Sweet Breath of Memory

Prologue

June 2008

The last months of Miriam Rosen’s life, the land of her adopted home appeared to grieve. Dressed in somber shades, it seemed poised to receive her. Dust to dust.

Drought-cracked earth sent showers of lacy grit swirling down Main Street to film the windows of McLean’s Department Store. Farmers paced fields of wilted seedlings, caps pushed high on foreheads that folded and relaxed like accordions with each passing cloud. Foreclosure rumors rippled through town, rising and falling with the air pressure and edging ever closer to the Amberley Cooperative Bank. Then one morning everything changed: Miriam closed her eyes and the skies opened.

Many in town believed the gentle rains that followed were her doing—a final benediction in a lifetime of shared blessings. As crops were planted and harvested, neighbors spoke of Miriam’s humble manner and the quiet way she’d lived. They lamented that she’d died childless, all her family lost during that great war that had broken Europe and been the making of America. Now in the twilight of their lives, her closest friends feared that one day soon Miriam would be forgotten. They didn’t know Miriam Rosen would be remembered for generations, that her story would intertwine with those of other women and seek the light like ivy on a ruin wall.

Chapter 1

March 2010

Rising wind ribboned its way through Boston, clearing a pathway for the rain that began to fall as Cate Saunders boarded the bus. She caught the express just before five a.m., grateful for an aisle seat until she saw the split vinyl oozing muddy-colored filling and heard the snores of an old man slumped against the window. With a mental groan, she spread her jacket on the seat and thought of the road ahead.

People said it took courage to start a new life, but Cate knew differently. Leaving Boston wasn’t courageous; it was simply the only option once her home bore a black-margined foreclosure notice. That last day in the house she’d entered as a bride had seemed so unreal. Stripped bare of memories, the empty rooms had held only echoes of the woman she’d been. The life she’d lost. Packing up the last of her belongings, Cate had marveled that sorrow could fold within itself so compactly. Then she’d locked the front door and stood staring at the key while a lone blue jay gave a sharp cry from the empty birdfeeder near the street. Only then had she thought to look one last time in the mailbox. There’d been a slim envelope inside that held the promise of work a hundred miles from all she knew.

Dear Ms. Saunders,

It is with great pleasure that we write to accept you into our program—

Program. More like menial work—what her grandmother would call honest labor. Still, it was the only job offer she’d received, and it would give her the means to rescue her belongings. Cate thought back to those final moments in the storage facility’s caged enclosure. A tunnel of furniture and waist-high boxes had wound its way toward a patch of bare concrete—her darkened past leading to a hard, cold future. Yet one could write the scene another way. She’d packed the boxes so carefully and taped them closed with a determined hand, as if by doing so she could keep the memories they held fresh and unspoiled by time or distance. An Easy-Bake Oven, broken beyond repair; her first teddy bear, bald and missing a leg but still able to coax a smile; a dog-eared copy of Charlotte’s Web her husband had read to her the winter she’d caught the flu; the little trinkets they’d bought in Boothbay Harbor that first summer in Maine. Useless junk to anyone else, but the flotsam of their lives. To get it back she needed a job and a home. Then she could unpack the past.

While rain slapped the roof and the windows teared in response, the bus moved from a shrouded world to one knit through with gray shadows. Gradually, the sky brightened, and colors that had drifted into the margins hurried home—brown to yellow, navy to red. A hulking mass hugging the road became a brick wall, and from muddy blobs yellow forsythias emerged. Darkness always gives way to light just as winter melts into spring. Cate’s husband had believed that—had believed in hope and resurrection. She’d tried to. After his death, she’d sought comfort in the faith that had sustained him, even pouring her heart out to their parish priest who had responded with platitudes about the Divine plan. Her blood had boiled before she cursed herself for a fool. It didn’t matter what the priest believed; all that mattered was that John had faced death without her.

As a sob rose in her throat, Cate caught sight of a lone birch tree silhouetted in the pearly light. Rain beat against its unprotected bark, shredding the creamy surface into long strips that the wind sent swirling. The elements might have twisted the solitary tree into a caricature of itself. Instead, it stood defiant—its own forest. She turned in her seat, catching sight of the silvery shape out the back window before it merged into the fading landscape. When it did, a sigh escaped her and the storm loosened its hold.

The bus exited the highway onto a country road that wound its way along a river just being painted awake. Amberley! the driver called out, making a sharp turn and pulling to a stop. The first to disembark, Cate watched the wrought-iron streetlights lining Main Street wink out one by one as flaming sunlight crested the hills surrounding the western Massachusetts town. The sun’s golden glow fell on rain-dampened streets and curbside planters filled with pale yellow narcissus. She bent to inhale their sweet breath before a slapping sound pulled her gaze skyward to where a flag played tug-of-war with the morning breeze. Iconic small-town America: a place of undefeated dreams and forgiven sins, she captioned the scene. And because it all looked so fresh and unspoiled, for the first time since she’d buried the remains of her husband, Cate allowed a flicker of hope to stir her heart.

* * *

All sorts of customers made their way through the etched glass doors of Vitelli’s Grocery that March morning. A group of old men affectionately referred to as the boys arrived when the ciabatta rolls were still steaming. Gathered around the bakery counter, they sipped espresso, nibbled almond cookies, and debated the merits of this or that athlete. Then commuters trickled in to fill take-out containers from the salad bar and buy ready-made sandwiches of pepperoni and provolone; mozzarella and salami; or grilled eggplant. Farmers with wind-lined faces and muddy boots fingered unlit cigarettes and drank black coffee. Tourists gripping guidebooks that listed Vitelli’s as the only authentic Italian eatery within a hundred miles made their way up and down the aisles, filling their baskets with mascarpone cheese, jarred peppers, farina flour, truffle oil, and wedges of ricotta salata. Stay-at-home moms parked their baby strollers beside the outdoor produce stalls, scrutinizing the basil, arugula, porcini mushrooms, and artichokes as they chatted with their neighbors.

Vitelli’s owner, Sheila Morazzo, had spent a lifetime in retail. Adept at reading body language, she could anticipate both what her customers wanted and how much they’d pay for it. It was rare for her to look up from the oak counter behind which she’d built a catering empire and find herself at a loss. But when the front door closed behind a rail-thin figure in a well-cut suit, Sheila was stumped. It wasn’t the close-cropped blond hair or waif-like face that puzzled her, but a restive quality about the young woman that put Sheila in mind of an animal ready to bolt given the first whiff of danger.

When the coffee grinder roared to life and the scent of espresso filled the air, the woman who held Sheila’s interest relaxed and closed her eyes in appreciation. She paused at the cheese display, her pink-stained lips pressed together before she reached out a slender hand to sample the pungent Gorgonzola. Then she tried Asiago and provolone. Sheila turned away to chat with a customer, and, when her eyes found the stranger again, she was settled at one of the bistro tables that hugged the front windows. Chewing her lower lip in concentration, the woman studied the laminated menu before pulling out her wallet and glancing inside. At the look of relief on her face, Sheila felt a lump rise in her throat. Once I was as lost as she is. But I found myself in this place. Maybe she will, too.

Sheila’s gaze swept the room, and she mentally cataloged all that needed doing. The grocery was crowded, there was a line forming before the register, and the salad bar needed tidying. But first things first. Blowing Coco Chanel bangs from her eyes, Sheila caught a glimpse of the silver that threaded her hair and suppressed a smile. She was beginning to resemble the grocery’s founder, Rosa Vitelli. Rosa had been her mentor and friend, and as much as Sheila tried to mirror the woman’s kindness, she feared her efforts fell short. And now dear Rosa had gone to her reward. Still, perhaps there was a way. Pulling off her apron, she made her way across the flagstone floor. I’m Sheila Morazzo, she said to the stranger. This is my place.

Cate Saunders, the woman responded, her shadowed eyes skimming the room. I didn’t expect to find a gourmet grocery in a small town like Amberley. And you’ve got a café, too.

My customers insisted, Sheila confided, taking the seat opposite and tapping the marble-topped table. Seems that drinking cappuccino at the counter may be good enough for Italians, but Amberley folks prefer to sit and relax over their coffee. And dessert. We’ve got a full bakery—breads, pastry, cookies, and cakes, she said proudly. Plus there’s a deli and take-out counter with lunch specials every day. Today’s are a spinach and sun-dried-tomato calzone with a green salad, or Sicilian meatballs with raisins and pine nuts. Over saffron rice, of course. After a beat, a look of embarrassment stole across her face. Sorry. I’m always selling; it’s an occupational hazard of the self-employed. So tell me, what brings you to Amberley?

Work. I’ll be training as a home care aide.

Sheila exhaled loudly. Caregiving is tough.

Cate stiffened, as though sensing in Sheila’s sympathetic voice a tinge of disbelief. I can do it!

Oh, I’m sure you can, Sheila said even as she tried to imagine the fragile-looking beauty bathing patients and emptying bedpans. Cate’s soft hands weren’t those of a manual laborer, yet she’d clearly fallen on hard times, for the job she’d taken paid barely nine dollars an hour. She couldn’t live on such a salary—not without help.

Helen Doyle hired me, Cate said, a note of contrition in her voice, as though she regretted how defensive she’d been earlier. She mentioned Vitelli’s; that’s why I stopped by. Recounting her meeting at the hospital earlier that morning, Cate explained how the nurse had put her at ease.

Sheila nodded in understanding. People trusted Helen Doyle’s gentle strength, born of all those years she’d spent caring for her mother before nursing became her vocation. When asked why she chose the career she did, Helen had once said that becoming a healer was a natural choice for someone whose life had been shredded by illness. Was that Cate’s story? Did she hope to heal some internal wound through the work she’d chosen? Helen and I grew up together, Sheila explained. Her friendship got me through some tough times. I’ve sweet memories of her watching my back.

Sweet memories, Cate repeated in a flat voice. Yet even the sweetest memories can bring pain. Why is that? And why do some memories seem to steal away into the night, while others push forward at the oddest moments? But only for a moment and then they fade. She raked a hand through her cap of hair. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even know you. An embarrassed flush stained her cheeks. I didn’t really sleep last night. I’m not myself.

No need to apologize, Sheila said, casting about for a way to change the subject. So you like to read? She gestured toward the bag of books on the floor.

Yes, Cate replied, the tension in her eyes lifting. Novels mostly.

Cookbooks are my weakness, Sheila confessed, leaning forward conspiratorially. I’ve dozens of them. I love finding old ones at yard sales. I always turn to the stained pages first. Those are the most interesting.

Cate nodded. The more dog-eared and beat up, the more a book was cherished. Those in good condition may fetch more money, but they weren’t valued by their owners—not in the ways that matter. She shrugged her thin shoulders. Then again, there’s nothing like the smell of new books. Or that soft creak when you open them for the first time; it’s like holding a newborn.

When Cate sighed wistfully, Sheila teased, That’s the enraptured look my husband gets when I make lasagna.

Books are friends that never let you down.

Unlike people, you mean?

And just like that, the veil that had shifted momentarily fell back into place, and the sorrowful air that had begun to dissipate as they spoke wrapped itself around Cate once again. At the uncomfortable silence that followed, Sheila motioned to her assistant and ordered pastry, explaining, It’s St. Joseph’s Day, so we’ve éclairs with custard. That’s the tradition.

No, no thank you. I’m just having coffee, Cate protested.

On the house, Sheila said. Call it a business expense.

Business? Cate asked, her face guarded.

Yes. I’m looking to rent out an apartment upstairs, and I’m guessing you need a place to stay. It was Miriam’s— A familiar ache gripped Sheila’s heart, and she rushed on. It’s nothing fancy, mind you; just a one-bedroom.

What’s the rent?

Rent, Sheila repeated, buying time while she turned the matter over in her mind. To tell you the truth, I haven’t given it much thought. Umm, three hundred maybe?

Cate’s sky-blue eyes lost their glint of excitement. Oh. I can’t afford three hundred a week. Thanks anyway.

No, no, not a week. A month. The rent’s three hundred a month. And it includes utilities.

Cate frowned. That’s not very much. What’s wrong with the place? Are there bugs or something?

Sheila bristled. No! Nothing like that! The rent’s low because I hoped you could help me out a bit around here.

Help how?

Well, I don’t live on the premises, so I need someone on site. Oh, there’s a security system, but it’s not the same thing.

Cate cocked her head, considering. I’m a stranger. Why rent to me, allow me to look after your business even in a minor way? Why trust me?

I’m a good judge of character. As is Helen. And I think you can turn your hand to whatever’s needed. That you’d be willing to. Sheila hesitated before adding, You look as though life’s dealt you a lousy hand, but you’re playing it anyway. You’re still in the game.

Fair enough, Cate conceded, and close to the mark. Then she pulled out her wallet and held it open. Three hundred and forty-two dollars. She swallowed hard as though the words had a bitter taste. That’s all I’ve got. Enough for coffee as a treat now to celebrate my new job, but not enough for a deposit. I don’t get paid for a week, and they won’t give me an advance on my salary— I already asked. So I can’t rent anything now. I’ve figured out that if I stay in a B&B until I get my first paycheck, I’ll be okay. Maybe after that—

Oh no! There’s no need to give me a deposit! Sheila cried. When Cate opened her mouth, doubtless to protest that she didn’t want charity, Sheila rushed on. Normally I would ask for one. But if Helen recommends you—and I’m betting she will—it’s not necessary.

Indecision warred with relief on Cate’s face. Finally, she said, Oh—okay. Then, as if to seal the deal, she sampled the éclair that had sat before her while they talked. Her eyes closed in appreciation and Sheila felt a surge of warmth, for she’d learned long ago that life’s challenges are best confronted on a full stomach. This is fantastic, Cate enthused, wiping her plate clean of all but crumbs. As good as anything you’d find in Boston or New York. When Sheila glared at her, she amended, Better. It’s better, actually.

Nice save. And if you think that’s good, wait until you try my tiramisu.

By the time the lease was signed a few hours later, Sheila had outfitted the apartment with a basket of food, linens, towels, and some mismatched furniture. She left her new tenant to settle in and entrusted the running of the grocery to her assistant. Then she hurried across the street, a plan forming in her mind.

* * *

Cate Saunders’s blue eyes took on a gray hue when she was troubled, but on that first day in Amberley, they were the color of a placid sea. By gradual degrees, her new life was taking shape, for in the course of only a few hours she’d enrolled in the hospital’s home care aide program and found a place to live. Standing in the center of her apartment, she drank in the silence and wondered who else had called the four small rooms home. She made a mental note to ask her landlady. Or perhaps not, for her new home was a clean page on which she would write—what? That she didn’t know was to be expected after all that had happened. That on many days she didn’t care what the future held was harder to explain, especially to well-meaning strangers. When Cate had revealed that she couldn’t provide an emergency contact for she hadn’t any family, Sheila’s brow had creased with concern. In the pregnant silence that followed, the rooms that had welcomed Cate with warmth and light seemed suddenly sepia-toned. Then it was as though she’d heard John’s voice say that the apartment was a charming place to rebuild her life. Rebuild herself.

Cate’s gaze traveled over the mullioned windows, paneled walls, and pumpkin-pine floors, mentally redecorating. There was just enough space in a corner of the living room for the writing desk John had made; her grandmother’s rocking chair could go near the front windows; and the hooked rug would brighten up the floor before the wood-burning fireplace.

She walked into the kitchen where vintage metal cabinets held a few groceries and a set of dishes Sheila had told her to consider her own. The small bathroom beyond boasted a stained-glass window and was dominated by a claw-footed bathtub that looked too inviting to resist. In the bedroom, a window seat looked down on a well-ordered garden sprinkled with terra-cotta pots of spring bulbs that flared with color. Gravel pathways divided raised beds where neat rows of seedlings were just beginning to poke their way through the chocolate-brown soil. Birds chirped and bees hummed as a marmalade cat made its way along a stone wall before pausing to stretch in the afternoon sun.

The scene’s balance of light and shadow, sound and stillness, was so iconic that it seemed plucked from a novel. Only on the written page could life be so idyllic, its rough edges smoothed and tapered. Or so it had always seemed to Cate. Books are safe, a voice in her mind whispered, the one she’d heeded before love had found her. Before John had found her.

Orphaned at a young age and raised by a grandmother plagued with health problems, Cate had been a lonely little girl who’d found escape in books. Setting her solitary childhood games against a backdrop of gothic landscapes, medieval bedchambers, and Georgian drawing rooms, she’d peopled her imagination with the heroines of romance novels and mysteries. Luckily, her grandmother had shared Cate’s passion for literature. And memoir. Convinced that Life is in the telling, she’d encouraged Cate to keep a journal. And tell stories.

The morning she turned ten, Cate had run downstairs in search of her favorite lemon cake only to find an old typewriter sitting on the kitchen table. Beneath a pink satin bow tied around its carriage, there’d been a single sheet of paper with the words FOR NOVEL WRITING typed in capital letters. Determined that the characters in her mind find their way onto the page, Cate had pounded away on the Remington’s black and gold keys, breathing life into strong-willed heroines who fought off rogues and found everlasting love amid the drafty castles and windswept moors of Cornwall and Scotland.

Although in time the typewriter found its way into a closet, Cate’s dream of becoming a writer had survived childhood. But not John’s death. Since losing him, she’d consigned her literary hopes to the midden heap. Yet words still sought her out like hungry children, leapfrogging over each other to arrange themselves into a tempting turn of phrase. Every now and then, she surrendered to their pull and dipped into the unsullied mind of the child she’d been. She did so that first afternoon in Amberley. Standing in her new home, Cate found herself thinking that old buildings speak a language all their own. They don’t surrender their secrets easily, so care must be taken when translating the subtle creaks of an empty room into something that could fill a page. Surely, the give-and-take between the rising wind and the window frame was a conversation of sorts. One had only to listen with an open heart to hear the old timbers stretch and sigh.

A change in the light caught her eye, and she looked over to see a shaft of sunlight strike a bookcase shoehorned into the corner of her bedroom. There were a few paperbacks on the top shelf. She wondered how they could have been left behind by the previous tenant; it was akin to forgetting one’s children! Just the sight of those dusty, dog-eared covers made her heart beat faster in anticipation. Reaching out with eager hands for the forgotten books, she read the titles: The Woman in White, Moll Flanders, and Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Tragic women all, but had circumstance destroyed their lives or had it been the choices they’d made? A writer might argue both sides, but a woman who’d sent the man she loved to his death knew the answer.

Chapter 2

Tucked within a fold of land framed by the Connecticut River on one side and a ring of mountains on the other, Amberley is a speck on the map of Western Massachusetts. It suffers by comparison with its neighbors, dwarfed in size by the city of Springfield; in history by Old Deerfield; and in prestige by Emily Dickinson’s home of Amherst. While the surrounding communities marched toward modernity, Amberley’s more measured pace hadn’t attracted the attention of the railroad, the philanthropy of Andrew Carnegie, or the greed of developers. As a result, no deserted mills crowd the riverbank, the downtown architecture is an appealing mix of Federal, Italianate, and Gothic Revival, and the same families have farmed the surrounding land for generations.

Sheila Morazzo grew up in Amberley, riding her bicycle along its streets and playing hopscotch on its sidewalks. She made her First Holy Communion in the old stone church on Main Street, bought her prom dress in McLean’s Department Store, and had her first kiss beneath the oak tree in the town common. Memories of the Amberley Diner wove their way through her childhood for it had been a popular choice for first dates, and the place to gather after Mass, graduations, and funerals. The iconic eatery had stood on Main Street and at the heart of the town since being rolled off a railroad boxcar in 1930. Although the building now rested on a modern, cement foundation, the words B

OOTH

S

ERVICE

were still splashed across its ceramic front panels in the Gothic font of a bygone era.

The diner served hearty, simple food, so the fact that it stood across the street from Vitelli’s Grocery didn’t trouble Sheila or affect her bottom line. Not that the same customers didn’t frequent both eateries, for they did. It was simply a question of whether one wanted to be comforted or pampered. Eating in the diner brought to mind thoughts of home and childhood, while Vitelli’s gourmet food made one dream of a future filled with possibility. Except for Italians, for whom Vitelli’s classic favorites were a slice of home. The fact that there were so few Italians in town had troubled Sheila when she’d bought the business, but then she’d realized that, when it came to good food, there was a bit of the Old Country in every American. After all, she wasn’t Italian—a fact her customers never let her forget. Dark haired, with the fair complexion and dusting of freckles so characteristically Irish, Sheila might have married a boy from Roma, but she would always be the granddaughter of Thomas Mitchell from County Cork.

We can never outrun our past, Sheila thought. It chases us until we turn and face it, and even then it shadows us all our days. She suspected her newest tenant was struggling with something from her past, and although Cate Saunders would eventually find her way forward, she’d get there faster with a bit of help.

Sliding into a corner booth at the diner, Sheila watched waitresses circle the room with laden plates and steaming carafes of coffee. Customers jumped up to greet newcomers, feed quarters into the jukebox in the corner, or help themselves to newspapers piled on a side table. Her eyes followed one waitress in particular who was neither the quickest of the bunch nor the most vocal. Yet something in her calm control drew the eye, making one think of a queen bee. Pretty in a no-nonsense way that wasn’t off-putting, Gaby French was the Amberley Diner’s owner. That she also waited tables spoke to her hands-on management style. A natural at her job, Gaby had a knack for knowing what people needed before they did. It was an admirable trait in a waitress, but annoying as hell in a friend.

The door swung open to admit a tall brunette whose shoulder-length curls were tied back with a blue-and-white bandana. The defiant look on her chiseled face put one in mind of a ship’s figurehead turned in challenge to the rising wind. Well-muscled and buxom, the newcomer scanned the crowded room confidently. With a quick nod of greeting, she strode to Sheila’s booth and slid her five-foot-ten-inch frame into the seat opposite her dear friend.

You smell like gasoline, Sheila observed, wrinkling her nose.

MaryLou Rice flipped up the collar of her oil-stained overalls as if to say, What do you expect? I work in a garage! Of course, she did more than work there; MaryLou owned Lou’s Auto Body, so named because when she’d moved to town the good folks of Amberley hadn’t trusted a female mechanic. In time, MaryLou won them over with a combination of skill and grit, and built a successful business by rebuilding cars, lawnmowers, and tractors. I was doing a tune-up when you called. Dropped everything to come here like you asked. She held her hands up for inspection. They’re clean, but I didn’t change my clothes. If you’d like me to leave—

Oh, forget it, Sheila snapped, reaching for the menu MaryLou gripped with the strength of one who routinely shifted engines about. Let me see that, Sheila demanded, tugging harder.

Why? Gaby’s just going to bring us what she thinks we should eat. Slapping the menu down on the table, MaryLou asked, So who’s the newbie?

Her name’s Cate Saunders, Sheila said, still eyeing the menu for she’d heard that today’s special was a meatball hero and she wanted to know how Gaby had priced it.

MaryLou’s voice cut across her thoughts. What’s she like?

Stunning—in a peaches and cream, ‘girl next door’ sort of way. Looks like a strong wind would knock her down, but she’s going to work at the hospital with Helen as a home care aide. That’s tough work. I’ve rented her Miriam’s apartment. Cate only brought two suitcases, so either she hasn’t got much or she’s not sure she’s staying. Sheila lowered her voice. The girl needs help. She looks—I don’t know, brokenhearted and ashamed. Maybe it’s something to do with a man. She’s wearing a wedding ring, but hasn’t mentioned a husband. At that, the diner’s owner walked up, platters in hand.

MaryLou growled. We haven’t ordered, Gaby.

No need. After passing a BLT to Sheila, the waitress placed a salad before MaryLou.

How am I supposed to work the rest of the day on this? MaryLou demanded, flicking a hand toward the mountain of green.

Resting a hip against the table, Gaby French fixed her closest friend with a look. "You need vegetables, Lulu. You won’t eat them unless I make you. And there’s broiled chicken there for protein—high-quality protein, not the fried stuff you favor. What you don’t need are empty carbs. White bread and potatoes will just make you feel sluggish."

Why does Sheila get bacon? MaryLou all but whined.

Because she eats healthy all the time, so I like to spoil her when she comes in here. Waving to acknowledge a customer’s call, Gaby moved away.

After a beat, MaryLou asked, Did you bring them? Nodding, Sheila passed a paper bag across the table. Pulling out a buttermilk roll, MaryLou speared a piece of chicken and began to eat. So, she asked between bites, if you want to know more about this Cate, why not ask Helen?

I tried, but she’s not talking. Confidentiality of employment records and all that, Sheila grumbled. She’d phoned her old friend earlier; all Helen had said was that Cate had moved to Amberley because she wanted to make a change in her life. Her last name’s Irish, Sheila mumbled. Saunders. So she’s probably Catholic. Maybe she’d talk to Father Sullivan.

What about a shrink? MaryLou suggested, reaching for a piece of Sheila’s bacon.

Sheila shook her head. Vincent says the ones in town are drug-pushing morons.

Well, what about her seeing Vincent? Maybe her problem’s medical.

No, Sheila pleaded. Don’t you dare tell my husband about Cate! He’ll just say that it’s none of our business and we should leave the poor girl alone.

MaryLou pushed her plate away with a satisfied sigh. "Maybe it is none of our business. After a moment of silence, the two friends looked at each other and laughed. It’s not Vincent’s fault; men just don’t understand that problems won’t fix themselves, MaryLou observed. If the world was left in their hands—hang on, it is mostly in their hands. Then she sipped her coffee thoughtfully. Seriously, though, maybe this girl’s life is none of your business."

Oh, you don’t believe that; you’re just saying it to get my Irish up! Sheila groaned. Why are you so contrary today, anyway?

MaryLou frowned. I’m not! She wiped at a spot on her surprisingly clean overalls. Okay, maybe I am. Her voice dropped. Ran into my ex this morning.

Were you driving? Sheila asked sweetly.

Very funny, MaryLou grumbled before her lips twitched. Now that is a nice image. Harry sprawled on the street, that well-pressed suit of his splattered with blood. The twitching lips spread into a grin. Thanks, Sheila; I needed that.

Anytime.

A redheaded waitress approached balancing a tray on her shoulder. In one deft motion, she swung it down to hip height and slid slices of carrot cake before each woman with a murmured Compliments of Gaby.

Sheila eyed her piece before sampling the cream-cheese frosting. This is heaven. Very light. I wonder what Gaby cuts it with—plain yogurt, maybe? She held the plate up and peered at the snow-white glaze.

MaryLou rolled her eyes. Can’t you just eat something without analyzing it? She dug a fork into her own slice. Wonderful. Just enough spice, not too much sugar, juicy raisins.

You’re doing the same thing!

No, I’m commenting on the taste sensations, not trying to make out the recipe.

Semantics, Sheila whined.

And so we come back to the starting line, MaryLou said, pulling out her compact and lipstick. Helping this Cate is one thing; interfering another. I should know: People have been trying to set me straight all my life. That’s why I hate pain-in-the-ass do-gooders.

Point taken, Sheila acknowledged, reluctantly returning the plate to the table and abandoning her plans to re-create the cake that was rapidly disappearing under her fork’s assault. But as Gaby is fond of saying, when the women of Amberley put their heads together, great things happen.

Sisterhood’s not just in the blood, MaryLou finished. Fixing Sheila with a look, she probed, You’ve got a special feeling about this girl, don’t you?

Sheila’s lips compressed into a hard line. Yeah, but it’s not something I can put into words.

Why not send her Gaby’s way? MaryLou glanced toward the busy waitress, voicing the thought in Sheila’s mind. You know she can read anybody.

And you know what it costs her, Sheila pointed out. Her mind skipped back in