back into his wallet, he returns it to his pocket and clears his throat. "Anna ran away from home the day after she graduated high school. We'd had an epistolary relationship during my travels and I told her I could get her a job in our troop. So, we swung back through here and picked her up on our way to Chicago."

"You kidnapped her?" Mary Ev accuses more than asks.

Mr. Miller chuckles, though. "Young lady, you watch way too much television."

"It's a federal crime," Mary Ev continues. "Taking a minor across state lines against her will. You violated the Mann Act!"

I can't help but sigh and roll my eyes at the same. I glare at my sister with a clear message: Will. You. Shut. Up.

Charles isn't fazed, though. "Can't call it a kidnapping or taking against her will when the lady had her suitcase and life's savings with her."

Mom laughs and I imagine she's trying to envision her mother as a rebellious teen, getting away from Pensacola, her siblings, and her parents for the first time in her life.

Suddenly, the creative writer in me is having a field day with all of this information, already plotting and planning a story around this for my next manuscript. GranAnna, didn't know you had it in you! She was always so prim and proper. This is totally a different side of her and I have to write about it. Man, my agent will eat this up. Editors love the fictionalization of real life events. I need more information, though, so I press more. "So, was GranAnna an actress?"

"Not at first," Charles says. "She was a beauty. Back then girls got put on stage and in the pictures on their looks alone. Anna had a set of pins on her that would put Betty Grable to shame."

Mom and I laugh and even Mary Ev chimes in.

Charles continues. "We got married in Chicago right before I got a job on stage in New York City. We packed up what few belongings we had and took the train out. That was the only real honeymoon we ever had," he says wistfully.

Knowing how train travel was "back in the day," I surmise that GranAnna and Charles shared one of the small berths on the trip to Manhattan. I'm sure it was quite romantic for them.

I need to know more. "Was GranAnna in any movies?"

Charles nods profusely. "Oh yes! Three pictures if I remember correctly. Very early ones. For Ziegfeld himself."

Gilly speaks up. "They made pictures outside of Hollywood?"

"Back then," Charles says. "There was quite a burgeoning film industry in New York City."

My mouth drops, as does Mom's. I swallow hard to clarify what I've heard. "My GranAnna was a Ziegfeld Girl?"

A bright smile breaks out across Charles Miller's face. "Was she ever."

"I don't believe you," Mary Ev says. "This is asinine, Mother. Are you really going to sit here and listen to this... this... malarkey... this nonsense?"

Mom waves my sister off. "Sit down and be quiet, Mary Evelyn. This is the most fascinating thing I've heard in a long time. Please, Mr. Miller, go on."

"Well, Anna and I were together for almost a year before that day when we got the knock on our door," he says with a far off look in his eyes. He chokes up a little bit. "Her father showed up at our tenement apartment and dragged her out of there. No questions asked. He nearly beat the life out of me, not even wanting to know who I was. Yelling something about 'no Jew boy is good enough for my daughter' and I'm not even Jewish. He just left me there, beaten and bleeding, and took my Anna back to Florida with him."

Mom covers her mouth with her hand and I feel my heartbeat speed up over what GranAnna must have felt at the time. Literally ripped away from the man she loved, doing something that made her happy.

"Oh, Mr. Miller, I'm so sorry to hear that. My great grandfather wasn't a kind or gentle man. It was from years of working in the iron mines when he was younger. It messed him up good. Cancer ate away at him most of his life until it finally took him when I was twelve years old."

Tears fill Mr. Miller's eyes. "I always knew Anna would settle down and start a new family. You seem like a very nice person, Sarah. I see so much of your mother in you. Just like my Stanley."

"Stanley?" Mom and I ask in unison.

The letter!

"Yes, my son. Anna's son."

"I have a... a... brother?" Mom asks through thick emotions.

"Yes," Charles says. "Stanley Miller. He's seventy-five, a retired banker, and lives in Boca Raton with his wife, Katherine. You have his eyes, Sarah."

I think of the letter still in Mom's purse and realize that in her final days and in her last hours, GranAnna reached out to her son. The man we knew nothing about.

Tears pour from Mom's eyes, unlike today during the funeral service. "But how? Why? Why wasn't I—?"

Charles reaches over and takes my mother's hand again. "See, Stanley was just a baby. He was sleeping in the other room when Anna's father came and ripped her away from me. Your grandfather had the look of a killer in his eyes, so Anna was afraid for her baby. She was protecting little Stanley and scared of what her father would do to an innocent child. Could you imagine?" He stops a minute and his body shudders. I experience the same sensation. "She never told her family about him. She just went home with them like she was told. Our marriage was annulled and I never saw my Anna again."

Mary Evelyn stands. "Now wait just a damn minute. My grandmother abandoned a child? I don't believe any woman could ever do that."

Mom tugs my sister back down to the couch and shushes her.

"No, Mother, I won't be told to be quiet. As a mother, I cannot believe any of this story."

Mr. Miller wipes his mouth with the napkin. "Mary Evelyn is it?"

She nods.

"Dear, let me explain something to you. You're talking like a mother in the twenty-first century. Anna was a young woman from the 1930's. It was pre-depression, pre-war, pre-Roosevelt social programs. There would have been no way for her to be a single mother back then. It wasn't heard of. She also feared her controlling father and with the rage in his eyes, he would have killed little Stanley. By not saying anything or acknowledging him in the other room, she was protecting him with all of her heart."

Scary isn't satisfied. She crosses her arms in front of her. "But you can't just annul a marriage of nearly a year."

Mom snorts derisively. "It is the South, dear. Things get taken care of. My grandfather had connections and if he wanted a marriage annulled, you can rest assure, he did it."

I have to agree. Things do happen in small Southern towns. I went to college with a guy who'd been convicted of three DUIs, however, he still managed to get into law school, then the United States Navy JAG Corp, and last I heard, he worked for the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon. It helped that his step-father was a circuit judge. Things get fixed... even today.

Sadly, the lost time between my grandmother and her son—my mother and her brother!—can't be fixed. Ever.

Okay, now I'm crying too. This is the saddest story I've ever heard. My great grandfather was a prick for doing that to my grandmother. Who was he to tell her what was right or wrong in her life? She was an adult, for heaven's sake. Of course, as I breathe deeply and think this through, if things hadn't turned out as they did, Mom wouldn't be here and neither would Mary Ev, Gilly, or I. I suppose things work out for a reason, still, my chest contracts at the pain Charles and GranAnna must have gone through.

Mom grips Charles' hand tightly, a bond instantly forming between them. "She married Daddy in the summer of 1931. That was awfully quick after her return."

Charles acknowledges with a head bob. "It was arranged by your grandparents. I had two letters from her and then nothing ever again. She apologized for the pain she'd caused me and for leaving Stanley. Said it was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, but she was protecting him and knew that I would take care of him. She set up a savings account in his name in a bank in New York and mailed money to it for years so he'd have something to remember her."

Mom pulls a Kleenex from her sleeve and dabs her eyes. "What did Stanley know about his mother?"

Charles sighs. "I told him she died when he was a baby." He sniffs, but keeps going. "I know it was wrong to do that, but Anna belonged to her family and they'd made a life choice for her. I didn't want to interfere with that."

I look up toward heaven and my soul weeps. Oh, GranAnna, these are the regrets you sang about in your dying letter. How her heart must have been breaking all of these years, not being able to reach out for her family that she'd been ripped away from. Why didn't she ever contact them?

As if reading my thoughts, Mom says, "I'm surprised Mother never tried to reach you, after my grandfather died."

Charles scratches his balding head. "Well now, Sarah, by then it was all water under the bridge. She'd grown up, matured, moved on. Re-married and had a new baby. We were young and impetuous and she knew I'd love Stanley for the both of us."

"And you did," Mom says confidently.

"I did. He's had a good life. I eventually remarried, but bless Glenda's soul, I never loved her like I loved my Anna. She was the one you read about in novels."

I reach up and wipe away the tear that escapes from my eye. I can't believe how these people found that one love of a lifetime. That soul-wrenching connection you discover with one other person. Destino, the Italians call it. But it was ripped apart in the most idiotic of manner. Had that happened to me, too? I wonder if Curtis was that one true person for me. Or not? How do I know? Well, deep down, I know, but it didn't work for us either, just like GranAnna and Charles. Can I find happiness again like my grandmother did?

Stop thinking of yourself!

I need to focus on my grandmother and suss out the information I've just received. Something inside me wants to know more about this other side of GranAnna, this additional life she led. Those regrets she spoke of.

The intent of her words at the funeral isn't lost on me, though. She was reaching out to all of us, telling us not to screw up our chances in life. Not to take things for granted when they're presented to you. You never know when something dear will be taken away from you... forever. And I will heed that advice. I won't look back with regret. Not anymore. So I don't have a job. There are others out there. So I'm not with Curtis, but I'm not alone. I have friends, family, and maybe even Jordan, or someone I haven't even met.

I hear GranAnna's voice in my head, once again, saying "Life's what you make it."

She was and is right.

"What was GranAnna's stage name, Charles?" I ask.

"Anna Miller, of course," he says proudly.

Mom gets up and leans down to hug Charles to her. "I'm so sorry for your pain and your loss, but I can't thank you enough for being here. You're family now, Charles." He reaches around and hugs her back until the two of them are sobbing together.

I motion with my head to my sisters and Chris that we need to leave them alone for a little bit.

Out in the front hallway, Scary bites her lip hard and expels a heavy breath. "Well, that's the biggest pile of horse shit I've ever stepped in."

"What are you talking about, Mev?" Gilly asks. "The guy had a picture of GranAnna."

Chris tugs Gilly's hand. "I think it's a beautiful, tragic, love story for the ages."

"Am I supposed to believe for one minute that my grandmother had a secret life and abandoned a child?"

"It's what he said," I say.

Still, Mary Ev won't hear it. "It's lies. All of it." She turns off and heads to the kitchen.

"Come with me," I say to Gilly and Chris and we head upstairs. I quickly nab my Smartphone and click on IMDb.com, putting "Anna Miller" in the search field. After a moment, up pops a picture of my grandmother, young and beautiful and so very 1930s. The exact picture that was in The Book – her Joan Crawford inspired shot. Sure enough, there are three Florenz Ziegfeld movies listed where she was a chorus girl or a dancer.

"Well, what do you know?" I say quite smugly.

"Anna Miller, what a babe you were," Gilly says. "This is a great story, Hale. You've got to write about it."

"No kidding," I say, almost too sarcastically. I look at the screen and think about my grandmother. How everything in her life was orderly and compartmentalized. How she hid her emotions from all of us. Could this be why? What of her other secrets? There has to be more. I look at Gilly. "Remember how we were never allowed in GranAnna's attic. How it was always locked?"

"Sure. Even Mom's never been in there. Ever before."

I rub my hands together. "I'll bet you anything there's a treasure in there waiting to be discovered."

"From her days in the movies?"

"Absolutely," I say. A researcher's dream. I'm already plotting the novel out as I sit here. The creative juices are flowing and this is going to be fantastic.

"Tomorrow," I start. "We're going into the attic."

~~ ~~

I watch through the living room curtain as Mom and Dharma Louise-Ann walk Charles out to his car. Mom's made a new friend and soon, she'll be traveling to Boca to meet her older brother.

"What's going on?" Jordan asks behind me. "Family pow-wow in the living room?"

I pivot and look up into his face. Damn, he's gorgeous. I quickly fill him in on the revelation of GranAnna's first marriage and what she meant by regret.

"That's huge. And exciting!"

"I know. I'm going to write about it. It has to be my next manuscript. If nothing else sells, Anna Hale's story will."

Jordan moves his hand to my neck, cupping it and stroking with his smooth fingers. "You're amazing, you know that?"

I'm starting to believe him and his bedroom eyes.

"Thanks," I say. I'm new to this whole flirting thing, but I certainly like it. It's as if there's new life in me thanks to Charles' revelation about my grandmother.

There's also great potential for fun with Jordan and I'm not going to let the opportunity slip away.

Staring at his full lips, I want nothing more than to press myself against him and kiss him for days. Maybe I will. Maybe I'll take him back to New York with me. Who knows? I don't have to decide right now.

He has ideas of his own, though. "Are you still needed or can we get out of here?"

His lips replace his hand on the side of my neck, nipping and teasing and making my body writhe in sheer delight.

"Let me just go help, umm, clean up in the, ah... ah... kitchen."

Oh. My. God. Words are difficult when he's making dessert of my earlobe.

"Hurry," he says, barely above a whisper.

Trying to lighten the nervousness threatening to overtake me, I laugh. "What? Tired of Dad's Navy stories and talk of war?"

Jordan smiles down at me. "I believe in making love, not war."

Okay, this guy means business.

"Get your things together. I'll be quick."

He winks. "Yes ma'am."

I head to the kitchen to do my helpful daughter clean up duties, but Mary Evelyn is already going full steam, slamming dishes into the sink, jerking the water on and off and storming around.

"What's wrong with you?" I can't help but ask, knowing damn well I'm going to be sorry.

She spins around and jabs her hands to her hips. "What's wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you, Hale?"

Whoa! Miss Potty Mouth! What is her problem? Now what have I done? "Don't talk to me like that, Mary Ev."

"I'll talk to you any goddamned way I please. I can't believe you brought that man in here. You had no right."

"I had every right. I'm a member of this family, too."

She harrumphs. "You could fool me. The nerve of you waltzing in here like you own the place. Like you're this prodigal coming home with the fatted calf."

I throw my hands up and fight back, finally. "What are you talking about? Is this tirade about Charles Miller or about me? You've been itching for a fight since I got here."

Scary Evelyn tosses the yellow sponge into the sink, soap and water flying onto the counter. "It's about you! Him! Both of you! You're a pain in the ass. Bringing that man in here to spout his lies like that. You've gotten Mother all excited about this mystery family she has now. It's bad enough she's going to this swami for spiritual guidance and now you and your Dr. Phil session."

My sister has gone completely insane. "What did you want me to do? Leave him outside in the car crying over the love he lost? Pining for his Anna?"

"Quit saying that."

"But it's true! I had to help him!"

She sneers at me. "Oh sure, here comes Hale to swoop in and save the day. You and your fantastic life in New York City that we're all supposed to genuflect over. Don't think I don't hear about it all the time. 'Hale this' and 'Hale that' and 'look at your sister surviving on her own in Manhattan,' blah, blah, blah. I'm sick of it, Hale, sick, I tell you!"

My brows furrow. "How did this become about me?"

Scary shoves an empty casserole dish into the sink and jerks the water on. "Everything's about you! It always has been since the day you were born. Perfect Hale with her perfect life and her novel writing and her talent and her ribbons from high school and her wanting to be published and living in my Manhattan. Perfect Hale who lived when our imperfect brother died. Perfect Hale who we've had to protect our whole lives for fear she'd die, too."

I gasp in horror at her words and my hand flies to my chest where I seemingly feel the stake through my heart.

Striking out, I hurl my question at my sister. "Am I supposed to feel bad that I lived and my twin brother died? I had no control over that situation. And neither did you, Mary Evelyn." I say her full name like it's a curse. "I couldn't control it any more than you can control your jealousy and your hatred. Or how Dad has bursitis and high blood pressure and Mom now has a Dharma Reiki Master that makes her feel good. Because they don't need you babying them every day, watching over them like they're little children."

If she can make this about me, I can make it about her.

She laughs sardonically at me. "Oh fine, think what you'd like, Hale. You left here to gallivant around with your own perfect life—a doctor's wife and living high on the hog—when your parents are old and need your help. You turned your back on them when they needed you the most."

"When?"

"By moving away! By putting yourself first. No real responsibilities in life. You just sitting there writing your little novels, working at your little wine magazine, thinking anyone cares what you have to say about anything. You're play-acting at living an adult life when the rest of us have children and parents to care for. Go back to New York, Hale. Leave the rest of us alone. Go back to the glamorous life you've built there away from Mother and Daddy and us."

Gilly runs into the kitchen as my mouth falls open.

"What's all the yelling?" she asks, trying to make light of the tense situation.

I'm seething, yet reeling from the hatred emanating from my older sister. At least I finally know what she thinks about me... for real.

But I won't take this. This inaccurate assessment of the shit-storm that is my life.

"Oh, I have a glamorous life? Glamorous, you say?" I stab myself in the chest with my finger for emphasis. "You want to hear about how glamorous my life is, Mary Ev? Do you?"

Mom and Jordan come into the kitchen and stand behind Gilly, but I don't let that stop this battle that's a long time in the making. I didn't start this. Scary did. And now she's going to get it.

I look at Gilly and flatten my lips as I let the sarcasm ooze out. "You want to back me up on just how goddamned glamorous my life is?"

"Hale!" Mom snaps and puts her hands over her ears to hide the shame of my foul language.

Gilly snickers a bit, happy to be a part of this dysfunction. "Oh, you mean your glamorous life you told me about in the voice mail?"

Obviously she checked her messages. "Yeah, that one."

"Mev, she's got it in spades over you, I tell you. You should totally be jealous of her life," Gilly says, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Let's see, now that her divorce is final, she's lost the only man she's ever loved—still loves him desperately, in fact—pines away for him. Oh, and she just lost her job at her 'little wine magazine.' Was glamorously fired and ushered out the door with her boxes of stuff and no severance pay. And let's see, after writing for five years, she still hasn't sold one of her glamorous manuscripts. That what 'cha talking about, Hale?" Gilly winks at me and I appreciate the camaraderie.

"That glamorous enough for you, Mary Ev? Huh?" I ask bitterly.

"Oh Hale, baby," Mom cries out. "You got fired? When?"

"About five minutes before you called me about GranAnna."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

I turn to face her, but instead, I see Jordan. Crap! He was standing there the whole time Gilly went on about how I pine away for Curtis. Okay, so maybe two days ago I did, but that was before Jordan came into my life. Before he opened me to new feelings and emotions. At least I try to convince myself of that.

I mouth, "I'm sorry" to him, but he just smiles at me.

At least there's another person on my side.

Scary's momentary stunning is lost when she turns to the deli platter and starts throwing ham slices at me, of all things.

"Everything's about you! Ever since you were born, we've all had to walk on egg shells for fear something would happen to you. Your twin died, so you're special. You get fired from your job and instead of chastising, Mom babies you, but I won't do it!" She tosses another handful of sandwich meats at me.

"You're insane!" I dodge the pimento loaf that sails my way.

"Mary Evelyn! Stop it this minute," Mom hollers. "What is wrong with you? This is your sister."

Scary goes for the turkey slices next and then the cheese. "Get out, Hale! Out of our lives. Get out!"

I put my arm up to block the Swiss as it heads toward my face, obviously not staying neutral in this case. "Gladly! I don't want to be anywhere near you, Mary Ev."

She stops, her breath heaving and tears now running down her face. It's like everything's in slow motion all of a sudden. Has the earth stopped spinning? Has my respiration halted? Will Scary Ev turn into a salt pillar like Lot's wife?

The dust—or sandwich meat—settles.

Mom takes a deep breath and then speaks. "You owe your sister an apology, Mary Ev."

Scary sighs and wipes her arm across her cheek. "Of course I do, Mother. As I said, it's always about Hale."

Her pensive stare connects with mine and I feel nothing but disdain for this woman standing before me. I try to sense love—that shared DNA that bonds us together—but there's nothing. We're strangers. And it's ever so sad.

"You don't know me at all, sis," I say. "Not at all. You only remember that twelve year old girl who looked up to you, wanted to listen to your Billy Joel and Elton John albums and do everything you did. I worshiped you. You never knew that, did you?"

She stares at me confused.

"Nice to know what you really think of me," I say sadly.

I back out of the kitchen and reach for my purse. Jordan follows quietly as I get to the front door. I look up into his amazing eyes, trying to stave off my tears.

I need comfort. I need anesthesia.

"Please take me home with you. Away from here."

He puts his arm around me and says, "Gladly."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Well, I'll admit it. I've never seen anything like that before at any of the funerals I've attended," Jordan says with a crooked grin.

I stare ahead at his Cuban prints as I sit daze, confused, and stunned on his couch. "Can't say it's the way I expected the day to end."

Between Charles Miller's revelation and Scary's tirade, I'm mentally spent. If I had a white flag, I'd wave it.

Something feels slimy on my neck, so I reach my hand back and pull away a rogue piece of sandwich meat. I sniff. Yep, goddamned olive loaf. I flick it into a nearby ashtray, not really stopping to think whether or not Jordan appreciates me leaving remnants of the battle with my sister behind on his coffee table. I'll throw it away later.

He walks near the couch and nudges me on the shoulder with a wine glass. "Here, I've got something to soothe your nerves."

Looking up, I see him with a newly chilled bottle of wine in a faint orangey bottle. A majestic swan decorates the label, strong and bold and confident. I wish I knew what that felt like. Jordan takes his cork screw and makes quick work of opening the bottle.

"I'm sorry you lost your job at the wine magazine. I've actually bought The Oenophile a couple of times and hadn't realized you wrote for them."

"Edited for them," I correct.

"Same difference?"

"No, someone else wrote the articles. I spent the time editing the grammar and checking up on the story to make sure it was fit for print. Although, most of the time, the end product was more mine than the featured writer."

"It seems that wine is an important part of your life."

Gazing into the empty glass awaiting the nectar of the vine, I bite my lip and nod my head. "It's not some kind of coping mechanism, mind you," I say. "It's a hobby I fell into a few years ago. My sister-in-law, well, she's just my friend now, Meghan, started studying to be a sommelier. She'd bring wines over, we'd taste them, critique them and what not. She taught me about the flavor zones in your mouth where we're sensitive to sweet or acid or spicy." I sit forward and peel off the jacket to my suit and smooth the front of my ivory blouse. I continue, "It was a fascinating new world to me and I found myself wanting to learn more and write about the grapes. That's how I landed my job at The Oenophile. Meghan had a connection there and they were looking for a good editor. I'd worked at a university in Toronto writing and editing previously, so it was a good fit for me."

His eyes are so soft and kind. "A way to mix your love of writing and your new found interest in wine. I understand."

"Yeah, well. Like I said, I was promised a full-time features section time and time again and I made no qualms about how bored I was editing other people's work. That's when I started to write fiction in my spare time. I had this need to be creative."

More like a hunger and a thirst, all at the same time.

"I've tasted a lot of wines and spirits in my travels," he tells me. "Like the mezcal we had. There's so much that goes into the making of these items, like customs, traditions, and beliefs."

I'm glad he gets this. "Well, to me, wine is like life. It has its own characteristics, its own personality, its own uniqueness. Wine has life. I mean, one of the first things you do before tasting is let it breathe. I can lose myself in a glass of wine."

He chuckles. "Like a true connoisseur."

"Right, it's about appreciating the grapes, the people who picked them, the vintner who blended the varieties, what was in the air or the land that season. Everything combines together to make each bottle of wine different from the next. Like life and people," I say, feeling quite poignant all of a sudden. "We all take what we learned as a child and move forward to be the adults we become. We take characteristics from our surroundings, our family, our friends, our situations and it makes us... unique."

"Beautifully said, Hale."

Jordan nudges me over with his knee so he can take a seat next to me. He holds the wine bottle on his lap and seems to be contemplating what I just said. I don't know why I'm pouring this out to him, but I guess it's best to lay all of my cards on the table. I don't want Jordan to believe I'm this cold fish, non-caring person who abandoned her parents for her own selfish reasoning, like Scary Evelyn accused me of being. I had dreams and I set out to make them a reality, as well as start my own life and my own family. Even if I did fail miserably at it.

"Go on," he says.

I toy with the button on my blouse. "The wine helps me identify with myself. Who I am. Where I came from. Where I'm going. The grapes are constantly evolving, adjusting their taste and blending with others for the most spectacular product. So, I've tried to do that with who I am as a person by taking my talents and using them to the best of my ability." I take a deep breath and get back to my writing. "See, I used to write all the time as a little kid. Stories galore about anything and everyone. Princesses, damsels in distress. You know, romances and love stories."

His eyes dip to my mouth. "You're a romantic at heart. Nothing wrong with that."

I won't tell him about the stories that he starred in during my adolescent years. The white knight or the prince out to rescue the heroine.

I swallow deeply. "Yeah, well, as I grew up, I wrote about more serious things, more complex characters, and edgier situations. I was lucky enough to get an agent off my first manuscript, but we've been having a hard time getting that first sale. Publishing is a whole new industry these days."

"It's difficult breaking in."

My eyes widen. "No kidding. You make it to one committee and the sales people don't how to market the book. Or, you find an editor who gets you and then the book line goes under or that editor quits to become an agent. I haven't had much 'luck' and that's certainly part of the equation."

"It'll happen," he says confidently.

Lifting a brow, I say, "How do you know? You've never read any of my stuff."

He smiles. "I get a sense of your talent from the kind of person you are." His hand moves to my cheek and strokes softly, bringing the hairs on my arms to attention.

A blush creeps across my cheeks. "Thanks for that. I do have people who support me and that means a lot."

"Does your agent believe in you?"

"Oh yeah," I exclaim. "Wholeheartedly. And I believe it'll happen one day. But in the meantime, I had my wine writing. Like I said, I practically re-wrote everything that made it into the magazine, only I didn't get my name on the bylines. I did the research, I tasted the wines, I went to the events. I should have been the managing editor or the top features writer."

"But?"

I look at my hands in my lap. "I didn't play the corporate bullshit games. I just came to work, did my job, and went home. I didn't eat, breathe, and sleep the magazine like so many others. And when we got bought out by Shay Publishing, I didn't play kissy-face or suck up to them, either. Look where it got me. Out on the street."

He nods. "I know how that is."

I remember him telling me about the stupidity in the corporate world when he'd been using his biology degree. Hence, him being back here in Haven Harbor.

"You know what I'm talking about, Jordan?"

"Yeah, I do. And you'll bounce back, Hale. You're a strong woman and you know how to take care of yourself. Just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again."

"You're not going to start singing are you?" I say with a laugh, but appreciating what he's said.

His eyes show his amusement. "I only sing in the shower."

Mmmm... images of Jordan in the shower, wet and naked, dance happily in my head. I feel myself relaxing into the cushions of his couch. A couch I'd rolled around on with him just the night before.

"So, since wine is such an important part of your life, do you think you can get on with another magazine or maybe work in a restaurant as a wine steward? What about working at a vineyard? You'd be great marketing a small vineyard into something spectacular," he suggests, balancing his wine glass on his thigh.

I sigh. "I haven't had time to think about any of it. But my friend, Meghan, suggested it a while back. She thinks I should be one of those wine party people."

Jordan's brows furrow.

"Oh, you know, you go into people's homes and get them to taste certain brands and such and then sell to them directly."

"Do people do that?"

"Oh sure. Curtis and I used to have wine parties all of the time. We'd invite friends over, open a dozen or so bottles of reds and whites, have cheese, fruit, crackers, bread, you know, just so people could appreciate the wines and pairing. Those were always some of the best nights at our place," I say wistfully, remembering back to a time when Curtis and I knew how to have fun and enjoy each other without the stresses of our jobs completely obliterating our senses.

"When did the wine parties stop?" Jordan asks quietly.

"About a year ago." I glance up at him, locking with his green eyes that seem to peaceful, calm, and accessible. "Curtis was made one of the top doctors in Cardiovascular Medicine at New York-Presbyterian and the parties stopped. Life stopped." I pause for a deep breath of air. "Everything stopped."

Jordan ponders this for a moment, as if trying to find the right thing to say. "You have a lot of characteristics of wine."

Okay, I have to chuckle at this. "How so?"

"You're bold and bright, with a suggestion of sophistication. You're vibrant, but soft. I see so many flavors, desires, and wishes in you. But you take on the characteristics of those around you, adjusting to their needs instead of your own, much like the grape does with the air and earth around it. You need to find that something inside you that makes you unique to the world." He slices his eyes over me and then reaches to stroke my chin. "And I know it's in there."

I've been holding my breath through this analysis and now have to let it out in a strong gust. Wow, we've only been together for a couple of days, but I appreciate that he can see me for the person I am and for the person I want to be.

Breaking the tension, I say, "So, how do you know so much about wines?"

He pulls his hand back and laughs. "I did a month in Sonoma and Napa Valleys last year just for the hell of it. And, I visited the Santa Barbara wineries when I lived in San Diego. Let me tell you, there's nothing like walking in the vineyards and feeling the grapes and tasting all of the varietals. It's life altering."

Everything seems to be these days. My career. My love life. My family life. This funeral. Sitting here with Jordan. This whole damn visit.

He points to the bottle in his lap. "I think this wine is all about you." He shows me the label. "It's called Eye of the Swan and it's produced by Sebastiani."

"Mmmm, they make an excellent Chardonnay."

Jordan continues. "Like I said, this reminds me of you. The name came from the wine producer's grandfather who said the color of the wine reminded him of the eyes of the black swan. I rather think the color is like your hair. A golden brown with hints of red, right?"

I nod. Sure, I color my hair, but he's straight on with his analysis. "Go on."

"This wine is only served and sold at the winery. An exclusive you can't buy anywhere else. It's pinot noir blanc and the grapes have to be handled delicately, not crushed."

Well, I've certainly been crushed. It's nice to know there's someone who wants to handle me delicately, that is, if I'm buying into this wine comparison. I listen closely.

Jordan adjusts on the couch. "This wine is a favorite of people who visit the winery, but it has to be appreciated in its element and savored for its uniqueness."

My heart hammers away under my rib cage. This guy is good. Better than good; he's amazing and he's making me feel like I can conquer anything, whether it be unemployment, heartache, or family squabbles.

Licking my lips, I ask, "So, do I get to drink some of this miracle wine that reminds you of me?"

His eyebrow hitches and he chuckles deep down. "Patience. I've had this bottle for several months now."

"Yeah, but when does it peak?"

His smile is crooked and it makes my insides cramp in sheer delight. "Right about now."

Jordan pours the delectable pink-gold liquid into my glass. The aroma is intoxicating; fruity with a bold cherry scent. I hold it up to the last remains of the early evening sunset streaming in through his window. The sparkle and hue of the liquid is peaceful and serene and inviting. As the first drops hit my lips, I'm taken away by the intense cherry flavor with a scent that's touched with the aroma of fresh baked bread. The yeasts tickle my nose and I drink deeply. "It's perfect."

Jordan stares at me over his glass and says, "I think so."

My skin tightens around me, knowing this is the final comparison between me and the wine. And suddenly, I feel perfect. At least in Jordan Valvano's eyes. At least for the moment.

"I remind you of Eye of the Swan, huh?"

"Yes you do," he says and then takes another taste.

"Thanks for sharing this with me."

"Thanks for letting me."

"Thanks for getting me out of my parents' house earlier."

"Thanks for coming over." He picks up the bottle and shows me the back label. "Besides, considering what happened in your mother's kitchen, I thought this was the appropriate wine."

Not getting what he means, I read from the wine bottle: a wonderful accompaniment to any picnic food; particularly cold cuts.

I fall over on the couch laughing so hard that I almost start to cry. Damn appropriate, considering the Boars Head Battle. I'll never be able to look at sliced deli meat the same way. And apparently, neither will Jordan.

I sit back up and take another nip from the wine glass, enjoying the fruity flavor. Getting my wits about me, I lean toward him and say, "I'm really sorry you saw that scene between Scary Evelyn and me."

Jordan moves his arm to the back of the couch and laughs slightly. "Is that what you call her? Scary Evelyn? Can't say I disagree with that description."

"Yeah, well, she comes about it naturally."

"She has a lot of anger that got directed at you. That wasn't personal. That was her own misery spouting out."

"You think so?" How do I know? I barely know my sister. The years apart, the life situations, they've molded us into completely different people. I know nothing of her life, her challenges, and her triumphs. Nothing. And she knows nothing of me either.

"Look, we can't choose our family," he says. "We have to deal with whatever's at the end of that random uterus we were tossed out of and try to get along with the people on the other end."

"Interesting philosophy."

He shrugs and smiles. "I think I heard it in a movie or something, but it makes a lot of sense."

"I know." I try to get past the lump in my throat. "I had no idea she felt that way about me. Like I could have controlled what happened to my twin brother. Like she would have been happier all of these years if he had lived and not me. I mean, doesn't she know that I've felt him my whole life? It's been like a part of me missing since as long as I can remember. Not that I've been depressed my whole life or anything, but there's certainly been a void."

"Obviously she's felt it, too," Jordan says.

"Maybe so. But instead of hating me so much, you'd think she'd be grateful that I didn't die, as well." The thought both frightens me and saddens me. Sure, I've considered the challenges I had as a baby and what my parents went through having their only son die, but I've never looked at it from Scary's viewpoint. I never knew or thought that my parents treated me differently or allowed me to do things I otherwise wouldn't have been allowed to do. Was I spoiled? No. Was I privileged more than Scary? Maybe. I can understand her pain and hurt, but why attack me for something I had no control over?

"She shouldn't have said the things she said to you, though," Jordan says, as if reading my thoughts. "No one has the right to treat anyone like that. Family or not."

"Is your family like that?"

I feel him shrug. "Not really. My mother died when I was in college and the old man is so far disappointed in me that we barely talk now. He wanted me to be a huge scientist, win the Nobel Peace Prize and all of that. He can't understand that I enjoy my life now the way it is. I have a lot of diverse interests and I take care of myself. My life is relaxed, laid back, and I'm my own boss. I don't necessarily need a wife and a houseful of kids to define myself as happy or successful. No offense."

I smile. "None taken."

He's right. I don't need those things either, although I have to admit, being someone's wife was pretty damn special. Jordan's obviously not in the market for the second Mrs. Valvano and I'm not exactly in the position to apply. I am enjoying the interview process though.

Not wanting to think about it, I finish the rest of my delicious Eye of the Swan and then set the glass on the table in front of me. Remembering what Gilly said in the kitchen about my still being hung up on Curtis, I want to set things straight with Jordan if this evening is to continue where I think it's going – a replay of the bathroom scene, and more.

Shifting on the couch, I boldly layer my folded knees into Jordan's lap, "I'm also sorry you heard Gilly say what she did about my ex-husband. I want you to know, Jordan, these past couple of days have meant a lot to me and I'm not in any way—"

He places his finger on my lips. "Shhhhh, no explanation. I know you've been hurt, Hale. And I know you still have feelings for, what's his name? Curtis? I also know that's in the past and that time heals all wounds. You will heal; if it's what you want you truly want."

Is it? Well, yeah. Sure it is. Who wants to continue wallowing around in self-pity all the time? I nod at him and boldly say, "You want to heal me, Jordan?"

His clear eyes are dilated in the low-lit room and I feel the power of his words clear to my insides, causing a reaction much like when we were together earlier.

"You can only heal yourself."

Damn, he's a wise sage.

"Things are just weird for me," I say, losing confidence.

"Don't do that, Hale. You know what? I don't see Curtis here now. It's just you and me. I'm here for you. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever."

It's not an admission of undying love and forever togetherness, but it's all I need right now. I don't need Jordan to be in love with me. I only need to know that I'm wanted. It's all a step in the right direction. Easing those regrets and looking forward, like GranAnna said I should do.

"I appreciate that, Jordan. I need it."

Jordan pulls me closer to him and I can feel his breath on my face. "Life's what you make it, Hale."

Hearing GranAnna's advice repeated from Jordan crashes any invisible barrier I may have put up. The past is the past and we can only do something about the here and now and moving forward. What better place to start than with this gorgeous, wise man who filled my teenage fantasies and who is now living up to my adult expectations.

I place my hand on his wine goblet and pluck it from his fingers. Setting the glass on the coffee table, I then return to Jordan's side, slipping against him and totally invading his personal space. He doesn't seem to mind a bit, though, and adjusts to accept my weight in his lap. My hand reaches out and strokes the long, lean firmness of his jaw and the muscles in his neck. Unthinkingly, my fingers creep into his thick hair and I tug away at the stay, letting his silken strands collide in my hands.

My senses are filled with his musky scent as I move my mouth toward his. He takes charge, bringing my head forward, our lips meeting in a bit of a sizzle, like that sound you expect to hear when the sun finally drifts past the horizon. Our mouths meld together, mixing with the taste of the cherried wine. A sweeter sensation I haven't known in a long time.

Jordan adjusts and lays me down on the couch, poised over me as he drops small kisses around my eyes and nose. My body is on fire from his touch and my emotions are raging to a boiling point. Not from the loss of my grandmother or the feud with my sister, and for once, not about my broken heart, because I sense it's trying to mend itself by the minute. Everything I am and everything I want to be in this moment is focused on Jordan.

His eyes.

His hair.

His lips.

His body.

I hold his cheeks in the palms of my hands and realize I'm ready. Ready for this next step across the great divide.

Fabric quickly falls away and I'm treated to the sight of his massive, broad, naked chest that's so much more magnificent than my fantasies could ever really conjure up. Jordan Valvano is a beautiful man, through and through.

Magically, his hands work over my breasts, peaking the nipples into hardened little beads that feel like they'll burst if he doesn't continue to stroke them. He kisses his way down my stomach as I suck in and hope the lack of gym visits isn't apparent to him. He doesn't seem to care as his lips traverse south toward the payoff.

First, his fingers feather over me, teasing with a promise of what's to come. Then, he separates me so gently before delving his fingers inside, rotating and stroking and nearly causing me to burst into flames. The friction mixes with my own juices that I didn't know I was capable of producing anymore. Jordan's bringing me to the brink and I don't want to come back.

He nuzzles his face between my legs and I gasp. When his lips meet my skin, I reach down and grab onto his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he suckles and kisses and pleasures me with a good bathing of his tongue. I ride the sensation of this thrill, this vibrancy buoying me so close to the edge of sanity. No, it's not Curtis here taking care of my needs, but a very willing, gorgeous stranger. Someone who apparently wants me as much as I want him.

Time stands still as I'm rocketed to the sky and back again, washed in the glow of the astounding orgasm. My first in... forever.

"You okay?" Jordan asks as he slides back up my body.

"It's been a really long time for me," I admit, not regretting the words once said.

His smile hitches on the corner of his lips. "Yeah, me too."

Our lips merge and I taste myself on his tongue. It's exhilarating and exciting and it breathes new life into me. We're both like that fine, aged Eye of the Swan. We're unique. We're special. We're loved by those who matter. I think I've been open and breathing long enough. It's time for full consumption.

I look deeply into Jordan's eyes and smile. "I want you to do something for me."

Dropping a kiss on my bottom lip, then my chin and across my jaw, he says, "Anything you want, Hale. What can I do?"

"Make love to me. Please."

He pauses above me for what seems like an eternity. "I thought you'd never ask."

And I float away in blissful content for the first time in a long, long time.

Swiftly, he sheathes himself and slips into me. I struggle for breath. He moans. So do I. We move together in a mixture as pure as the new Beaujolais grape that's released the third Thursday each November. Sweet, ripe, and full bodied. Now's not the time to think on that, rather I need to think on Jordan.

As Jordan's lips perform magic on me, I luxuriate in the sensations rocking my body—the first in a long time—I realize everything might be okay for me after all.

Hey GranAnna, see what I'm making out of life?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As dawn's sleepy fingers crawl over the early morning sky, I try to sneak back stealthily into my parents' house. Only my mother—ever the early riser—calls out to me from the kitchen alcove as soon as the front door closes.

"Is that you, Hale?"

Looking at my cell phone that reads five-thirty, my stomach knots in anticipation of Mom's commentary on my noticeable absence and pre-dawn arrival, still dressed in (most of) yesterday's funeral clothes. Jordan let me borrow a beige Henley shirt of his to wear over my suit pants; the scent of him still clinging to me.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me. I hope you haven't been worried," I say, heading off the Spanish Inquisition.

A long sigh sounds out and I make my way through the living room and into the sparkling white kitchen. The Folgers Crystals canister is out on the counter, next to a package of humongous blueberry muffins from Sam's Club. Mom's obviously been up for a while.

"No, dear," she says, her back to me while she gazes out into the yard. "Well, actually, I was worried, but your father told me you're a grown woman who lives by herself in a big city and that I needed to just have faith that you'd come back when you were ready."

"After what happened, I needed to escape."

Mom, still turned away from me as she sits at the table, sighs again and hangs her head. "Mary Evelyn has a lot of issues she needs to get over. She shouldn't have treated you like that. And I told her as much."

My heart warms knowing Mom took up for me with my freak of an older sister. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, but it was best I make tracks yesterday and get some distance from Scary.

I reach into the cupboard for a mug, selecting the one with the silk-screened images of Scary's triplets from some arts and craps fair.

"Where have you been?" Mom asks softly.

There's no need to lie. Not now. "I was at Jordan's." I'll let her guess or figure out the rest for herself.

"He's a nice boy."

I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from explaining just what a nasty boy he was at around two this morning.

"I needed comfort," I say, trying to be oblique, "after that run in with Mary Evelyn."

"And Jordan provided that comfort?"

What I needed, he gave me plenty, in spades.

"Yeah." Mom's got three children, I'm sure she's got needs. Although, I don't particularly want to think about her and Dad like that. Too. Much. Information.

"Well, fiddle-dee-dee. You're home now." Mom twists in her chair, the aged wood creaking underneath her weight, and stands. "Let me fix you some breakfast, sweetie."

The thought of what she might offer me in the way of ham products makes my body cringe and I hold my hands up. "Not right now, Miss Scarlett. Too early. Coffee's what I want." If that's what I can call this instant stuff.

Mom shrugs and takes the second half of a muffin from the packet and puts it on her small plate. Looks like she's already had the first half, which would more than likely drive my sister beyond the brink of sanity. Like she has any stability left after yesterday's pitching practice. I won't even look at the cholesterol or fat content on the packaging. None of my business. If Mom wants a little breakfast sweet treat the day after she buried her mother, who am I to stop her?

"Maybe I'll have something a little later, when Dad wakes up."

"Oh, your father. He'd sleep all day if I let him," Mom says with a laugh. She retakes her seat.

I quickly nuke my cup of water for two minutes in the micro and then add the flavor crystals, watching as the water turns inky black. At least it smells like real coffee.

A shuffling sound from the table catches my attention and I walk over to take the chair next to my mother. "What 'cha doin'?"

"Studying and practicing," she says quickly while she continues shuffling the large deck of cards. "These are my Rider-Waite cards that Dharma Louise-Ann sold me. I've been learning how to read Tarot." She holds up a book entitled It's All in the Cards: Tarot Reading Made Easy.

Ah yes, Louise-Ann had suggested Mom do a reading for me. Although, I have to admit that after spending the night with Jordan, my entire being seems refreshed, rejuvenated, and more focused. Nothing like a little all-night lovin' to get the juices flowing and the confidence soaring. God only knows what the cards will have to say for me now.

"How long have you been doing Tarot?" I ask.

"Almost a week. See, I contacted Dharma Louise-Ann before Mother passed," Mom says. "Something just didn't feel right and I needed new direction in my life. I totally wandered into her shop on a whim, but it was the smartest thing I've ever done." She pats my arm. "Well, besides having my children."

I sip my coffee. "It certainly seems like it."

Mom reaches out and takes my hand that's resting on the brown and white checked placemat. "You know, Dharma Louise-Ann really has helped me learn how to focus my energies and emotions, though I have to tell you, Hale, I'm just seething over what those bastards did to you at your work place. Who do they think they are treating my baby like that?"

The coffee goes down my throat the wrong way as I snort and swallow at the same time. I've never actually heard Mom use the "b" word in anything other than a whisper, so I know she means business.

I turn my hand over and lace my fingers through hers, slightly roughened from her diligent yard work and in need of some Aveda hand cream. "It's okay, Mom. I'm going to be all right. When I get home, I'll just start—"

Through her gritted teeth, a small growl emulates. "I want to hurt them, Hale. Just maim them. Who do they think they are? Who fired you and why?"

Sitting back in the chair, I regale Mom with the quick particulars of "The Firing," including Bernie's admission that in addition to my verboten personal files that violated new policy, my salary was too high at a time when Shay Publishing was focusing on the bottom line.

"It's just business," I say, almost convincing myself.

Mom clicks her tongue for a moment. "That's idiotic. I'm just so disappointed in them. I'll never buy that wine magazine ever again. I don't stand for people treating my chick poorly. They'll rue the day."

I'm flattered to know Mom's been keeping tabs on me through my magazine, but what is she talking about? Is she going to have Dharma Louise-Ann put a hex on Bernie and Shay Publishing? "How so?" I can't help but ask.

She waggles her finger at me. "I'm still a Southern Baptist at heart, dear. This morning, as I was meditating and thinking on Mother and her life, I also thought about you and all of the challenges you've faced for one so young."

I don't feel like forty-five is young, but I listen all the same.

"It's bad enough I lost your brother at birth, then you struggled as a baby, too, and I hoped you wouldn't have to later in life. Things have never come easy for you Hale, and for that I'm sorry."

I feel my heart expand with the love I have for my mother. She's always wanted to protect us from anything that might harm us and I know she takes our setbacks personally. "It has nothing to do with that, Mom."

Her eyes begin to well up with unshed tears. "I just remember that time you crashed your bike in the church parking lot and when you had the chicken pox and missed out on starring in the school play and then when you didn't get that scholarship to college that you deserved. And then—"

I sort of tune out as Mom elucidates the many disappointments of my lifetime. Why do we females dive straight back to the womb and begin recounting every terrible thing in our lives leading up to the current issue? Men don't do that. Do they?

"—then I asked the Lord to prick the conscious of those people who treated you so poorly at work, not letting your boss have a decent night's sleep."

Trying not to chuckle too hard, I say, "Don't worry about that. Bernie hasn't had a decent night's sleep since Reagan was in office."

"Well, all the same, it made me feel better praying that." She places the Tarot deck on the table in front of me and lifts her eyes to mine. "Why don't we take a look at your future?"

My eyes shift to the shiny, fresh deck of cards in front of me. They're not worn from too much use yet and I'll admit, I'm itching to see what's in store for me. Relationship-wise, I feel I'm at a cross-road. Jordan's only the fourth guy I've ever slept with.

Where does last night with Jordan lead me? Am I in love with him? I'm certainly in lust with him, but I'm sure it's related to the emotions stirred up within me of late. Coming home always rushes me back into my childhood and the memories that holds. Isn't Jordan, or the idea of him, just part of those reminiscences?

"Go ahead," Mom prompts. "Shuffle them."

I take the cards in my hand, smelling a faint inky odor from the fresh deck and I begin shuffling. Then I cut the stack in thirds, pile them up again, and break it in half.

"Don't rub the faces off the characters, Hale."

Laughing, I stop, cutting the deck one more time for good measure, and then hand them back to my mother.

"Now, what is your question?"

I breathe in deeply. What is my question? Should it be about work? My writing? What? Will I get a new job soon? A better one? Will my manuscripts sell? Is Jordan the one for me? Or will Curtis miraculously come back into my life? I shake my head, trying to jumble the myriad images and thoughts conglomeration. I need to focus on the here and now and where my destiny lies. On what means the most to me.

Opening my mouth, I barely hear the words I utter. "Will, will I ever find love again?"

Mom's eyes shine with a thin covering of tears again as she pats the top of my hand. She then flips over the cards in a scattered pattern that results with five cards over in a horizontal row, then one above and another below. To the right, are four cards laid out vertically. Mom had to move the Lazy Susan over a bit toward Dad's breakfast spot to make room for everything. Her tongue slips out of her mouth and wets her bottom lip as she looks at the cards in front of her.

"This is the Celtic Cross spread. It's the most common and is considered the basic consultation spread for reading Tarot. It'll give you valuable insight into several areas of your life and how those parts intertwine to help you."

"Sounds good to me."

Mom points to the card in the middle of the horizontal row. "This is Love and You. The Wheel of Fortune Card."

I look at the brightly colored card with what appears to be a compass in the middle of it. "Is that a good thing?"

Mom quickly refers to her Tarot reference book and then nods. "This is very good, Hale. You see, this means you have to accept that the wheel continues to turn for you and that you have no choice but to adapt to its movement. I sense this pertains to your forthcoming relationship with your next partner."

Hmmm, she didn't say with Jordan. Is it him? Is it someone I already know? Is it someone I'll meet soon? Still, I'm intrigued. "Go on."

"In this position, the Wheel of Fortune indicates that your mind and heart just won't keep still. Your heart keeps churning up new developments and issues you thought were resolved between you and someone special. It's all because the wheel never ceases to turn."

The only past Jordan and I have together is high school, so I'm not sure what issues need to be resolved other than he didn't really notice me then. Unless she's referring to Curtis, but that's just ridiculous. I'm the last thing on his mind. He's moved on. And maybe I have too, finally.

As I let this soak in, she slides her finger to the Situation card where she tells me I'm going to find the relationship I could only once dream about. I sip my coffee again as I contemplate this. The life I always dreamed of was a happy one with Curtis. Loving each other, being together, enjoying each other's company. Maybe having a baby someday. Or at least a few cats. But that dream is dead.

Mom fingers the card and goes on. "See, this card right here—The World—it's telling you that you've arrived at the center of The Universe and you may find the love of your life." She laughs, but strikes out more. "It almost seems absurdly easy now, after all the time, effort, and struggle you've been through, but you are the person you always wanted to be and you can now step into that life and inhabit what you only thought was a dream."

I think of the SoHo loft where Curtis and I used to live, but then my mind's eye shifts to Jordan's comfortable home. His soft bed, the sunlight streaming in the windows, and the tangy salty sea taste dancing in the air. Is this the life and world I should inhabit?

In the Challenges position, Mom points to the Three of Cups, telling me I shouldn't waste my time and energy—emotionally or mentally—on the negative. Yep, I've certainly been doing that a lot lately. The Nine of Wands tells me to be generous to myself; my hard work will pay off. The Knight of Wands in the Recent Past position directs me to imagine or remember what it's like to feel like a winner.

"And here, in the Higher Power position," Mom says, "is the Queen of Swords." She clamps her hands together and smiles at me. "Oh Hale, this is so good for you as truths in the world emerge. Accept their influence on you and allow your life to be changed."

I can't help but think that this card points to the visit of Mr. Charles Miller last night and learning of his life with GranAnna before she was taken away from him. Of baby Stanley who is now an old man and who has never known his little sister. Of Mom, who's realized her own family tree has a branch she's never even seen. And for me, the idea of writing my grandmother's story for the whole world to maybe someday read.

I glance at the regal woman on the card sitting on a throne with a sword held high. Mom sparkles while she reads from her Tarot reference book. "It says here that when the Queen of Swords comes up in this position, your inner grandmother is taking her throne. Awww, your grandmother..." Mom starts to cry. "See, Hale, Mother's trying to remind you about what's true, what works, and what you can do to positively affect your situation. Don't resist her; accept her influence."

GranAnna's words, "life is what you make it" echo through my head, only this time in Jordan's deep voice. Is GranAnna trying to tell me something? Is he?

But it's the King of Wands in The Loved One slot that gets to me like a fist in the gut. Mom's eyes are still brimmed slightly with tears and I feel this is as emotional for her as it is for me. Only difference is, tears don't threaten for me because for once, I'm filled with hope of the unknown. Of my future. Of what might come to my life.

"Hale, you need to step back, look up, and appreciate someone special."

"Jordan?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know, sweetie." Mom stops for a moment and slurps at her now cold coffee. She makes a face, but keeps explaining. "You see, the card here refers to how you might perceive someone you are now or soon to be involved with. This indicates someone special is an energized and an inspiring agent of change for your life. Despite the fact that others may not have noticed, you know how much hard work and courage this person has invested and you respect that achievement, especially because you understand this person's made sacrifices."

I let out a long sigh and collapse into the chair. Is she talking about Jordan and all he told me last night about his relationship with his father, about his disappointment? Or does this reflect Curtis and how hard he's worked to get where he is at the hospital?

"And the last two cards," Mom says. "The Seven of Cups. In the Love Advice position, this suggests a course of action that'll harmonize what you want with what is currently possible. It advises that you open up to the positive potential of a special, loving relationship, which you so deserve, Hale."

"Do the cards say that, Mom, or is that just your opinion?"

She laughs. "Don't interrupt me as I'm interpreting."

I dramatically clamp my mouth shut as she finishes up.

"Finally, in the Long-Term Potential, see the Ace of Coins here? This means long-term potential may exist for you to experience many adventures." Mom starts gathering the cards together, but then she stops and reaches out to me. "The more you stay true to yourself, Hale, the more likely you'll make the right decision when the time comes."

"Comes for what?" She's confusing me now. What choice?

"Only you will know."

I stand up and go around Mom's chair and hug her from behind. I place my head on her shoulder blade and squeeze hard. The pounding of my own heart drums throughout my body in anticipation, excitement, and hope.

"Thanks for the reading, Mom. Tell Louise-Ann you did a great job and she taught you well."

"Believe your future, Hale. You will find love again, my sweetie. You have so much to give and a heart bigger than the South. Your destiny lies in the cards."

"Thanks for believing in me, Mom."

And for once, I'm starting to believe that this hokey shit Mom's involved in all of a sudden just might have some validity to it.

I can't wait to see what the day brings for me.

~~ ~~

By the time I'm showered and dressed in my jeans and sweatshirt, Mom has churned out an impressive stack of fluffy buttermilk pancakes and a whole heap of microwaved turkey bacon. Gilly and Chris are having their fill of the sumptuous breakfast while Dad sits in his seat sorting through the potpourri of medications he takes each morning.

"There she is," he says.

"Morning everyone," I say, still a bit stunned from the Tarot card reading earlier and a little sore from my extracurricular activities with Jordan. They ain't kidding about if you don't use certain muscles they'll atrophy and be sore after a workout.

Dad looks over his glasses at my still damp hair. "Did you take a bath? I found one missing."

I can't help but crack up at the joke I've heard my whole life. "I let Prince Albert out of his can, too."

"You look like you didn't get any sleep last night," Gilly says with an evil curl to her grin. Chris knocks her on the shoulder. I'm just waiting for Miss Scarlett to chime in.

I eyeball her. "Later, Gill."

"You all right from Oscar Meyer's revenge yesterday?"

I almost choke on the turkey bacon I've popped into my mouth. "Yeah, I'm fine. I can't help what Mary Evelyn thinks about me, now can I?"

Gilly screws up her mouth. "No more than I can."

Mom starts whistling as she plops four steaming hot pancakes down in front of my father. "Now, let's let bygones be bygones. Your older sister has a lot of challenges in her life and I'm sure she just let her stress get the best of her yesterday. She has her good points. At least she eats well and exercises."

"Hey, I exercise," I say in my defense. Okay, so I haven't actually been to the gym in three months, but I blame it on the crappy winter weather sucking out my motivation.

Gilly lets out a derisive snort. "The only challenge Mev has is whether to be here right now telling you and Dad how to live your life or staying at home and bossing her husband and kids around."

Dad looks up from his pill task and nods. "I should have bent her over my knee after that scene yesterday."

"I wish you had." Gilly crams more pancakes into her mouth.

"Now, fiddle-dee-dee," Mom says. Ahhh, there's Scarlett.

Changing the subject, I focus on an item Mom noted in the cards for me. The thing about a grandmotherly figure bringing me good luck and all I can think about is GranAnna's story, her life with Charles Miller and the duplicitous way she'd lived since then. I need more information. The writer in me is dying to get started on the story. I couldn't stop myself from plotting all throughout the night, well, when I wasn't otherwise occupied by kisses and early morning nookie.

Looking at my sister and Chris, I ask, "Do you guys feel like a little investigation today?"

Gilly's brow rises. "How so?"

I walk to the counter and hitch myself up onto a barstool. Reaching into the basket next to the phone, I gather Mom's keys and jingle them at her. "I think we should go to GranAnna's."

Mom clicks the burner of the stove off and comes and takes the keys from me. "I wasn't planning on disbursing Mother's things until at least next week. There's no rush."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"What then?" my little sister asks.

Mom looks at me. "Yes, Hale, what do you mean?"

I look at Mom and bite on the corner of my lip. The plotting and story crafting can only be done one way. And that's by proper research, which means delving into GranAnna's secret past that she can no longer hide from.

"I think it's time we Martin gals unlock the door to GranAnna's attic and see exactly what she's got hidden up there."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Dear, this doesn't feel right," Mom says, placing her trembling hand on my arm. I'm about to slide the antique skeleton key into the attic lock, finally opening the door to what might solve the mystery of Anna Hale, proper Southern lady, mother and grandmother, stern disciplinarian, good Christian woman... and what else?

"It's okay, Mom," Gilly says. "GranAnna's not here to stop us and it's our right to go in there now."

Still, Mom is hesitant. "You don't understand, girls. I grew up in this house and never once was I allowed in here. It's like, breaching some sacred ground."

Chris chimes in. "But Sarah, think of what we'll find in there. Especially knowing what we do about Charles and Stanley and Anna's time in New York as a Ziegfeld Girl."

"I know, it's just..." Mom trails off and stops. Pain covers her face and I hate seeing the distance in her eyes.

"What is it, Mom?"

She swallows noticeably and reaches to take the key from me. "Once, when I was about ten, I was play-acting Agatha Christie. It was 'The Case of the Locked Attic.' I thought Mother was at the market, so I tried to pick the lock with a hair pin. I wanted to know why she was up here so much. She'd disappear for hours at a time, barely making a noise. She'd reappear looking refreshed and rejuvenated, at least for a moment. Then, she'd be back to her same, strict, measured and disciplined self, cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, or washing clothes." Mom stops for a minute and shifts her weight to her good ankle while she twirls the old key around on her index finger. "I got the door open and saw stacks and stacks of boxes when Mother appeared at the top of the stairs, quiet as a church mouse, and said to me, 'Sarah Beth, what do you think you're doing?'"

I cringe, remembering the exact intonation of GranAnna's voice whenever she became overtly disciplinarian. It happened to me that time I accidentally knocked her Tiffany lamp off the table and broke it. It was enough to put the fear of God into even the most confident person.

"Go on, Mom," Gilly prods.

Mom licks her lips, then bites her bottom one, as if cutting the pain in two. "Well, let's just say that she dragged me out of there and took me straight to my room where she proceeded to whip me within an inch of my life."

I gasp in unison with Gilly and Chris. I want to reach out to Mom, but she's in another place. She's there. Locked inside that memory all those years ago with GranAnna experiencing the pain and embarrassment all over again. Thank heavens such dire discipline went out in the "For the Children" era. I don't think I could ever beat my kids (if I had them) like that just for being curious.

Sipping a deep breath, Mom says, "She told me I'd been a very bad little girl. That there were things in this world I wouldn't understand and things I didn't need to know about. And that if she ever caught me trying to go into the attic again, she would have Papa spank me with his leather belt." Mom lifts her eyes to mine. "I never wanted to be disciplined by my papa's belt. It was thick and left whelp marks for weeks."

Tears brim in my eyes over hearing this. I knew GranAnna had strict rules and expected exemplary behavior from us kids, but I never knew she'd been so abusive to my mother, just to protect her own secrets. Little Sarah had touched a chord by going into the attic and almost revealing... what about her mother? Her life with Charles Miller? A shrine to her lost son?

"Well, we're sure as hell going in there now," Gilly announces, snatching the key from Mom's hand.

"Gilly..."

"No, Mom, she's right." I back up my sis. "Do it, Gill."

She slips the key in and twists it to the right a quarter of a turn until we all hear the click sound out in the hallway. Gilly nabs the handle and pushes the door open. Not hesitating, she steps right in and I follow. Chris nudges Mom along and soon we're all standing inside the forbidden attic. An exhilarating rush crawls up my back, along with a good dose of chill bumps on my forearms as I feel trepidation, excitement, and anticipation all at once. A musty, dusty odor surrounds me at first and I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily in order not to sneeze.

Opening them, I take in my surroundings. Piled around the door are cardboard boxes, filled with what, I don't know. But they're stacked in a way that makes them look like they're leading somewhere. Like they're a passage way.

"Oh my God!" Gilly exclaims up ahead of me. She has weaved through the box maze to the other side of the immense room that acts as the top floor of the house. "Holy shit balls! You won't believe this."

"Gillian!" Mom snaps, ever the mother. "Such language."

"Sorry, Mom, but come see what I mean."

My pulse is racing like a churning white-water river. "What is it?"

"It's some sort of a dressing room," Gilly says. "Like in the early days of the theatre or from a movie set."

I step through the boxes and into the bright sunlight that pours in from the skylight above, showcasing the mirrored dressing table, complete with makeup, hair brushes, perfume, and stacks of costume jewelry. Or at least I'm assuming it's costume. It looks like Mardi Gras with feather boas hanging from the dressing table, colored beads, hats and headdresses decorated in seed pearls, sequins, and long, colorful feathers. This could be a prop room from an early movie set.

"What is this?" Mom glances about with confusion written all over her face. "Did Mother play dress-up in here?" She moves to the table and picks up the hair brush, ornate and silver and nothing like the plain plastic one from Wal-Mart on GranAnna's dresser in her bedroom downstairs. Billowy white curtains cover the window on the side, reminding me of Daphne Du Maurier's deceased Rebecca de Winter's room in Manderlay.

What was GranAnna pretending up here?

The wall is covered in head shots from movie stars of the early thirties and forties. Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, Lawrence Olivier, Joan Fontaine, and Joan Crawford. They're all personally autographed to "Anna Miller."

In the corner is an antique armoire next to an aged, silken dressing screen. A yellow satin robe is draped on the corner of the screen like it doesn't care, as though it's some sort of elegant prop from a Bette Davis movie. I rub the soft fabric against my lips and inhale the deep, memorable scent of GranAnna's Oil of Olay. Then, I open the doors and am bombarded with the smell of mothballs protecting the precious garments. Gowns—dozens of them—line the inside on padded hangers. Chiffon and taffeta, silk and satin, pearls and rhinestones. The details on the clothing show many hours of dedicated work to make them gorgeous and just perfect. I knew GranAnna sometimes sewed her own clothes... but these?

"Wicked amazing!" Gilly says.

"Such details and craftsmanship," I say, in agreement as I finger an ivory flapper-type dress with sparkly gold fringe.

"I've, I've never seen anything like this," Mom says with her hand to her open mouth. "Mother never wore these. Why are they up here? Hidden?"

I think hidden is the key word.

"Look at this," Gilly notes.

"What is it?"

Gilly pulls a couple of scarves off something in the corner behind the dressing table. It's a tripod with an old timey movie camera. The kind my dad used to break out in the backyard in the early eighties—before modern camcorders or phones with video players—from time to time and make us run around and pose and wave at the camera like idiots. How many reels of film did he have of Gilly and me simply waving?

Mom walks over and draws her hand along the black camera casing, stopping to fiddle with the lens. I know she must be on sensory overload right about now. "I never knew we had one of these. It must be an original model Polaroid made."

Gilly clicks a couple of buttons and all of a sudden the reel begins to turn. Flickers of images appear on the white curtain, twisted in a fun house sort of way because of the crinkles. I step over and straighten the drape so we can watch.

GranAnna, dolled up in one of the gorgeous gowns from the closet is posing and reciting something. Of course we can't hear her words because there's no sound on this camera. But the image is clear. She's performing. Acting to the camera. Her makeup is thick and well-drawn and her movements are dramatic and over-done. Just like the starlets of the thirties and forties.

I'm getting a bit of a Nora Desmond from Hollywood Boulevard feeling as I watch my grandmother, aged, yet still determined, voguing for the camera like Ziegfeld himself might call her back into the studio.

Oh, GranAnna.

"Turn it off, Gilly," Mom says.

My heart goes out to Mom, wanting to comfort her in her confusion, but I'm at a loss of words myself. For now. I'm letting it all sink in and allowing my brain to decipher the meaning.

Mom glances around at the set-up, the costumes, the pictures on the wall, the crystal atomizer, and silver dressing set, more ornate than GranAnna would ever buy for herself. "She was living some sort of double life up here?" Mom asks, as if we've got answers for her.

My pulse pounds away furiously as the reality of what is in front of me sinks in. Yes, GranAnna was taking time from her Rotary Club, her trips to the market, her crocheting, and her volunteer piano playing at the Baptist Church to come up into her attic and relive her moment in the spotlight. When Anna Miller had a shot at being someone else. A star perhaps. The time when she'd been happy.

The weight of understanding threatens my chest in a searing pain of sadness. No wonder GranAnna always encouraged us to pretend, to use our imaginations, and to dream. Because that's all she really ever had for herself. A life she left behind. The disappointment of not living up to her potential.

Chris pipes up. "Check this out."

We all gather around the dressing table to see what Chris has discovered.

"It looks like a diary or an appointment book," Gilly notes.

Mom sits on the hand embroidered bench, begins thumbing through the aged pages and, reads out loud. "Casting call on 42nd Street, 2:00 p.m." She flips ahead. "Chorus rehearsal Beacon Theater, 74th and Broadway." Mom flips to the front of the book and reads "Property of Anna Miller, 1930."

The reality of this room, this escapism, hits me like a slap in the face. "She was reliving her time in New York, Mom. Her time with Charles, being in shows, being in the chorus, being the person she wanted to be but wasn't allowed to be."

Mom sets the book down and her body begins to shake. Quietly, she sobs as she gazes at her reflection in the mirror. Gilly and I meet her stare in the glass, wondering what to do or say. Mom spreads her arms wide to indicate all that's around us and then starts to laugh pathetically.

"How very, very sad to hide your true self in an attic."

I nod, not knowing how to top that poignant statement.

"It's like, the saddest thing I've ever seen," Gilly says. "GranAnna was always so strict and prim and proper. This just isn't how I imagined she really was."

"Me either," Mom says. "In here, she had control over her life. She could be what she wanted to be. She wasn't someone's disappointing thirteenth child or someone's wife or someone's—" She takes a deep breath. "—mother."

I go to Mom and kneel next to her, placing my hand on hers on her lap. "At least she had this this place that was hers and hers alone where she could be what she wanted and experience the life she wished she'd had."

"But Hale, it's so depressing."

I sigh. "It is, Mom. It also tells us so much about GranAnna. She was overbearing with you and us kids, in a world she had no control over. Here, she was in charge."

Mom sniffs. "All her life she was controlled. First, by her father, then by her husband, and then by what society expected of her. When she was taken from Charles Miller, she gave up the part of her life that meant the most and she changed into the complete opposite of what and who she wanted to be."

This strikes a chord with me and I realize that over the years, I have stifled myself because of other people's expectations. I tried to be the dutiful wife, but it left me wanting for more. I tried to be a stellar employee, but I wasn't doing what I loved best.

Suddenly, I think of The Book and gasp at the meaning of it. "Mom, don't you get it? The Book was GranAnna finally taking control in death over what she couldn't control in life. The Book was her script. Her final direction for how she wanted to leave this world. It was her final say so. That's why she didn't want the casket opened. She wanted to be remembered for the way she looked in that picture. Her true self."

"Oh Hale, you're so right. It all makes sense now."

"Wow," Gilly says, "I never thought of it that way, but you're totally right."

I pull Mom to her feet. "And you did it. You gave her the final scene that she wanted. You fulfilled her every direction and it gave GranAnna that happy ending she wished for. You do know that now, don't you?"

Mom hugs me and nods her head. "I'm going to do something else?"

"What's that?"

"I'm going to have the headstone done to read 'Anna Miller Hale.' It was a part of her she never let go of, so I'll honor her memory that way."

"That's totally sweet of you, Mom," Gilly says.

"And I'm going to invite my brother, Stanley, here to help me go through Mother's things, learning about her and the life I had with her. I owe him that. I owe her that."

I pat Mom's stiff blond hair and let her relax against me. Apparently, this trip into the attic has freed us all.

Confidence soars throughout my body, making me stand tall and proud. I see what I have to do. No longer will I deny my creative self. I won't hide my love from the people I care about. I'll let them all know. Even Mary Ev. Maybe even Curtis.

And what of Jordan? The boy with the emerald eyes. My body sings from the pleasures Jordan has given me these past few days and I may just be on the mend from all the hurt Curtis and I put each other through. Back then, I was so foolish. I played the role of the hurt, neglected wife so well, but did I ever tell him how I felt? No, I stayed quiet and just let us drift apart. He let us drift apart. We allowed our marriage to go to pot. It takes two to tango and all those other clichés, however it only takes one to make it right. Perhaps that's what I need to do.

And more importantly, I have to let Scary Ev know that even though she treats me so poorly and may not understand me, I love her. She's my sister. My flesh and blood and she means something to me.

Life's too short to live hidden away with props and costumes in a locked room.

GranAnna's spoken to me in a deeper way than she ever did when she was alive. Yes, it's sad that her life wasn't what she dreamed, yet, it doesn't mean mine can't be. I can make it happen. For myself.

Starting with... "Mom, will you let me have all of this?"

"All of what? What's here in the attic?"

"No, not the items, but what they represents. The story. Will you let me have it?" It's a writer thing to envision an idea and claim it so no one else will nab it. Not like I think Mom, Gilly, or Chris will go off and write a novel or anything. Just habit.

Her eyes shine up at me. "I don't understand what you're asking, dear."

I lick my lips and smile. "The story. I want to write Anna Miller Hale's story for the world to read. The message is so clear: we must make life work for us, no matter what. Happiness comes from within. And you know what, Mom? I bet deep down, under the boas and the silk robes, the makeup and the camera, GranAnna found her own happiness."

Gilly and Chris step forward and we all bond in a moment of hugging. Mom laughs and says, "Mother always said 'life is what you make it.' Boy, did she mean it."

I intend to make everything right in mine.

~~ ~~

"Whose car is that?" Gilly asks when we pull into the driveway at Hitchcock Terrace after locking up GranAnna's house, for the time being. There will be time another day to break down decades of memories and send them to storage, to relatives, or to an estate sale. I'll definitely come back to help with that.

"Maybe it's Mr. Miller again," Chris notes.

Gilly sticks out her tongue, showing her tongue ring. "No, he had a driver."

I look at the convertible, black Spyder and wonder, as well. "Probably someone bringing another casserole."

Mom steps out of the Cadillac and says, "Oh heavens, let's hope not. I don't have any more room in the refrigerator."

Gilly snorts. "And I've had my fill of green bean casserole, thankyouverymuch."

Pulling my cell phone from my purse, I hop out of the car. "I'm just going to call my agent and let her know my idea about GranAnna's story. I can't wait to see what she thinks." This is just the project I need to help me through my unemployment. I have the time to focus for a while, get the details of the story together and make it shine. Sure, I'll take New York State's unemployment checks in the meantime and visit all the job seeking sites religiously, but I'm going to do what makes me happy.

Mom dangles her keys. "I'm going to call Dharma Louise-Ann. I think I need to do an I-Ching session immediately."

Gilly and I roll our eyes at the same time. "See ya inside, Hale," Gilly says, following Mom.

I pace the driveway as I make my phone call. The sun is warm today and I drink in the radiance of it on my skin, knowing it's still pretty damn cold back home in New York. On the fourth ring, I get my agent's voice mail.

"Hey, Diana, it's Hale Martin." Collecting my thoughts, I say, "Give me a call on my cell phone when you get a chance. Sorry I've been out of touch. I'm in Florida for my grandmother's funeral and you wouldn't believe the story idea I fell across. I want to pitch it to you and see what you think. Talk to you soon. Bye."

I click "End" and stash my phone in the pocket of my jeans. The volume is turned up, so I'll be able to hear when Diana calls back. I can't wait to talk to her. Hell, I can't wait to get to my computer and flesh out the synopsis. This one's going to sell!

As I turn up the walk, Gilly runs out onto the front porch with a look on her face like she used to have when she'd wake me up at four a.m. to open presents on Christmas Day.

"Um, Hale. I think you need to get in here. Like ASAP."

I furrow my brows and look at her. "Is something wrong? Is Dad okay?"

She bounds down the sidewalk to me and pulls me along by the elbow with her. "Dad's great. And I think you will be, too. Come on."

"Look, if it's some miracle ham and split pea casserole or something that someone's brought over, I don't want to have any part of it."

Gilly literally pushes me into the house, steering me into the den. "I think you're going to want to have a big-ass part of this, sis."

I swallow hard, feeling my heart slamming away at my chest as I see the familiar, dark-haired figure sitting on the couch next to Dad with Cujo curled up lazily in his lap.

"Look what the cat dragged in!" Dad exclaims.

The familiar blue eyes connect with mine and I feel my heart race inside my chest.

It has to be a dream. But it's not. And then it is. Because he's here. In my parents' den. Holding my puppy.

He stands and I go to his open arms like it's an old habit. Just like the card, The Fool, predicted, I'm walking into a magical moment.

He wraps his arms protectively around me. "Hale, I'm so sorry about your grandmother. I came as soon as I found out."

I'm helpless to do anything but dissolve into his warm embrace. With a breath of courage and a genuine smile, I say, "Curtis, I can't believe you're here."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I can't stop myself from clinging to Curtis, relishing his strong arms around me for the first time in so long. He smells not of that wretched hospital, but of Escada cologne... and home.

"I'm so sorry, Hale."

From the emotion in his tone, I'm not quite sure if he's referring to my grandmother or everything that transpired between us.

My eyes drift closed as Curtis rocks me back and forth, kneading my back with his large hands like we haven't been apart this past year. Instinctively, my fingers creep into his thick black hair. Hair that's a little longer than normal, but I like it. It's soft and familiar to the touch and I let my hands dance across his neck like he still belongs to me.

"How did you know?" I ask, muffled into his shoulder since he's a good five inches taller than me.

He pulls back, but not away, keeping me in his grasp. "Meghan called me. Why didn't you tell me, Hale?"

"I didn't want to bother you."

The imploring in his blue eyes nearly breaks my heart. "But she was my GranAnna, too."

"I'm sorry, Curtis. I should have told you."

His lips gently brush my ear and he whispers, "You should have told me a lot of things."

I move back. Damn Meghan, breaking her promise. What else has she told him that made him leave his precious hospital and hop a flight down here to No Man's Land?

Mom clears her throat behind me. "Well, if it isn't my favorite ex-son-in-law," she says with a schoolgirl giggle.

Curtis steps away from me and engulfs Mom in his arms, nearly picking her up off the ground. "Hello, Sarah. I'm so sorry for your loss. I wish I'd known. I would have been here for the funeral, no matter what."

"Oh, that's sweet of you."

As Curtis and Mom talk momentarily, my eyes dance over him. He's really here. Is this my real life King of Wands from The Loved One position in the cards this morning that said "someone special is an energized and inspiring agent of change?" Well, the fact that Dr. Curtis Fletcher is here is change at the highest. The realization coats me in a blanket of warmth and comfort. Were the cards right this morning? Could my next meaningful relationship be my past?

Curtis' expensive, wool coat lies over the arm of the couch and he's wearing a blue striped Tommy Hilfiger shirt I bought him a couple of birthdays ago, tucked into form-fitting blue jeans. When was the last time I saw him this casual? Then it hits me. Curtis ditched New York-Presbyterian to come to me and my family, to be here in our hour of grief.

Or is that it? What else had Meghan told him? Did she tell him I got fired? Did she tell him about Jordan? Is this merely a pity visit? That would be one hell of a thing considering he took two planes and rented a car to actually get here.

And he is here, I remind myself.

I take my cell phone from my pocket and drop it on the coffee table while Mom wipes yet another tear from her eyes and smiles up at Curtis. "Come in the kitchen and let me fix you a plate. We've got plenty to eat here, believe me."

Dad struggles to get out of his womb-like leather lounger and comes to Mom's side. "Now Sare, let's leave these two alone for a while. I'm sure they've got plenty to talk about."

We sure do.

Curtis smiles and comes back to my side, wrapping his arm around my waist without hesitation. It feels so good. So right.

Dad winks at me and bends down to scoop up Cujo, who is underneath his feet.

"Well, sure, Sam. You're right. Hale, Curtis, make yourselves at home. If you need anything, just holler."

I lean in and whisper. "Quick, make a run for it before she starts feeding you spiral ham and beef and potato casserole."

He laughs and places his hand to his heart. "I think I just had an artery block up on me."

I chuckle along with him. Who knew after such a painful divorce and so much time apart, we could be this amicable to each other? All because of someone's death. I guess it's because I still love him. There's no reason to be a bitch or act like I'm not glad to see him. I'm pleased that, for once, he sought me out and came to me.

He must still care.

Taking his hand tentatively, I cock my head to the right, indicating the stairs. "You wanna go somewhere and talk?"

His straight, white teeth appear under his smile. "I'd like that."

We walk together, hand-in-hand, up the old staircase, and then turn into my childhood bedroom. He and I have shared this room before on family visits, but something tells me this will be the most important time of all.

I close the door and then sit on the bed. Before I can invite him to join me, he slides right next to me. We sit in awkward silence while my pulse ricochets off the walls of my brain, threatening to deafen me. But I won't let it. I have to listen to the cries of my heart. The part that just witnessed such sadness at GranAnna's house. The essence of my soul that wants to see if life can be what I want to make it.

Curtis is here. It means something.

Taking a deep breath, I start, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about GranAnna. It was just that things happened so quickly the other day. I didn't have time to really think or react. I simply packed, hopped a flight, and came home."

"You called Meghan."

"Meghan's my friend."

"And I'm not?"

"Curtis, you're my ex." He looks hurt. So, half smiling, I say, "I don't have a car, she does, and I needed a ride to Newark."

Curtis gazes over at me so lovingly. So much so that if he'd shown me such affection a year ago, I would have fought harder to save our marriage.

"Meghan told me what happened at The Oenophile." His fist is tight on his thigh. "I can't believe they did that to you."

"It was quite a shock," I admit. Yet somehow, with the prospect of writing GranAnna's story now, I'm kind of glad for the "sabbatical" and having the time to write.

"I imagine it was," he says. "All because you had some personal files on your work computer? Let me tell you, Shay Publishing will never get my business again."

My curiosity is piqued. "You were a subscriber?"

His smile is crooked and endearing. "Well, sure. I kept expecting to see your byline."

"Yeah, me too," I say with a resigned sigh.

He chuckles. "Meghan's boycotting the bastards. Said she'd tell all of her customers, to do the same thing."

"Way to go Shay, pissing off one of New York City's top sommeliers." I hang my head, though. "Meghan promised she wouldn't tell you about all of this."

He scratches his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Well, I made her back up and fill me in after she called me with the sole purpose of telling me you were seeing someone and what a jerk I am for letting you get away from me and not fighting harder for our life together."

"She what?" I should have known after the conversation about Jordan that she'd do something. Meghan's always tried to get Curtis and me back together, thinking we were destined for each other. I thought so too a couple of days ago until I ran into Jordan, until I learned of GranAnna's secret life, until I realized the only person who could make me happy is... me. I should commend Meghan on her determination, but calling Curtis and telling him about Jordan may have been going too far.

Curtis leans back a little and rests his weight on his left arm. "Well? Is there someone else?"

My chest heaves like a kidnapped heroine in a pirate novel and I'm not sure what to say. Yes, I slept with Jordan last night. Yes, it felt pretty amazing. Who knows if I want to pursue the relationship with him? But I think I definitely wanted to pursue the idea of him. He was my perfect man for so long growing up. That unattainable goal. The gorgeous creature I watched from afar. Suddenly, he is attainable and within reach, but is he what I want and need for my future?

Curtis swallows hard and I sense a jealousy raging behind his eyes. I remember the same look that time a doctor friend of his flirted with me at the hospital holiday party. If anything, Curtis is territorial.

Suddenly, my chest flames and I sense my nostrils flare. "Is that why you're here? Because someone else has something you didn't want?"

"No, Hale, it's not like that," he says looking down. "I mean, yes and no... it's everything. I know I don't have any right to question you or ask about your sex life."

"You're right, Curtis. You don't really have a right anymore. You gave that up when you announced you couldn't make me happy and then filed for divorce without talking, going to counseling, or even putting up a fight."

He runs his hands through his thick, black hair and I watch the tension in his jaw. "You're right. About everything. I have no business messing up your life now that you've found someone else."

Thinking carefully before I speak, I finally say, "I haven't necessarily found someone else. I ran into an old high school friend and we hit it off."

Curtis laughs and leans on his elbow. "Come on, Hale. 'Hit it off?' Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

I don't want to tell Curtis that I had sex with Jordan. Saying it out loud will make me feel cheap, like I somehow cheated. It wasn't wrong, though. It was something I craved for myself. It was hot and sexy and oh so what I needed when I needed it. Besides, I'm not married, so it was perfectly legitimate for me to explore my options. "He's been here for me these last few days when I needed someone." Bravely venturing out, I ask, "Does that bother you?"

Curtis sits up and turns to face me, his leg hitched up on the mattress now. He reaches out for my hands and takes them in his. Strong. Capable. Able to mend human hearts... literally. Then why did he break mine? "Yeah, Hale. It bothers me. A lot."

My chest expands in a sweet, painful way hearing his words. Words I wished he could have said a year ago. "Curtis, you're the one who said we should end our marriage. I'm allowed to see other men. Just like you can see other people. And I haven't until now."

His eyes sync with mine and I fear I won't be able to breathe again from the emotion in his look. "There's been no one since you. I haven't wanted to date. You're a hard act to follow."

I bite back the emotions clogging my throat. I need to get this out, though. "I sat in Manhattan for a year, wallowing in self-pity, eating a hell of a lot of caramel cakes, keeping most of Napa and Sonoma Valleys in business, and hating myself for losing you, for losing what we had together, for not knowing how to keep you happy, for not—"

"—it wasn't you, Hale. It was me. It was all me." He squeezes my hands tighter. "I'm the one who screwed up royally. You tried to tell me. You hinted that you weren't happy, that you were lonely and neglected, that I was putting the hospital and my patients first, but I didn't want to listen."

He didn't listen, but he noticed.

My heart weeps for the time we've lost, like GranAnna and the regrets in her life, but I still have to know everything he's feeling. The cards predicted this. I won't hide the real me in an attic.

Pulling one of my hands free from his iron grip, I place it on his smooth cheek, appreciating the feel of his skin against mine. A familiarity unique only to him. He nuzzles against my hand, closing his eyes like it means something to him, as well.

"Why now?" I ask, needing to know. "What happened to bring you here? It's more than just the death of GranAnna or me hooking up with a high school hunk."

His eyes open and his brow raises. "Oh, he's a hunk, is he?"

I laugh. Yeah, Jordan's one fine piece of work, but I keep that inside. "It's not about him. Tell me what happened."

Curtis sighs, his entire body nearly shivering in the process. For a moment, I sense that he might cry as his eyes seem brimmed with tears. I've only seen him cry twice in my life. Once, when we were first dating and his grandfather died and the second time was when he asked me to marry him.

He adjusts and lies back on the bed looking up at the top of the canopy as though he's trying to see the ceiling. I slide next to him and reach for his hand again. I need to connect with him. I can tell something emotional is bubbling up inside.

I nudge him with my elbow. "Talk to me."

"It's about work," he says softly.

"I can take it."

His thumb rubs the top of my hand. "But it's about you, most of all."

The staccato beat of my heart might do me in before I can hear his story. "Go ahead."

Curtis lets out a long breath and places his wrist over his forehead. "Last week, I had this patient come in. She was your age, healthy by all means, but we were getting an abnormal echocardiogram on her. Something wasn't right. We did tests and found that her heart was blocked six ways. A forty-five year old woman, mother of three, worrying about diaper services and moving to the burbs, and she's sitting in my office on the verge of heart failure."

"Was she a smoker or something?" I ask, listening intently.

"No, it was genetic. Pure and simple. Bad genes," Curtis continues, his blue eyes darkening at the memory. "Her husband came in, talking about how I'd taken him away from his clients and how quickly could I get this done. 'Just fix her, doc,' he said. Like she was a car with a busted carburetor. He could barely get off his cell phone long enough for me to explain the options, the surgery, and the bypass that was needed."

A dull ache in my chest tugs at my emotional cords. "He sounds lovely," I say sarcastically. He sounds like the Dr. Curtis Fletcher I knew a year ago.

Curtis rubs his eyes with his hand and keeps going. "Well, Monday, we had her..." He stops and looks at me. "Meredith. Her name was Meredith."

Was? Oh shit.

"Meredith was scheduled for a six-way bypass. Her husband, Benjamin, acted like it was the last place he wanted to be, barely saying goodbye to her before she went into surgery. I mean, I couldn't get him to realize the severity of what Meredith was about to experience. We have to literally stop the heart and put the patient on a machine to emulate the beating in order to perform the delicate procedure of doing bypasses with the grafted tissue. It's not like setting a broken bone."

I can see that Curtis is angry now. He's always been passionate when talking about his patients, but the intensity in his eyes now tells me this was a life-altering experience for him. Perhaps similar to the rush of feelings that consumed me when I was fired.

Curtis holds his breath for a couple of seconds and then expels the heavy flow. "Meredith didn't make it, Hale. Dammit, I did everything right. I followed the procedures precisely like I've done a thousand times before. She just had a weak heart and it was almost as if she'd given up on living. As if Benjamin and her kids no longer mattered or the life they'd had together wasn't worth fighting for. She died on my table."

A single tear escapes Curtis' cerulean eyes and my heart begins to break. All the years I've known him, watched him, seen him toil and struggle over the medical books, I've never really thought about what it's like for a doctor when a patient dies. It's more than just a chart. More than just insurance papers that have to be filed. It's your job to save the person and when you don't, you fail.

I certainly know about feeling like a failure.

Lying down next to him, I put my head on his shoulder and wrap my arm around his middle. He grasps onto me and holds tightly as he gathers his thoughts.

"What happened next?" I prod.

"I, um, had to do the worse fucking job a doctor has to do. I had to tell Benjamin that Meredith died; nearly expecting him to act like it was more of an inconvenience to him than anything. But it wasn't like that, Hale. When I told him, the animal cry that ripped from his body nearly killed me. He threw his cell phone across the waiting room and fell to his knees. I just watched. He screamed and cried and said it was all his fault, that he worked too hard and never paid her any attention when she'd complained about not feeling well. He chastised himself for putting his company first and Meredith second and that's when it hit me. Like a ton of bricks."

I sit up on my elbow and look into his face, so pained with the memory of what happened only a few days ago. "What hit you?"

Curtis sits up, too, his face so close I can sense the heartache emanating from him. "It hit me that I'd done the same thing to you. I pushed you away in favor of my job, my patients, and the hospital. It could have been you on my operating table, Hale. And in a way, it was. I think I was trying to save her so hard because I'd let you get away. When she died, it almost felt as if I'd lost you all over again. It was excruciatingly painful."

I gulp hard because it's so sad that it took another person's death for Curtis to notice—and appreciate—me.

He continues. "I called you at work and got your voice mail. I called you at home and got the same. I couldn't get through to your cell. I was on my way over to see you when Meghan called."

I touch his face again, understanding exactly why I fell in love with this man. Love that will never go away, but a love that has definitely altered while we've each figured out our lives and priorities through all of life's stupidity.

Another tear escapes his eyes. "I know I have no business asking you this, after everything, after simply signing the divorce papers and not even thinking about it. But, I can't lose you all over again, Hale. It was the most foolish thing I ever allowed to happen."

My broken heart mends at the cardiologist's words. Words I'd written from the point of view of my manuscript's characters, yet words I never thought I'd hear Curtis utter.

"You haven't lost me, Curtis," I say, eaten up by my own emotions trying to overtake me.

"I haven't?"

"Just because a piece of paper decreed that I'm not your wife any more, I never..."

Do it, Hale. Live life to the fullest.

I take a deep breath and continue. "I never stopped loving you. You're part of me, no matter what."

Curtis looks at me for what seems like eons. He moves his hand to my face and cups it gently. Then, the emotional floodgate opens as we're both done for. He dives on top of me and his lips are on mine. Hungry, hot, and heavenly. I open my mouth to his seeking tongue, feeling like this is the first time we've ever kissed. Our hearts, minds, and souls combining in this moment, sealing our faith in one another.

But even as his lips induce me into a memory coma, I realize it shouldn't have come to this. Someone else's demise shouldn't mean my salvation. This was nothing but a random act. What if Meredith had gone to another doctor? What if her heart pain had simply been indigestion? Would Curtis have come to this particular eye-opener on his own?

Curtis pulls back and places small kisses all over my face. "I've missed you, Hale. So much. Tell me we can make it. Tell me you'll take me back. I promise I'll change. We'll start over."

I can't think straight with him touching me like this. Neither am I able to completely comprehend what's going on right now.

More kisses shower me while his hands begin to roam. "I'll cut my hours back so I can spend more time with you. You're my life, Hale."

I place my hands on either side of his handsome face and gaze straight into his eyes. "I am? How so?"

He turns his head and kisses my hand. "I won't take you for granted. I won't make you sit alone in the apartment while I'm consumed with work. I'll be more of a partner. More of a lover. More of a friend."

I kiss him back, trying to remind myself that this is what I want. This is what I've been longing for the last year. Curtis wants to be together again.

But do I?

A smoky haze fills my brain while his lips tease my neck. His hands begin working across my body and he says, "I'm back, baby. I'm back."

I try to relax into the silky feel of his tongue against mine, but something just isn't right. Is this really what I want?

Curtis' hand moves over my breast and he squeezes gently. "Now you can tell that high school hunk to take a hike. You're mine, Hale, and you always have been. All mine."

Wait just a goddamned minute!

Shoving Curtis away, I cover my mouth with my hand, almost ashamed of what was about to happen. Forget the fact that I had sex with another man not even twelve hours ago, but I'm about to willingly forget all the hurt and neglect for a sweet-talking roll in the hay?

"What, baby?"

Bolting up, I say, "Excuse me, please," and I head for the bathroom.

Behind the locked door, I snap on the light and look at myself in the mirror. Eyes wild and lustful. A woman at a crossroad. I think back on the lovely evening I spent with Jordan and suddenly, I don't want to let that freedom go. It's an independence I haven't truly embraced in the last year. Besides, Curtis is just here because he's overridden emotionally and not thinking straight. And he's jealous and territorial again.

I splash cool tap water on my face—glad that I'd used Gilly's waterproof makeup—and take a deep breath. Slowly, I open the door and head back to my room.

Curtis is fingering the lace on my canopy top when I walk in, confused and seeming somewhat hurt. He approaches me with his arms spread and asks, "What just happened?"

I pull him back to the bed just to talk.

"You've been through an emotional trauma with your patient and it's only natural for you to seek me out and want me back. But we can't go there again, Curtis."

His mouth falls flat. "It's that other guy, isn't it?"

And just like that, everything falls into place. I shake my head, sending my hair flying about. "No. It's not about Jordan."

"Jordan. His name is Jordan?"

"This is about me," I say with emphasis.

"You?"

Adjusting toward him, I gaze into those amazing eyes that never fail to touch my soul. "I'm not ready to take a step back."

"What, how can you—"

I hold my hand up to stop him. "It's not that I don't love you—I always will—but we're not right for each other. We tried once and it didn't work out. Had we been meant to be, we would have fought harder to stay together.

"Hale, I—"

"Are you really willing to give up some of your hours at the hospital for me so we can do things together or go on trips, or God forbid, try to start a family at this point in our lives?"

He swallows hard and then licks his lips nervously. "You know I can't just walk away from my job. It's who I am."

Smiling, I say, "Who I am needs someone who'll be an equal, a partner, a friend, a lover, and a companion. I deserve that, Curtis."

"Of course you do."

"I've lost my grandmother and my job, but I've regained my family and the sense of how important that is in life. I'm still the same Hale I always was and I still want the same things: quality time, commitment, dedication, loyalty, and togetherness."

Not believing I'm actually saying this, I think of GranAnna's attic and know I will never do that to myself. I'll never hide my true thoughts or feelings, ever again. I'll go back to New York. I'll write my grandmother's story. I'll find a new job and I'll find love again... on my terms. Not from a well-meaning ex with a bout of jealousy or a half-hearted change of heart.

Taking a deep breath, I say, "I care about you, Curtis, and I always will, but I think I'm finally ready to move forward."

## Wine #4

## The wine you

## celebrate with...
CHAPTER NINETEEN

After two hours of talking and settling things once and for all, Curtis and I emerge from my bedroom and rejoin my family downstairs. Gilly gives me the hairy eyeball and I quickly give her a Scary Ev "don't go there" look in return.

Curtis says his warm goodbyes, kisses me on the cheek, and hops back into his rented Spyder heading back to the airport.

As we watch the car disappear around the bend, Dad puts his arm around me. "Well, we were about to send a search party out for you two."

Mom smacks him on the arm. "Samuel!" She comes over to me and whispers in my ear. "Did The Wheel of Fortune turn for you the way you wanted it to?"

Although my heart still aches slightly, I know it's finally on the mend. I can't believe I actually walked away from Curtis' offer, but it was the right thing to do. I had to do it. I had to choose me. "It did. It helped me make an adult decision."

Mom levels her eyes at me. "And did you make the right decision?"

"I think so, Mom."

"I just want you to be happy, sweetie."

"Me too."

"I didn't want to—" She lowers her voice as if to whisper one of the forbidden household words. "—interrupt you two because I didn't know what was going on, but your cell phone has been ringing like crazy here on the table."

I push all thoughts of my final split with Curtis aside and nearly gasp. I wonder if it's Diana calling me back. I grab the device and start scrolling through the "missed calls." There are a couple of 212 area code calls. It has to be Diana. I can't wait to talk to her.

Without looking at the other missed calls (which I see clearly are local calls—don't want to think about that right now) or checking the three voice mail messages I have, I dial Diana's office, knowing she's still working hard at five o'clock.

I step out onto the front porch for a little privacy when my agent answers.

"Diana Peters."

"Hey, Diana, it's Hale. I'm sorry I've been—"

"Hale! I've been trying to call you for two hours! The point of having a cell phone is you can actually reach a client when you have news."

I run my free hand through my hair and sigh. "I know, with everything that's going on here with the—what? Wait. You said you have news? Like news news?"

Diana clicks her tongue. "Are you sitting down?"

Suddenly my legs feel wobbly and jiggly and I look over at the chair in the corner of the porch. "Umm, no. Should I be?"

"I think so," Diana says. "I hope you can buy some decent champagne wherever you are because guess what?"

"What?" Why is she torturing me like this? My pulse is snare-drumming away and I can barely distinguish my thoughts from my excitement.

Diana delivers the news. "Mirror Books has made an offer on your manuscript."

"No way!" I scream into the phone. "Sorry about that. This isn't happening, is it?"

"It is, finally. After all of your hard work."

Tears instantly fill my eyes again and cascade down my cheeks. "Tell me again," I say to my agent.

"Mirror Books is offering you a three-book deal, Hale. This is it. This is what you've been working toward. Congratulations!"

Oh my God! Oh. My. God.

I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't react. I can't think. I've got to calm down, but the strumming of my heart is likely to make my head explode.

"Oh, Diana! I can't believe it. Wh-what are the details?" I manage to get out, wondering how I'm able to be this coherent.

"Well, they love your truth as fiction angle in your manuscript. Real life fictionalization is very big these days, as you know," Diana explains. "And your book is perfect for their Fundamentals line. They want to do some slight revisions and then have the book out on the shelves next summer with a big launch. I earned my keep, too, and got you good money, Hale. The advance is excellent and they're very excited about a second book coming out quickly after the first."

I can't be hearing this right. This can't be happening to me. But I need to listen carefully. I've got to tell her about my GranAnna story.

"Let me tell you what else I've got for you, Diana. You're going to love this."

After I regale her for ten minutes on everything that's transpired in the life (or afterlife) of my grandmother, my agent is silent.

"Do you hate it?"

"Hardly! This is perfect. What an excellent idea. How soon can you get me three chapters and a synopsis?"

I finally do take a seat in the chair because the world is starting to tilt a little on its axis with all that's going on. It's hard to drink it all in. To soak in the good that's filling the crevices of the bad that's surrounded me for so long.

"Umm, I have to get back to New York..." When? "...and then give me..." How long? Sure, I type fast, but three chapters is about sixty pages. "...two weeks." I'm insane.

"Are you sure, Hale?"

"Yes, this story is part of me. It's in the fabric of my being and I can pound it out in no time."

Diana shuffles some papers and then says, "Excellent. I'll contact your new editor at Mirror Books and pitch the story to her, let her know you're working on it." She stops for a minute and then chuckles softly. "Call me when you get back in town and we'll deal with the particulars. But for now, Hale, enjoy. You've made it."

And just like that, I feel like I have.

~~ ~~

Mom and Dad thought with all of the sadness we've had in the family, that we should go out to a fancy dinner and celebrate my book deal.

Dad called The Oyster Barn (best steamed blue crab claws I've ever eaten!) for a reservation and Mom phoned Scary Evelyn to see if her crew wanted to meet us there, but Scary said she didn't want to have anything to do with the celebration, which, quite frankly, broke my heart all over again. How could she not want to join us for something good after all the grief we've shared?

The meal is delicious, though, and it's exquisite sharing a bottle of cold, fruity Pinot Grigio—that goes well with the steamed crabs—with Gilly and Chris. However, Mary Evelyn's absence is felt by all of us and somehow I feel responsible.

Mom works a toothpick in her front teeth as we walk back to the car. "Things certainly are falling into place for you. But, you know, you have to make things right with your sister before you leave, dear."

"Why me?" the ten-year-old inside me asks.

"Because you're the bigger person, Hale. You're much more mature than Mary Evelyn will ever be. You left the nest. She's built one next to mine. While I appreciate having one of my children near, she suffocates me. She's made me and your father her life. She has no life of her own and she's jealous of you."

Jealous? Of me? "Is that what her problem really is?"

"Well, you live in New York, you had an interesting job, and you had a handsome, successful husband who just came here to see you. Mary Evelyn has a grown son in the military that she never sees, she has three young children underfoot with their futures to think of, and she's a stay-at-home mom. She never wanted that for her life. She set off for Manhattan when she was young and full of ideals, but she didn't make it there like you have."

I stop in the middle of the parking lot as a Crown Victoria full of old ladies maneuvers to nab the spot where Dad's Caddy sits. "I never thought of it like that before," I say.

When I get in the car, Dad says, "You know, Little Kid, there's a wine store in the shopping center. Why don't we stop there and get some champagne to celebrate?"

I lean forward and kiss Dad on the cheek, appreciating the thought. "Sounds like a great idea."

Mom looks like she's going to burst into a Broadway musical song and dance number from the gleeful look on her face.

We stop at the wine store and I purchase a bottle of Tattinger Brut La Francaise Champagne. (Cute to see Mom's shock over the price.) The champagne is chilled, so we'll be able to properly celebrate when we get to my parents' house. But as much as I want to enjoy the momentous things that happened to me today, I know there are still things I need to settle in my life.

Gilly turns to me as we're seated back in the car. "What are you thinking about?"

"Mary Ev."

"Mev?" she asks. "Why?"

"Because of the huge fight with the deli meat."

Gilly laughs heartily, then apologizes. "I'm sorry, but she needs to feel bad about that, not you."

"It would be funny if she hadn't spewed so much hatred at me while she was doing it. She really resents me. But Mom says I've got to settle things with her."

"Just go over and see her then."

"I suppose. Mom says I've got to be the bigger person."

Gilly nods. "If you need me to go with you, I will."

I know this is a huge gesture on her part, considering how she feels about our sister, too. Touching her arm, I say, "Thanks, but I've got to do this on my own."

Something tells me, Mary Ev isn't going to make this easy.

~~ ~~

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing on the porch at the Stevens' residence with a smile plastered on my face and Tupperware full of leftover beef and potato casserole Mom sent with me as a peace offering.

Scary Ev and I have known each other a lifetime, yet we're complete strangers. I remember when she used to smile, when she used to stand tall, when she didn't have wrinkles around her mouth and eyes highlighting the sadness of her world.

I ring the doorbell a second time and wait. Surely they aren't in bed this early. It's not even nine p.m. yet.

The porch light comes on and I hear at least three locks click. What? This is like one of the safest towns in America and they've got locks on the door like it's the Lower East Side or something.

Darren frowns when he sees me standing there. "A little late, huh, Hale?"

I lift up the Tupperware. "Mom wanted me to bring this over. I'm just doing as I'm told."

"Sorry," he says. "Don't mean to snap at you. My gastrointestinal reflux is acting up, coupled with my IBS, and I'm not feeling very well."

"IBS?"

"Irritable Bowel Syndrome."

"Oh." I had to ask, eh? But I smile. "I understand."

I step into the immaculately clean foyer and listen out to the television blaring some reality TV show from the adjoining den. The triplets are laid out on the floor like sausage links, eyes wide as they're glued to the shenanigans of the contestants on the show.

"Where's Mary Evelyn?" I ask, looking around.

"She's been very depressed today," Darren announces. "Didn't feel like she was of any use to Sarah, so she's been holed up in her crafts room all day scrapbooking."

That's about the saddest thing I ever heard. Then again, I wasn't around after the Deli Meat Massacre to hear what Mom said to Scary about her behavior. I know that she's never been one to like being corrected. And she's been known to constantly have her bags packed twenty-four hours a day to take a guilt trip.

I follow Darren into the kitchen with the casserole and hold it as he rearranges things in the fridge to make space for the large container. Looking around the room, it is so Mary Evelyn. Frilly, handmade, lace curtains don all of the windows and there's the faint smell of Spic 'n Span in the air. The floors are so clean, you could literally eat off of them. Little gingham trinkets line the counter top and seasonal bunches of dried flowers hang upside down above the sink. The refrigerator itself is covered with pictures of the triplets and little kitschy items and magnets. It's soooooo Kuntry Kitchen and it's soooooo my sister in all of her glory.

When Darren finishes stashing the casserole, I ask, "Can I see her?"

His mouth flattens and I'm sure he wants to tell me that I'm the last person his wife wants to see. As Mom said, though, I've got to at least extend the olive branch. Whether my sister accepts it still remains to be seen.

Darren hitches his head toward the rear of the house. "Her craft room is in the basement. Go on down."

He walks ahead of me in his blue terry cloth robe, down the hallway. Eww... is that fart I smell? Come on, Darren, I know you've got stomach issues, but at least wait until I'm not around you.

Opening the basement door, he shouts down, "Mary, your sister is here."

I tromp down the wooden stairs into the finished basement and weave my way around a Torso Track, a Cardio-Glide, and a Bowflex to the small doorway that leads into Scary's lair... I mean, her crafts area.

Steely reserve paints her face when she lifts her eyes to me and says, "Oh, I thought it was Gilly. Not like that would have been any better."

"No, it's me. Mom wanted me to bring you some casserole." I steal a glance around the room and move aside a bolt of white eyelet to take a seat on a red stool. "She also wanted us to work things out before I leave."

Mary Evelyn levels her cold gaze at me and then returns to the scrapbook laid out in front of her. No response to my words. The pungent scent of Super Glue and Elmer's tints the air and I see pictures of the triplets scattered about on the table along with pressed flowers, leaves, and lace. She certainly is taking great care to preserve the memories of her children's lives. How can someone so icy do something so loving and treasured?

Okay, Mom said I have to take the high road. "That looks great, Mary Ev. You're really good at that."

She slams a picture down onto the top of the scrapbook, causing the lace to fly toward the edge of the table. "Just say what you have to say, Hale, and then you can leave."

My head aches and my heart hurts at her harsh words. How can she be this angry with me? How can she treat me like I'm just some vermin under her feet for no reason at all?

Be the adult.

"Look, Mary Ev, I don't know what happened yesterday or why, but I'm sorry for whatever I've done to make you hate me so much." I pause and wait breathlessly for some sort of reaction or response.

I get neither. Okay, this is up to me.

Fingering my hair behind my ears, I lean forward a bit. "Curtis showed up today and wanted to get back together, but I told him I'm okay on my own." I pause, waiting for a reaction, but I get none. "Look, I don't know how much longer I'll be here, probably leaving tomorrow, but I just feel awful about the deli meat fight and Mom and Dad and you know, there's really no reason for us to act like such little children, especially considering our advanced age and gray hairs. We don't have to act like eight year olds."

"I'm eight years old!" Natty-Jo pipes up. I hadn't even heard her come downstairs or into the room. I can't have this conversation with my sister with one of her kids in the room.

"Natalie Josephine, I want you to go back upstairs right now," Mary Ev snaps.

Natty-Jo's pupils dilate and it looks like she's going to cry. I blow her a kiss and wink, which seems to appease her. She turns and runs out of the room, bounding up the stairs.

I keep trying. "I mean, I know that no matter how old we are the more we're concerned about our family's approval and what our parents think. Did they raise us right? Did they teach us everything we needed to learn? Did they push us out of the nest at the right time? And especially when shit happens—like losing a job or a spouse or whatever—we just need to bond over it and help each other and support and—"

Mary Evelyn rolls her eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake, what are you prattling on about, Hale? And don't think I didn't see that just now with Natty-Jo. You're all she's been able to talk about the past few days. 'Aunt Hale this' and 'Aunt Hale that.' You toy with my kids and spoil them and then leave. Why don't you get some of your own?"

The pain shoots through my chest over her acid words. I take a deep breath and surge ahead. "Maybe I will one day."

Mary Ev sighs hard and plops a glob of glue to the back of the picture, pressing it into the book.

"Look, Mary Ev. What you said to me yesterday... the misconceptions you have of me. I'm far from perfect. I came here tonight to tell you how sorry I am for whatever I've done in the course of my life to make you have such hatred for me for my mere existence. Every time I'm around you, you turn me back into that twelve year old girl who so much wanted to be like her big sister. I was hoping maybe for once, we could stop acting like little kids and be adults, stopping all of the stupidity and... " I trail off.

She stands and pulls a cigarette from a hidden slot in the bricks, lights it and blows the smoke out. "You know what your problem is?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll be able to tell me."

She points her fingers, with the cigarette firmly between them, at me. "Your problem is you judge us. You judge me."

"Huh? What?"

"You heard me. You judge me for living here. For not setting off in the world like you and Gilly. Big damn deal! She lives in San Francisco, you live in Manhattan, big city girls with their big city lives."

I put my hand on the table in front of me to steady me from this new attack. "Now who's judging, Mary Ev? Huh? Tell me?"

She inhales the cigarette and propels the smoke straight at me. "I'll tell you what. You don't live here and you don't know how things are. Mom has her gardening and she needs to do it until her fingers bleed and I have to bring her a bottle of Mercurochrome to tend to the scratches. And Dad has his needlepoint and his crossword puzzle from the TV Guide that he has to do the minute it arrives in the mail. He needs thread for his projects and God forbid if he can't find the right colors, then I have to go across town and buy him what he needs and they keep me on my toes every day of the week trying to foresee their every goddamned want—"

"Then stop!" I scream. "They don't need you to baby them, Mary Ev. They're old, but they're not senile. They're perfectly happy in their lives. They don't need a grown child underfoot telling them when to take their medication or what to eat or how to cook their bacon."

Mary Evelyn sneers at me while dragging on the cigarette for a good twenty seconds, filling her lungs with the tar and nicotine that's so not good for her. "Oh sure. Why don't I do what you and Gilly did? Just pick up, abandon them, and move away to the other side of the country. No meaningful obligations. Like Gilly hanging with those music people doing drugs and having sex with God knows what. I've seen Behind the Music. I know what goes on in rock and roll. And you with your novel writing, like anyone wants to read what you have to say."

I have to laugh at her comments. "Gilly's one of the hottest promoters in the country and she knows everyone there is to know. I'm proud as shit of her. And you know what? I could care less that she's a lesbian. She's still my little sister."

Mary Ev scowls and takes a final drag off the smoke.

"And just to let you know, my dear supportive sister, that I happened to have sold my novel. So apparently, someone out there does care what I have to say." The last part came out a bit too persnickety; then again, I didn't start this family fight.

"Well, there you go. You two and your perfect lives. Just swim around in your own self-importance while I drown here."

My heart pounds so furiously in my chest that I almost want to break out into hysterical laughter. For Mary Evelyn to have so much anger toward Gilly and me is just pathetic. "You know, Mary Ev. You say these things, but you have no idea what my life is like. Or Gilly's for that matter."

She tugs on a piece of lace on the table in front of us. "I'm sure you have no idea what my life is like either, Hale. It's not easy being a mother and caring for your elderly parents. But I do it. I don't ask for awards or citations, but I do expect understanding and respect from my siblings."

"You have to earn respect, Mary Ev."

She stabs the cigarette out in an ashtray in the windowsill. "You know, my girlfriends understand me. My Bunco group gets me. Their lives are similar to mine and we support each other. I don't think you'd ever be someone I'd invite into my circle of friends. I mean, I love you, Hale, but I don't like you at all."

My stomach lurches at the pinpointed confession and I feel a loss, greater than the death of GranAnna. I guess I should take solace in the fact that she even admitted to loving me, in her own weird way.

Be. Brave.

"You don't have to like me, Mary Ev, and we don't have to be friends. We were randomly thrown together in this world because of who are parents are. That's what family is all about. You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family. We just have to do what we can to get along while we're on this earth together."

Mary Evelyn sits back in front of her scrapbooking and begins fiddling with pieces of dried flowers, making sure they adhere to a page. "I really need to get back to this. This is the only time I have without interruption."

And this is it. Until the next visit, or worse, the next funeral. Why is it that the hardest things in life are what brings us together the most? "I'll let you get back to your work. Bye, Mary Ev," I say with a bit of emotion lacing my voice.

She doesn't look up; however, I see her start to cry. Tears streak down her face unlike the ones she shed at the funeral. These seem more tortured, more raw. I want to go to her and hug her, but it's the last thing she wants.

My sister. The rock. The stubborn-assed rock.

I turn quietly and swallow any response. The fact that she's crying in front of me speaks volumes. I won't point out what she obviously sees as a weakness, nor will I exploit it. I'll leave her to what she loves best. Something she can control. Something she has a decision over.

But as I get to the staircase leading up, the hollowness within me is so palpable that I can't seem to lift my leg to go further. I return to her crafts room and stand in the doorway for a moment.

She looks up and wipes away the tears on her face. "Yeah?" she asks, not as tersely as I bet she'd hoped.

"I'm going back to New York to take care of some personal business, but then I'll come back and help with GranAnna's house and whatever else Mom needs."

Mary Evelyn runs her hand through her hair, making the gray stripe in the middle even more prominent. "So?"

Always the bad-ass.

"When I get back, maybe we can start over. As adults. Not the sisters ten years apart. Or fifteen hundred miles apart. You can get to know me as an adult."

My sister licks her lips and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. "Maybe we could," she says in a whisper.

It's the closest thing to a "yes" that I'll get from her, which makes me feel much better. Like there's some hope of a functional relationship here.

"Oh, Mary Ev... one more thing."

Her eyes lift to mine and hold for a moment. I swear, I think I see a smile, but I could be mistaken. For what it's worth, I grin at her and say, "I love you, too."

And with that, I leave her to her scrapbooking with the hope that perhaps we can make this sisterhood work after all.

Sans deli meat.
CHAPTER TWENTY

The next morning, I shower quickly—hot water doesn't last long here with this many people—and finish packing. I'm heading back to New York this afternoon to regroup, file for unemployment benefits, start floating resumes and writing samples, and then to cloister myself away to work on my partial of GranAnna's story for my new publisher.

(I get chills up my spine every time I say or think that!)

I fold up my sweatshirt and cram it into the bag next to my jeans. Then, I reach for something on the floor that I don't recognize at first. My insides contract when I realize it's Jordan's Henley shirt he let me borrow the other morning.

Jordan.

Oh man.

With everything that's happened, he's been completely out of my head. Well, not completely. Somewhere in the back of my brain mass, I knew I'd have to talk to him and thank him, mostly, for setting me free. But how? When? It's only fair after he was there for me when I needed it so.

I need so much more, though. Love. Security. A home. To know myself for who I am now and where I want to go in life.

I hold Jordan's shirt to me and sniff vague traces of his musky smell, soaking up the last bit of contact I'd had with him. He treated me right when I needed it. Although, I suspect that he needed it, too. He was that pillar of strength and necessity of the flesh when it seemed like all in my life was doomed.

Gilly emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and plops down next to my suitcase. "What 'cha got there?"

"Something I need to return," I answer calmly. I fold the tan shirt and set it aside, wondering what to do next. I can't go back to New York without at least talking to Jordan. I owe him a decent goodbye.

And a gracious thank you.

Gilly glances down at the shirt and then must figure things out. "Looks like there's one more person you need to settle things with."

"Yeah, I do."

Mom calls up the staircase. "Come on girls! I've made home fries and GranAnna's frittata, with ham and cheese!"

Gilly rolls her eyes and I crack up laughing.

"Sarah Beth Martin, the ham pusher."

"Yeah, but it's made with love," Gilly points out.

I think my talk with Jordan can wait just a little bit longer. Time for one more pork-filled meal with the fam.

~~ ~~

I steer Dad's Caddy down the long street leading to Jordan's house. On the drive from Mom and Dad's, I listened to the voice mail messages he left for me yesterday, laced with his sexy innuendos and remembrances of our time together.

I pull the car in the driveway behind Jordan's Mustang, not sure if I'm relieved or terrified that he's home. I swallow the lump in my throat and step out of the car. Before I can go up and knock on the door, it opens.

"Those are some fancy wheels you're driving there, Ms. Martin."

I smile at his lazy Southern accent and feel a sense of relief as I walk toward him. He opens his arms wide and I move in to hug him. Mmm... nice.

"You must have had one hell of a day yesterday. I called at least three times."

He moves to kiss me, but I turn my head and his lips land on my cheek. I need to concentrate right now and one of his kisses might send me over the edge—or back into his bed. He catches on, of course, and steps back. I look up and appreciate the clarity in his green eyes. So very different from Curtis, but beautiful in their own way.

"Yesterday was... unforgettable," I look off toward the water in the distance. "I'm sorry I didn't call, but there was way too much going on to even get a breath."

Jordan closes the door to his house and motions me over to his car. He hitches his jeans up a bit as he sits on the hood, causing his black t-shirt to stretch across his back that I know to be chiseled and simply perfect.

We speak over each other.

"Jordan, I—"

"Something's changed."

"You first," I say.

"I thought we'd get together last night."

I sigh. "It was a long day. You wouldn't believe what happened."

He pats next to him on the hood. "Try me."

So, I slide up beside him and tell him everything, starting with the Tarot card reading and ending with my book deal. "And amongst all of it, Curtis showed up."

Jordan's face becomes blank. "That explains the distance right now."

I scoot closer to him and nudge his shoulder with mine. "No, no distance, just a lot I had to deal with." Swallowing hard, I say, "Curtis wanted a second chance."

Jordan's expression is blank as he fiddles with a rubber band in his hand. Probably one he plans on using to hold his hair back with, although I like it when it's down like this.

"Do you want to give him that second chance?" he asks.

My chest fills and expands. "I thought for the past year that I did, until he showed up. Then... "

"Then what?"

"Then, all of the reasons why we made each other unhappy and why we broke up rushed into my mind and I just couldn't do it. I couldn't go there again, not knowing if he'd really changed. I didn't take him back."

Jordan smiles knowingly.

"It's time for me to move on and accept that I'm on my own."

His smile dims. "Your own."

"Yeah. I'm headed back to New York this afternoon."

"I figured as much."

I place a hand on his forearm. "Jordan, I never meant to—"

He stops me. "Hale. Don't. You didn't. It's okay. I understand."

"You do?"

His mouth hitches. "I knew going into this that you were only here temporarily. I knew you could lean on me. And I let you. I liked being leaned on."

Well, that's all true.

"I didn't take advantage of you, I don't think," he says. "I'd like to think we're a bit alike. We've both been hurt, we've both done things we didn't want to do, and now we're just trying to find what's right—what's perfect—for us now."

I move my hand from his arm and bravely lace my fingers through his. Thanks to Jordan, I had the strength and courage to face life's circumstances when I needed it most. "You certainly didn't take advantage of me, at all." I stop and look up at him. "I didn't use you, did I?"

He laughs quietly. "I don't feel used. I feel like I've helped."

I nod. "Yeah, I appreciate that you've been here for me through this. In just a few days, you really helped me see myself in a more positive light."

He snickers. "So someone else can now benefit from it?"

I hang my head. "I don't know. Maybe I'm destined to be alone, but I'm okay with that now." And remarkably, I am.

"Maybe you could be with me, here, near your family," he says so softly that it's almost lost in the wind.

I have to shake my head, though. "When I was a teenager, I dreamed of your telling me that. I'm not a kid anymore, though, Jordan."

He shifts to face me more. "Isn't that the truth?"

We weave our fingers together more tightly and just sit there for a moment. Jordan looks out over his yard where a squirrel scuttles by and then runs up the expansive oak tree. I close my eyes for a second to garner some courage, trying to say what I wanted to say before. I knew going into my affair with Jordan that we weren't part of the same world.

"These past few days with you have been great and have meant so much to me. I never could have made it through if you hadn't been there."

"Hale, you don't have to—"

I put my hand on his leg and stop him, feeling the coarse muscles lying beneath the denim. "I have to go back to the city and I know that's not the kind of life you're looking for."

He leans back and nods his head. "You're right. I'm much more for the simple life. I think I'd suffocate in New York City. That, or have a heart attack from all the noise."

"See, I thrive in that environment. The clamor. The people. The hustle and bustle. It's part of me. I'm simply smothered here," I say.

Jordan tosses the rubber band to the ground and fingers his hair behind his ears. Then, he turns to me and studies my face intently. He reaches over and traces his hand down the side of my cheek, cupping my chin in his palm. I feel the same zipping exhilaration as the other times he's touched me, continuing to give me strength and confidence to face my new future.

"You know Hale," he says, stroking my chin with his thumb. "You're someone I could have loved."

My heart pounds away furiously and I lean into him, sampling those intoxicating lips one more time. Taking the memory of my childhood crush with me as I find my place in the world. His lips are warm and strong and he tastes of coffee and cream. I open my mouth and return his ardor until the stubborn wind knocks against us, telling me it's time to go.

I withdraw my hand from his and wrap my arms around him. "Thank you, Jordan. For everything."

He squeezes back. "I hope you don't regret anything."

"Not at all," I say firmly.

This is so weird. Never in a million years would I have ever predicted that I'd be breaking off a relationship with Jordan Valvano. Stranger things have occurred in the last twenty-four hours.

His laughter sets me at ease. Something tells me that I might have gotten through his thick skin a little more than I realized. Maybe I represent something he can't have, or a life he gave up for the simpler one here in Haven Harbor. Or maybe he's just glad, like I am, for the time we had together.

"I'll never forget you, Jordan."

"You're unforgettable, Hale." He holds me away and pushes my hair away from my face. "Too bad I didn't notice you more in high school. I'm sorry for that."

Shrugging, I say, "It happens. We found each other when it mattered the most."

"You're right."

"Thanks for being here for me."

He smiles that charming, crooked smile. "Seems like that was my job this week, not videoing the proceedings. Maybe your grandmother knew something we didn't."

"Maybe so."

We hug one more time and Jordan knocks me a kiss on the cheek. "Have a nice life, Hale. You deserve it."

I slide back into Dad's car and wave as I pull away. Bless Jordan for making it so easy.

I steer the car out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, back to my parents' house and on my way to what the future holds for me.

Jordan's right, I do deserve a nice life.

~~ ~~

Mom looks up from her coffee when I step into the kitchen. "What time are you leaving?"

"My flight leaves Pensacola at three." I drink in the sights and sounds of my parents' house for the remainder of my time here.

"Where have you been?"

"I went to see Jordan."

Mom stirs at her coffee, even though we both know she takes it black, just like me. "I suppose I should be grateful to him for being such a good friend to you this week."

She's adorable. How can a woman this old be so absolutely innocent?

"I've experienced a lot of good on this visit, despite the cause of it."

"The cards were right, dear," Mom says with such confidence. "I can't wait to tell Dharma Louise-Ann how on target I was."

"You sure nailed it, Mom. Everything, all the way around."

She sips her coffee again. "And your sister? How did that go with her last night?"

I don't feel the need to give too many details. Mine and Mary Ev's relationship should be separate from the connection with our parents. Besides, Mom doesn't need to worry that her chicks aren't getting along. It's not good for her blood pressure. "We're fine," I say, finally. "We have our differences that will always be there, but we're working on it."

Well, it's sort of the truth. At least Mary Ev and I have an understanding of each other now. And she knows how I feel.

"Fiddle-dee-dee."

Ah yes, one more comment from Scarlett on this trip.

The house is so quiet. "Where are Gilly and Chris?"

"They went to the store to get some of those Sunflower grits to take back with them to San Francisco. You know, they can't get them out there."

"I don't suppose so." I laugh. "Where's Dad?"

"Oh, he's out on the back porch with his damn TV Guide. He might as well be married to it," she says as she sips more coffee.

I feel like I've barely had any time with my father through this visit. He's been so quiet and supportive and... just Dad.

"I think I'll go join him for some fresh air."

"Take a coat," Mom says. "There's still a chill out there."

"I'm fine. I'm a hearty New Yawwwwk'ah," I say with a mock accent.

Opening the back door, the mid-morning sunshine covers me in a refreshingly warm way. Dad's sitting at the outdoor table, a Diet Rally Cola next to him and his crooked sunglasses perched on his face.

"What's up, Dad?"

He looks up over his glasses and then pulls the chair out next to him, patting the cushion.

"Whattaya think, Little Kid?"

I take the offered seat and scoot closer to him. "Ahhh, the TV Guide crossword puzzle. Still addicted to it, huh?"

He snickers. "You know me."

"Yeah, I remember we used to fight over who could get to it and do it first." The memories of me dashing out to the mailbox as soon as the postman delivered the weekly rag wash over me like it was yesterday.

"You usually beat me to it," Dad says, smiling.

"Why do you think I always volunteered to get the mail?"

I watch for a moment as he ponders the answer to seven down:

"Sarah _________ Gellar."

Guess Dad wasn't too big of a Buffy fan. Then I say, "You know, you've been pretty quiet these past couple of days. How are you doing with all of this?"

He puts his hand on top of mine and squeezes. "Well, you do what you have to do, right?"

"That's why I'm here. Despite everything." I swallow hard, needing to say this. "You know, I was so angry at you and Mom for how you treated Gilly five years ago. I know it was hard hearing her admission, but it really hurt the way you guys reacted."

He doesn't look at me, but I sense the emotions in his voice. "I know, Hale."

Continuing, I say, "I let your pain over her choice of a lifestyle keep me away, and that was wrong."

He sniffs and reaches into his back pocket for a hankie. Blowing his nose heartily, he stashes the cloth back in place. "Sarah and I were wrong about that. We know that now. We never should have ostracized our baby like that. Or you. I think we all learn things with age, don't you think?"

I've certainly learned some things these past few days. "No kidding."

"Your mother says you went over to see Mary Evelyn last night." He fills in eleven down which is "TV Comedy that ran on NBC for eleven years." I watch as he writes in C-H-E-E-R-S.

"I thought she and I needed to clear the air, especially after all she said to me, you know, about hating me for living when my brother died."

Dad taps his pen—so confident in himself he never does the crossword puzzle in pencil—and contemplates what to say. He's never been a big talker, but when he does speak, it's something you're likely to remember for a long time.

"You have to forgive your sister for saying things she didn't mean. We all went through a lot of suffering losing your brother and then wondering if we'd lose you, too. We didn't think we'd have any other children after you, so I suppose we did treat you differently, spoiled you a little. I won't apologize for that." He looks at another clue in the TV Guide and scowls. "Besides, Mary Evelyn never helped me with these. What is this one?"

I look down and see "______ and Afraid." Laughing, I take the pen and write the word N-A-K-E-D.

Dad's brow lifts. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope, they drop a man and woman off in a wilderness in nothing but their birthday suits and they have to survive on their own."

He harrumphs. "People will watch anything."

I let him fill in a couple more boxes on the puzzle and drink some of his soda before I ask, "How are you handling all of this with GranAnna? With all we've learned and discovered."

He nods. "It's interesting, isn't it? Anna had a whole other life we didn't know about. One she hid away from the world. Which is really sad, don't you think?"

"I do." I remember that GranAnna was always a bit standoffish to my dad and wonder if he may have reminded her of her Stanley. "I wish we'd known. It would have been easier to understand why she held us at arm's length all the time. Never really wanting us close."

"I know, Little Kid. Your grandmother wasn't the most exuberant person showing emotions, but she did love you. All of you. We had to respect her last wishes and give her the sendoff she wanted. After everything you've been through, you were here for your mother and I appreciate your doing that, Hale."

"There was no question one way or another. I think I needed this break."

He scratches his chin. "You know, I got fired once."

"You did? When?"

"Right before you were born. Your mother was big as a cow with you and your brother. I was working at Black Falcon terminal for one of the shipping companies. No idea what I did. Boss called me in one afternoon and said, 'Martin, I gotta let you go.' So, I went out and got stinking drunk. Your mother had to come get me and her water broke. Talk about sobering up quickly! I drank the hospital out of all their coffee, but I was sober as a priest when you kids were born and when your mother needed me the most."

"I've never heard this story."

He drinks a slug of the soda. "There are a lot of stories you haven't heard, Little Kid."

"So, where do we go from here, Dad? After the pain and loss and disappointment and the death of a loved one?"

I really only want his wisdom in general. He's always been good at twisting just the right thing to say when it's needed the most.

Pushing the puzzle aside, he says, "Well, it's like this movie I saw once. Can't remember if it was The Untouchables or Goodfellas. I think it was a character Sean Connery played..."

"Sean Connery wasn't in Goodfellas," I correct.

"Don't interrupt your father," he says, smiling. "Oh wait, it was that Tom Cruise movie your mother and I watched a couple of weeks ago on USA Network: Cocktail."

For some reason, I find it hard to see my parents sitting and watching Tom Cruise mixing drinks and getting it on with the ladies. Seeing how it was the USA version, I'm sure the cursing and sex was edited down, though. "So, what's this scene in Cocktail?"

Dad clears his throat. "It was when that Australian guy killed himself and Tom found him the next day. The suicide note said 'Bury the dead... they only stink up the place.'"

My eyes grow wide. "And that relates to GranAnna how?"

"Hear me out." He pats my hand. "Funerals are emotional, but they're also a sort of purging for everyone involved. Every person had a different relationship with Anna Hale. Mother, grandmother, aunt, great-aunt, mother-in-law, etc. And this poor Charles Miller, she was his long-lost love. You see, Hale, everyone has to deal with their emotions toward her in their own way."

I nod, understanding exactly what he's saying.

"I know your grandmother wasn't particularly loving toward you, but you're dealing with her death in your own way. I'm dealing with it in my own way, too. So is everyone else. Some people react with pain and hatred, like Mary Evelyn, others with tears and loss, like Sarah. It's a lot of emotional baggage."

"You're totally right, Dad. It's a good theory." Despite getting it from a cheesy 80s movie with a Beach Boys theme song. Who knew Tom Cruise could be so poignant and have such a cinematic effect on my Dear Old Dad?

Dad scribbles another answer down in his puzzle and then turns to me. His eyes are watering underneath his sunglasses, but I know it's more than likely from the pollen. Although...

"So, what does your magical Cocktail saying mean?" I ask.

"I think it means to get it over with, move along, and go ahead with your own life. Bury the dead because they stink up the place with the emotions the death and loss churns up. So, see, it's not that harsh of a saying, but very appropriate." He pauses, then adds. "So, that's what we do, Little Kid. We clean up and keep being who we are."

"I'm trying, Daddy," I say in a hushed voice.

"Well, you know once you're out of the boat, you're no longer a fisherman, but a swimmer."

My brows furrow together. "What?" He's been a fount of odd sayings, but this one, I've never heard.

He reaches over and takes my hand. "You've always been my tough one, Hale."

"How so?"

"Do you remember that time when we first moved here and your mother brought the three of you to work with me? We had this enormous oil tanker coming in to port. Mary Evelyn cringed at the noise and poor Gilly cried through the whole thing. But not you, Hale. My tough one stood next to me, wide-eyed and fascinated with the whole process, waving at the workers on the boat and seeing it as an adventure, where they'd been, where they were going.

My eyes well up a bit at the memory of standing next to my dad as he performed his job. I remember it being fascinating and I came up with all sorts of stories for those Merchant Marines and their journeys.

"I have faith that things will work out for you, Little Kid. You're the tough one."

I lay my head on his shoulder and wrap my arm around him. "You're a wise old sage, as always."

He swats at me for my insolence. "Who are you calling 'old?'"

I lean over and kiss my dad on the check and hug him again, looking down at the crossword puzzle he had gone back to solving. "Twenty-four down is 'General Hospital.'"

"You always were better at these than me," he says as I stand.

"I learned from the best."

I take a deep cleansing breath of the crisp air. Anna Hale and the old Hale Martin are buried.

Now, it's time to start cleaning up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Airports make Mom cry. It's just a fact of life.

And now is no different as Gilly, Chris, and I stand in line at the Delta kiosk to check in for our flight. We're on the same leg from Pensacola to Atlanta and then we'll go our separate ways from there. Mom stands off, out of the way, and snivels into one of Dad's handkerchiefs.

"Now, now, Mother... " I hear him say.

After I get my boarding pass—wow, I got bumped up to first class the whole way home!—I return to my parents.

"All set," Gilly reports. Her hair is standing on end more than the past few days. She'd toned down her "look" while at home, but I can see she's glad to be headed back to San Fran, to her life, able to be her true self again.

I hug Chris and squeeze tightly. "I want you guys to come to New York and see me soon."

"Absolutely," she says. "And we want you at the wedding in June."

"I wouldn't miss it."

"Gillian," Mom starts. "I know I can't convince you to take that jewelry out of your nose and lips, but if you'll let your poor old mother help plan this ceremony of yours, I'd be honored."

Gilly hugs Mom and they both start to cry even harder.

Mom wipes her face and sadly says to Chris, "I promise not to be the mother-in-law from hell. I know how to behave."

We all laugh and Dad moves over to her.

We head up the escalator in a herd to the security area. We each take turns hugging and crying and giving goodbye kisses until the next time we see each other. Mary Evelyn decided not to come with us to the airport, but she was decent enough to come to the house before we left to give both Gilly and me genuine hugs. She'll come around. I know it.

Mom tugs my hand. "Hale, I'm not going to worry about you."

"You don't have to, Mom. I'm fine."

Her eyes shine with fresh tears. "I know you are, dear. I raised you right. You're a tough girl and you deserve to succeed. Do what makes you happy."

"I will, Mom."

"You'll find a new job. A better one."

I nod and smile. "I know I will. In the meantime, I've got my book deal, so you don't have to worry."

She dabs her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "Well, I'm a mother, I come about it naturally."

I gather her to me again, feeling her quiver under my grip. I see where Mary Ev gets her rock-hard façade. She comes about it naturally. I kiss Mom on the top of her head and choke back the emotions welling up inside of me. This has definitely been a roller coaster ride of a trip.

"I'll be back to help you out, okay?" I say, trying to reassure her, or maybe myself.

Mom bobs her head and sniffs. "Thank you, Hale. Take care of yourself first. Take care of what's important."

"You're important. I love you, Mom."

"You better get going, Little Kid," Dad interrupts.

As I turn off, Mom grabs my hand one more time. "Hale? You'll do Mother's story justice, won't you?"

Radiant pride covers me and I know the answer to this. "I'll make her proud."

With a final wave, we cross into security, shoes, and belts off and back on, and then make our way through the terminal.

On the plane, I settle into my plush, wide seat in first class (Gilly sticks her tongue out at me as she passes by) and I take a deep breath, finally slowing down from the whirlwind.

I reach into my purse to turn off my cell phone and see that I have a message. It's from Meghan and I sigh, knowing how disappointed she'll be in me after hashing about Curtis for so long, yet realizing we are, indeed, better off apart. I love her dearly, but I don't want to hear a lecture about my decision... about our decision. I press "1" and listen to her friendly voice.

"Hey babe. I hope you're okay. I talked to Curtis and, well, you know what? It's none of my business." Meghan pauses for a moment, then continues. "Listen, I'm actually calling because my buddy who just got hired as editor-in-chief at The Wine Observer jumped at the thought of stealing someone away from The Oenophile. He says if you can get a two-thousand word feature on California Methode Champagnoise on his desk in a week, he'll probably hire you full time. Call me! Love ya!"

A smile breaks across my face as I feel the good fortune continuing to rain down on me. I'm damn near going to need to pinch myself soon. My own featured wine article.

Next thing I know, a jean-clad, shaggy-haired hunk of a guy takes the aisle seat next to mine and smiles politely at me. His pants are faded by design and his short-trimmed beard is well-groomed to intentionally look like three days' worth of growth. Warm, coffee-colored eyes dance over me and he grins again.

Realizing I'm staring at him, I feel I need to speak. So I say, "I'm sorry, but do I know you? You look familiar to me."

Straight, white teeth appear from under his full lips and his eyes alight in a teasing glow. "I bet you say that to every man you meet. Isn't that a pick-up line from the seventies?"

I laugh nervously and stuff my phone back into my purse. The old Hale would be mortified right about now, but the new me finds this exhilarating and I discover a self-confidence I never realized I had. "Gee, I don't know. I was a little kid in the seventies. Never got to ask anyone their sign while out at the disco boogying all night."

He tosses his head back and laughs. Deep. Rich. A full-bodied timbre, much like the woodsy, flavorful Merlots of the world. "Come on now, you can't be a day over thirty," he says.

Channeling my mother's Scarlett O'Hara-ness, I lower my lashes and say, "A true gentleman would never ask a lady her age."

"You're assuming I'm a gentleman."

"You're not?"

"Ahh, I keep forgetting I'm still in the South. You'll have to excuse me, I'm a heathen from Northern California."

Oh man, I like this guy. In coach, I'd be stuck with Roger the sales guy from Pfizer or screaming kids kicking my seat. But up here in first class, even the men come upgraded.

I lean on the seat divider. "I don't think a New Yorker has the right to call anyone a heathen when we wrote the book on it."

His laugh is contagious and he extends his hand out to me. "You're something else. I'm Jack, by the way."

"Hale," I say in return. When I take his large hand in mine, something happens to my insides. Something magical, electrical, and akin to a full-flavored "yeeeeha!" It's a good thing I'm sitting down; otherwise, my knees would be of no use to me.

He must feel something, too, because he looks at our joined hands and is slow to remove his fingers from mine. "Where are you coming from, Hale?"

I decide to keep it simple. No need to elucidate the details of my frenetic life to date to this attractive stranger. "I was visiting my parents in Haven Harbor, just outside of Pensacola."

Jack's smile widens. "Hey, me too. Well, I was visiting my mother, that is. She's in a retirement community there. Just loves it. Bingo weekly, nurses on site, people to come in and cook and clean for her."

"And a thoughtful son to visit every now and then."

He returns his hand to his lap. "Well, I'm busy, but I try."

Busy doing what? Riding horses through the mountains? Negotiating business contracts? Breaking women's hearts? Intrigued, I ask, "What is it you do, Jack?"

"I dabble. I was down in Miami Beach recently and picked up a property there. A bed and breakfast on Collins Avenue called The Eleanor. Charming little place. It's going to be the toast of South Beach, I promise you that."

"It sounds quaint and charming and somewhere I'd like to go," I say with a smile, withholding my last thought of a place to go with him, perhaps.

Before he can respond further, we're interrupted by the tall, thin, blond flight attendant who slants toward him like she knows him very well.

"Can I get y'all something to drink before we take off?" she asks in a syrupy voice.

Jack's eyes sparkle and he crooks his grin my way. "I think we're going to need some sparkling wine."

"Champagne?" I ask.

"Better than champagne," he corrects. Then he looks at the flight attendant. "You know what I want."

"Yes sir." The flight attendant heads to the galley.

I bite on my lip. "Are we celebrating something?"

"You don't need a celebration to drink the bubbly."

"It helps," I say. "I do have something to celebrate."

He puts his hand to his heart. "Don't tell me it's your engagement. You never gave me a chance."

"No, nothing like that," I start, feeling my face heat. "Actually, I just got a book publishing deal and possibly a new job on top of that."

Jack reaches over to shake my hand again and that same spark returns as our skin slides against each other. "A novelist. Wow! Well, congratulations, Hale. I'm impressed."

The flight attendant brings us two small flutes filled with the sparkling, burgundy, bubbly liquid. "Here you go. Specialty of the house today," she says with a knowing wink to Jack. What's that all about? Maybe he flies the friendly skies a little more than necessary?

Jack clinks his glass with mine and says, "Here's to your success and here's to my celebration as well."

I lift a brow. "So you're celebrating closing on your South Beach hotel?"

His smile spreads underneath his short, sandy beard and his eyes darken. "Sure, that too. It's not every day I meet a woman as beautiful and charming as you, though."

Damn. He's good. Why do I need to worry about the leggy flight attendant when he's paying so much attention to me?

"Cheers," I say, basking in the warm compliment.

I stick my nose in the glass to absorb its bouquet and lightness. The bubbles rise expeditiously to the top of the glass, bursting into a fire of taste and celebration. "Wow, this has quite a nose to it. And the color is... spectacular."

He pauses his glass in the air. "Are you a wine aficionado?"

Watching the bubbles dance higher, I nod. "I'm afraid I'm a bit of a wine snob. But so far, this looks impressive. Excellent visual appeal. Frothy and bubbly, just like it should be."

Gazing at me intensely, Jack says, "Well, then. I'd be very interested in knowing what you think about this one. It's a sparkling wine from Napa, California. It's a new blend, using Merlot."

"A sparkling Merlot? Has anyone ever done that before?"

"Not that I know of. It's made in the Champagnoise Methode."

Outstanding. "What a coincidence, I'm working on an article about California sparklings."

Okay, now he's intrigued. "For whom, may I ask?"

"The Wine Observer," I say, loving the way the name of the famed magazine rolls off my tongue.

His eyes lock on mine. "Why don't you go ahead and try it?"

I close my eyes and prepare for the tasting, trying not to be judgmental or expect too much. The full-bodied, sparkly beverage is a symbol to me right now. The start of my new life. The expectations of something better for me. I tip the glass toward my lips and await the magic.

And let's face it... he had me at Merlot.

The minute the cold wine touches my tongue, I'm in heaven. No other way to describe it. My mouth is filled with the full fruit flavor of berries and jam and a tinge of tobacco. The sparkling finish is pure champagne at its best, although any good oenophile knows only France produces true champagne. But this particular California winery knows their stuff. This stunning sparkling wine with its classic Champagne character of delicate, creamy texture and steely finish would be perfect with cheesecake, caviar or salmon pâté. I swallow and the effervescence and tartness of the liquid coats my throat, tantalizing my taste buds.

This wine is very simply a metaphor for my life. Shining. Hopeful. Happy.

"Well?" Jack prompts. "What do you think?"

I take another sip, just to make sure the first one wasn't a fluke and I'm equally captivated by the flavors bursting in my mouth.

"I'm truly impressed," I say. "Most California varietals like this are a poor imitation of their French cousins, but this winery obviously knows what they're doing. Whose is it?"

Jack signals to our blond attendant. "Debra, can you bring us the bottle?"

"Certainly, Mr. Wandrisco," she says.

I feel my mouth fall open at the familiar name.

What?

"Did she say W-W-Wandrisco? As in the Wandrisco Family Wineries of Napa Valley?"

His eyes sparkle. "Oh, you've heard of us?"

Heard of them? They're one of the hottest, up-and-coming vineyards out there on the edge making high-quality blends.

I sit shock-still as Debra, the flight attendant, brings a black and gold bottle of sparkling wine, complete with a colorful label of a wizard waving a wand over the rolling hills of grape vines. Wandrisco Wineries. And the chairman of the company, the great grandson of the man who started the winery in 1886, was none of other than...

"Your name's not Jack."

"Sure it is." He stops and then holds up a finger. "I mean, Jack's my nickname."

"Are you Jonathan Sinclair Wandrisco, III?"

"I'm afraid so. It's an awful mouthful, don't you think? That's why I prefer Jack." His face becomes a bit flushed around his short beard. "Not what you were expecting?"

"I wasn't expecting anything on a flight from Pensacola, Florida. I had no idea who I was sitting with." I should have recognized him from the lackluster piece The Oenophile did on California sparklings two years ago. Jack didn't have the beard back then. And I didn't remember him being so damn sexy.

"So, what do you think of the wine? Honestly. And don't feel threatened that it's my livelihood we're talking about. Spare me no feelings. I'm a big boy and I can take it."

I look at him more closely. Sure, I found him interesting before, but now, I'm even more captivated. Aside from the jeans that fit his form quite flatteringly, his black shirt stretches across a wide, flat chest leading to a slim waist. His nose has an air of aristocracy to its shape, but his eyes are warm and soft and they continue to rove over me approvingly. It makes my skin tingle, just like the champagne-like wine.

I need my heart to quit freaking out and for my breathing to return to some sort of semblance of normalcy. I'm Jack, my fanny. Jonathan Sinclair Wandrisco, III made quite a name for himself in his forty-seven years, but I never knew such a mogul, such a wine enthusiast, master of the grape and creator of unique blends, would make such an impression on me in a matter of moments.

"I think the wine is exquisite. You've gone easy on the alcohol and sugar, allowing the fruit to really burst through on its own," I say truthfully. "It's one of the best sparklings I've ever tasted."

"You're not just saying that because I'm so cute and charming?"

I almost snort laughter. "Well, that helps, but your wine is a bit of magic."

He smiles again. "That's why we have the wizard on the bottle with his magical wand. Well, that and my great-grandmother was into Tarot and used to call her husband the King of Wands. It's a title that's been passed down."

I nearly choke on the wine. King of Wands, just like the cards said. My mother's words come back to me: The King of Wands indicates someone special is an energized and inspiring agent of change for your life. Is this true? Could Jonathan Sinclair "I'm Jack" Wandrisco, III be that energized and inspiring agent of change for my life?

He refills our glasses as the last of the passengers file onto the plane. "Have you ever been to California, Hale?"

"My sister lives there, but I'm afraid I haven't been before," I admit sadly. "I'd love to. I long to see Napa and Sonoma and walk the fields, touch the grapes, and smell the earth and trees."

"Folks, we're about to pull away from the gate," the captain announces.

Debra reappears and reaches for the bottle of wine from Jack. I can see she's intent to flirt with him, but he won't stop smiling at me.

"Is there something wrong?" I can't help but ask with those dark eyes still watching me.

"No, in fact, everything's perfect. I have an idea." Jack adjusts in his seat toward me a bit more. "You know what you should do, Hale?"

"What's that?" I ask over the strumming of my crazy heart.

"When we get to Atlanta, you should change your ticket and come with me."

"Come with you? Where?"

"To California."

My hand quickly covers my mouth to stop the ridiculous guffaw. "You've got to be kidding."

"I couldn't be more serious." He reaches over and his hand covers mine. I feel like I might erupt into a gazillion fragments.

"Jack, I—" What? I have to file for unemployment. I can do that online. I have to try and secure this job at The Wine Observer. I can do that with my champagne article. I have to write the partial of GranAnna's story. I have to... start living life to the fullest.

His eyes search mine. "You're thinking of all the reasons you shouldn't do this. Don't do that. Just come with me. It'll be a blast."

If it's the craziest idea I've ever heard, then why am I considering it?

"This is just because I told you about The Wine Observer, but the truth is, I'm trying to get a job with them by doing a piece on California sparklings."

"Then what do you have to lose?" he asks, his face lighting up. "You come with me to Napa. I'll put you up at the villa on the vineyard—your own private accommodations. You'll get the red carpet treatment. You can tour the facility, ask any question you want, be treated like a VIP. I'll personally see to it."

"You don't have to do that. You know, just to get in the article."

Jack shakes his head. "It's not only that. There's something about you. You're beautiful, intriguing, and you have one hell of a sharp palate. Come on, let me spoil you a little with my vineyard and my part of the world." He leans close, so much that I can feel his warm breath on my face. My insides curl in delight, anticipation, and exhilaration of the moment with this seeming agent of change. "Then, maybe we'll wing it back east to go see my hotel in South Beach. It's always summer in south Florida."

Don't. Think. Just. Act.

"I'll pay my way," I say, not knowing how I'll do it. But this is a business trip to help me write the article for The Wine Observer, not my insane daring side taking control of my common sense.

"I wouldn't hear of it."

I swallow hard. "I'll do a fair article, no matter what... happens." I can't believe I'm going to do this.

His eyes focus on my lips. "Of course you will."

This is madness. And I love it.

Jack smiles devilishly. "I guarantee you'll fall in love."

Somehow, by the intonation of his lazy, sexy voice, I almost believe he's talking about my falling in love with him and not just his vineyard.

Overhead static cuts the tension between us and the captain's voice sounds out again. "Folks, we're next in line for take-off. Flight attendants cross check and prepare for take-off."

Goose bumps cover my arms and my heart soars along with the 727 bolting down the runway. As we launch into the afternoon sky, Jack reaches over and crooks his index finger around mine. It's a whisper of promises to come. Adventures to seek out. Desires to explore.

In the past few days, I've experienced life's four perfects wines, from getting through troubled times, to pairing with that perfect meal, to sharing it with friends and family, and finally to wine being used for celebration. These complex and fruitful vintages sooth and offer a taste sensation, a passport to another time and place. They coat, they quench, they fulfill, and they give hope, just as the labels promise.

I tip the remainder of my glass to the heavens, to GranAnna who must be looking down on me. I fully plan to adhere to the "life's what you make it" edict. I sip the lovely Wandrisco Sparkling Merlot once again, recognizing the fascinating and handsome man next to me and the exciting quest I have ahead with him.

And for the first time in a long time, I'm free.
EPILOGUE

The Wine Observer

Life's Four Perfect Wines

by Hale Martin Wandrisco

I live my life 750 milliliters at a time.

That's the amount of wine in one bottle, by the way, the equivalent to four, precisely poured glasses. I get paid to review, critique, and discuss wine. Wine is my life.

For me, there's nothing better than losing yourself in the complexities and richness of a fine Bordeaux. Delighting in the florals and fruits of a cold Pinot Grigio. Delving into the depth and spices of a flavorful Cabernet Sauvignon. Or sampling the effervescence of a crisp, clean champagne.

While statistics show that two-thirds of Americans don't take alcohol at all in any form or format, wine sales have surpassed those of beer for the first time in the States. Wine lovers have more to choose from on the shelves from French and Italian imports to California's precious valleys to Oregon's hills and upstate New York's fields and even in repurposed tobacco fields in the Carolinas. Wine is becoming a way of life.

People the world over drink wine every day, for every meal. The Greeks invented the process, the Italians encouraged it, and the French perfected it. I do my part by tasting and sampling, appreciating and savoring.

Life can be measured a bottle at a time. In each bottle, you can delve into the depths of its taste, its intricacies of the vintage, and its history of the grapes and vineyards to take a break from all of life's woes, worries, and stupidity. From your worthless nine-to-five job to even a heartbreaking divorce to a lousy social life and daily commute to the guilt of not contacting your family in another state more often.

But all of your stresses can be lost in the simple richness of a good bottle of vino. It's a known fact. Doctors purport the virtues of wine drinking. It's good for your heart, your blood pressure... your soul. Doctors David Whitten and Martin Lipp of the University of California at San Francisco contend an occasional glass of wine is considered "safe" for pregnant women and may actually help the development of the child after birth.

And why not? Wine is about life because it has an existence of its own from the vine to the glass. Life should be appreciated and celebrated with a finely produced bottle of wine.

It can be comforting.

It can be life altering.

It can be an experience like no other. One you'll want to relive because at that moment... you're at peace.

To me, there are four perfect wines:

1) The wine to get you through troubled or challenging times. And I'm not speaking of alcohol as a coping mechanism; rather, the flavors of the grape, the scintillating depth of complex tastes and the smoothness of the sip offer a momentary escape from whatever's ailing you. That lonely night marking a trying event. Losing a job. A good friend moving cross country. A broken heart. Your favorite baseball team bombing out in the World Series. The love and appreciation of the grape can provide a momentary blanket of peace. And when the glass is finished, it's time to move on.

2) The wine you pair with the perfect meal. Whether that be a rich, smooth vanilla-accented Sauvignon Blanc with foie gras or the hearty, earthy Merlot you serve with a thick, grilled steak. Or a crisp Italian Pinot Grigio that goes so well with anything from pan seared salmon to a simple burger and fries. This is the wine that complements and enhances the experience of the meal, making it one to remember. One to savor.

3) The wine you share with good friends or family. The house Chardonnay at your favorite corner restaurant you split over gossip with your girlfriends. The rich burgundy your sister brings home for Thanksgiving dinner. The bottle of South African Jardin you take to a friend's house when you've been asked over for dinner. Or the Canadian ice wine you sip over dessert with a special someone. This wine, no matter what, is bouncy, uplifting, friendly, and blends in with the scenery, a part of whatever activity you're indulging in, never too pretentious or demanding

4) The wine you use to celebrate. No matter the occasion—a wedding, a birth, a promotion, a new house, winning the lottery—wine can be used to mark the occasion and make it more special. Traditionally, this would be champagne or sparkling wine, but it can be anything you choose. A wine that sets the mood and tone for your celebration. Anything that makes you smile. Something that makes you remember that exact moment in time. One that touches your soul and makes you whole.

These are the four wines of life. A part of all of us. Necessary. Needed. Wanted.

While I'm sipping a chilled white or indulging in a snazzy red, I can truly escape into the grape. I think about where it grew, who tended to it, the climate surrounding it. It's all represented in the goblet. As I research the vintage or talk to wine shop owners, I'm there. No train delays or trudging through the snowy New York sidewalks. No worries of paying rent and bills on time. No hashing about how I haven't called my parents in weeks, or talked to my sisters in forever. No thoughts of being alone after losing the love of a lifetime.

For those 750 milliliters... I'm free.

And so are you.

~*~*~

Don't stop now! Get the next book in the A Glamorous Life series, HEAD OVER HIGH HEELS, based in Jack and Hale Wandrisco's South Beach Miami Hotel, featuring two heroines: Irina "Ira" Jeffries, a budding fashion model, and her roommate, Fernanda Lopez, who's out to win the title of Miss United States. Through it all, they just might find a lot more... Available now in print and ebook!

MESSAGE TO THE READER

Thank you so much for purchasing a copy of You Had Me at Merlot and diving into the world of A Glamorous Life. I really hope you enjoyed reading the first book in the series. I just love the character of Hale Martin and all she's going through with her journey to self-discovery. Jordan was fun to write – that sexy, untouchable guy from high school who helps our heroine find her way, even if he isn't her happily ever after. I also love the promise of what's to come with Jack. You know it's bound to be amazing!

As an oenophile (I just love that word!) myself, I hope you enjoyed the wine references and how the various vintages literally have a life of their own and can be so inspirational, as well as delicious. I have plenty of wine recommendations in me, so let me know if you have any questions or need suggestions and I can point you in the right direction.

You Had Me at Merlot is just one of twenty-one (wow!) published books that I have. However, this may be the very first one of mine that you have read. So, please feel free to tell me what you loved about the book... or even what irritated you to the point where you hated it. I'm tough; I can take it. You can drop me an e-mail at marley.h.gibson@gmail.com or through my contact page on my website: www.marleygibson.com.

I'd like to ask a bold favor of you. If you could take just a moment of your time to leave me a review of You Had Me at Merlot—good, bad, or indifferent—I would really appreciate the feedback. I know other readers would too.

Book reviews from readers are the life blood of authors today and they are so hard to get, even from loyal, long-time fans. Readers have the power in this new publishing market to make or break a book. So, if you want to help out, please check out my author page on Amazon.com where you can find all of the books I've written and published.

Thanks again for reading You Had Me at Merlot and for spending a few hours with me. I hope you'll continue with the other books in the A Glamorous Life series.

All the best,

Marley Gibson
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EXCERPT FROM BOOK TWO IN THE SERIES

HEAD OVER HIGH HEELS

A Glamorous Life Novel

PROLOGUE

Paris, France

March

Irina Jeffries groaned as she lifted her eyelids. Opening them was like a goddamned strength training exercise. Ignoring the thundering in her head, she gradually took in her surroundings and then did a double take. She didn't recognize the burgundy drapes, the antique cherry dresser, or the ceiling fan spinning lazily on its axis, tossing shafts of morning light about the room.

"Where the hell am I?" she asked no one. And better yet, what the hell had happened to her?

Panic set in as she placed her hands on the fur comforter and tried to push herself up. Achy tremors shot through her body. Fur comforter? Knotted muscles screamed out like they'd had the workout of their life. She jerked back the sheet and realized she was completely naked in a strange bed, save for a six-strand pearl necklace and a long mink coat.

How did she get here?

Whose room was this?

Her heart rate tripled and pounded out a staccato beat in her ear. She clutched the sides of the expensive pelt and alarms went off in her head. She plunged her fingers into her messy hair and scratched at her pounding scalp.

God...what have I done?

You know exactly what you've done, her brain reprimanded. You snorted cocaine and lost control.

Not only that, she'd done two more lines of the shit after the fashion show, before heading to the after parties. She'd been in a completely altered state, somewhere outside of her own body. Watching. Unable to stop her actions. It had felt fan-freaking-tastic at the time; now she felt like death-on-a-cracker. She needed to wise up and comprehend where she was and what was going on. Most of all, she had to figure out how to fix her life that was spiraling out of control.

She scrambled out of the bed and nearly tripped on her high heels discarded on the floor. She was afraid to call out for fear someone else was in this apartment with her. How could she have been so foolish? She touched herself between her legs, testing to see if she'd gone too far last night. Her fingers skittered over her cleanly-shaved mound and she noted, thankfully, that she didn't have that just-had-sex feeling. How could she be sure, though? The last thing she remembered about last night was drinking expensive French champagne and someone telling her it wouldn't mix well with her buzz.

No shit, Sherlock.

She moved around and rummaged through papers on the nearby desk, looking for an address, a clue, anything to tell her where she was. A French newspaper didn't reveal any more than the date. She desperately clasped the coat around her, covering her bare breasts in case anyone did walk in.

A glance back at the bed caused nausea to roil within her stomach. Had she slept alone? Looking at the extra indentation, she feared the answer was a definitive "no."

"What have I done?" she repeated, squeezing her eyes tightly to keep the mounting tears from falling. But they won out over her resolve and fell, hot and salty, onto her cheeks.

She was glad her father was long dead. He would have been mortally ashamed of her if he could see her now. See what she'd become. She had to figure out where she was, get the hell out of here, and regain some control on her life.

But how?

On the other side of the door, she could make out a muted male voice talking on the phone. She dove down at the end of the bed, horrified that she'd ended up taking a tumble in a stranger's room. This was so not like her! She had to find a way out, but her only exit was through that door.

Her thoughts were muddled, scattered like random, unknown stars in the galaxy. She needed someone to tell her what to do. Someone a hell of a lot smarter than she'd turned out to be.

She saw her purse sitting on a footstool at the end of the bed. At least she'd had enough sense to have her identification and money with her. She dug out her iPhone and scrolled her finger across the screen, impatiently shifting from foot to foot as it searched for service.

Turning to the window, she snatched the blind up as high as it would go. Sunlight flooded the room and a startled pigeon quickly sprung from its resting place on the sill. An accordion sounded out in the distance. Right... she was in Paris for the fashion show. The career that had taken her away from everything she loved and changed her into this... monster.

Gripping her phone, she dialed the first number on her list of Favorites in her contacts. It was the person she trusted above all others. Her best friend. The one who could set her back on a steadier course.

On the third ring, a groggy voice a continent away answered. "Hola?"

Dread overtook her and she could no longer control her raging emotions. "Fernanda! Jesus, God. I'm so sorry to call you—"

"Ira? Chica? It's two a.m. here in Miami. What's wrong?"

"Fernanda," Ira whispered, choking back her sob. She swallowed hard and said the words that summed it all up. "I've really fucked up good this time..."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marley Gibson is the bestselling author of over twenty books in adult contemporary romance fiction, young adult, and non-fiction. She is best known for her GHOST HUNTRESS young adult series, her GLAMOROUS LIFE romance series, and the very powerful, RADIATE, a fictionalized version of the cancer she went through as a teenage cheerleader.

A certified SCUBA diver, a closet gourmet chef, and an avid traveler, Marley lives in America's Most Haunted City, Savannah, with her husband, Patrick Burns of TruTV's Haunting Evidence, and their two rescue kitties, Madison and Boo. She can be found online at www.marleygibson.com. Visit her website to join her newsletter list, to learn about new releases, giveaways, and other exciting things!

