Sugar And Spice

Sugar and Spice

Books by Fern Michaels

ABOUT FACE * ANNNIE’S RAINBOW * CELEBRATION

CHARMING LILY * DEAR EMILY * FINDERS KEEPERS

THE FUTURE SCROLLS * THE GUEST LIST * KENTUCKY

HEAT * KENTUCKY RICH * KENTUCKY SUNRISE

LISTEN TO YOUR HEART * PLAIN JANE * SARA’S

SONG * VEGAS HEAT * VEGAS RICH * VEGAS SUNRISE

WHAT YOU WISH FOR * WEEKEND WARRIORS

WHITEFIRE * WISH LIST * YESTERDAY * VENDETTA

PAYBACK * PICTURE PERFECT * THE JURY

SWEET REVENGE

Books by Beverly Barton

AFTER DARK * EVERY MOVE SHE MAKES * WHAT

SHE DOESN’T KNOW * THE FIFTH VICTIM * THE LAST TO

DIE * AS GOOD AS DEAD * KILLING HER SOFTLY

CLOSE ENOUGH TO KILL

Books by Joanne Fluke

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MURDER * STRAWBERRY

SHORTCAKE MURDER * BLUEBERRY MUFFIN MURDER

LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER * FUDGE CUPCAKE MURDER * SUGAR COOKIE MURDER * PEACH COBBLER

MURDER * CHERRY CHEESECAKE MURDER

Books by Shirley Jump

THE BACHELOR PREFERRED PASTRY * THE DEVIL

SERVED TORTELLINI * THE ANGEL CRAVED LOBSTER

THE BRIDE WORE CHOCOLATE

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Sugar and Spice

FERN MICHAELS

BEVERLY BARTON

JOANNE FLUKE

SHIRLEY JUMP

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

Contents

The Christmas Stocking

FERN MICHAELS

Ghost of Christmas Past

BEVERLY BARTON

Twelve Desserts of Christmas

JOANNE FLUKE

Twelve Days

SHIRLEY JUMP

The Christmas Stocking

FERN MICHAELS

Chapter One

Los Angeles, California

October, Two Months Before Christmas

It was a beautiful five-story building with clean lines, shimmering plate glass and a bright yellow door. A tribute to the architect who designed the building. An elongated piece of driftwood attached to the right of the door was painted the same shade of yellow. The plaque said it was the Sara Moss Building. The overall opinion of visitors and clients was that the building was impressive, which was the architect and owner’s intent.

The young sun was just creeping over the horizon when Gus Moss tucked his briefcase between his knees as he fished in his jeans pocket for the key that would unlock his pride and joy, the Sara Moss Building named after his mother.

Inside, Gus turned off the alarm, flicked light switches. He took a moment to look around the lobby of the building he’d designed when he was still in school studying architecture. He thanked God every day that he’d been able to show his mother the blueprints before she’d passed on. It was his mother’s idea to have live bamboo plants to match the green marble floors. It was also her idea to paint clouds and a blue sky on the ceiling. The fieldstone wall behind the shimmering mahogany desk was a must, she’d said. Fieldstones he’d brought to California from Fairfax, Virginia, in a U-Haul truck. There was nothing he could deny his mother because he was who he was because of her.

There was only one picture hanging in the lobby: Sara Moss standing next to a sixty-foot blue spruce Christmas tree that she had his father plant the day he was born. That tree was gone now from the Moss Christmas Tree Farm, donated to the White House by his father the same year his mother died. Over his objections.

He’d gone to Washington, DC, that year and took the Christmas tour so he could see the tree. He’d been so choked up he could hardly get the words out to one of the security detail. Can you break off a branch from the back of the tree and give it to me? For one wild moment he thought he was going to be arrested until he explained to the agent why he wanted the branch. He’d had to wait over two hours for one of the gardeners to arrive with a pair of clippers. He’d had a hard time not bawling his eyes out that day but he’d returned to California with the branch. Pressed between two panes of glass, it now hung on the wall over his drafting table. He looked at it a hundred times a day and it meant more to him than anything else in the world.

Gus stared at the picture of his mother the way he did every morning. As always, his eyes grew moist and his heart took on an extra beat. He offered up a snappy salute the way he’d always done when she was right about something and he was wrong. At this point in his daily routine, he never dawdled. He sprinted across the lobby to the elevator and rode to the fifth floor where he had his office so he could settle in for the day.

As always, Gus made his own coffee. While he waited for it to drip into the pot, he checked his appointment book. A light day. He really liked Fridays because they led to the weekend. Still, it was the middle of October and business tended to slow down as a rule. He wished it was otherwise, because the approaching holiday season always left him depressed. He told himself not to complain; he had more business than he could handle the other ten months of the year. When you were named Architect of the Year five years running and Architect to the Stars six years running, there was no reason to complain. His burgeoning bank balance said his net worth was right up there with some of Hollywood’s finest stars. He wasn’t about money, though. He was about creating something from nothing, letting his imagination run the gamut. Architectural Digest had featured eleven of his projects to date and called him a Wonder Boy.

Everyone in the business who knew or knew of Gus Moss were aware that when the new owners moved into one of his custom-designed houses, Gus himself showed up wearing a tool belt and carrying a Marty Bell painting, his gift to the new owners, that he hung himself.

Gus loved this time of the day, when he was all alone with his coffee. It was when he let his mind go into overdrive before the hustle and bustle of the day began. He ran a loose ship, allowing his staff to dress in jeans and casual clothing, allowing them to play music in their offices, taking long breaks. He had only three hard and fast rules. Think outside the box, never screw over a client, and produce to your capability. His staff of fourteen full-time architects, four part-timers, and an office pool of seven had been with him from day one. It worked for all concerned.

As Gus sipped his coffee he let his mind wander. Should he go to Tahoe for some skiing over Christmas? Or should he head for the islands for some sun and sand and a little snorkeling? And who would he ask to accompany him? Sue with the tantalizing lips, Carol with the bedroom eyes or Pam the gymnast with the incredible legs? None of the above. He was sick of false eyelashes, theatrical makeup, spiky hair, painted on dresses and shoes with heels like weapons. He needed to find a nice young woman he could communicate with, someone who understood what he was all about. Not someone who was interested in his money and had her own agenda. At thirty-seven, it was time to start thinking about settling down. Time to give up takeout for homecooked. Time to get a dog. Time to think about having kids. Time to think about putting down roots somewhere, not necessarily here in California, land of milk and honey, orange blossoms and beautiful women.

Gus settled the baseball cap on his head, the cap he was never without. Sometimes he even slept with it on. It was battered and worn, tattered and torn but he’d give up all he held dear before he’d part with his cap that said Moss Farms on the crown. He settled it more firmly on his head as he heard his staff coming in and getting ready for the day.

Gus finished his coffee, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. He had a 7:15 appointment with the Fire Marshall on a project he was winding up. He high-fived several members of his staff as he took the steps to the lobby where he stopped long enough to give Sophie, the Moss Firm’s official receptionist/greeter, a smooch. How’s it going this morning, Sophie?

Just fine, Gus. When will you be back?

By nine-thirty. If anything earth shattering happens, call me on the cell. See ya.

As good as his word, Gus strode back into the lobby at 9:27. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an elderly couple sitting on a padded bench between two of the bamboo trees. Sophia caught his eye and motioned him to her desk. That couple is here to see you. They said they’re from your hometown. Their names are Peggy and Ham Bledsoe. They don’t have an appointment. Can you see them? They’re here visiting a daughter who just graced them with their first grandchild.

Gus grinned. I see you got all the details. Peggy and Ham here in California! I can’t believe it.

We’re of an age, darling boy. Go over there and make nice to your hometown guests.

Gus’s guts started to churn. Visiting with Peggy and Ham meant taking a trip down Memory Lane and that was one place he didn’t want to travel. He pasted a smile on his face as he walked over to the patiently waiting couple. He hugged Peggy and shook Ham’s hand. Good to see you, sir. Miss Peggy, you haven’t changed a bit. Sophie tells me you’re grandparents now. Congratulations! Come on up to the office and have some coffee. I think we even have sticky buns. We always have sticky buns on Friday.

This is a mighty fine looking building, Augustus. The lady at the desk said it’s all yours. She said you designed it.

I did, Gus mumbled.

Mercy me. I wish your momma could have seen this. She was always so proud of you, Augustus.

They were in the elevator before Gus responded. Mom saw the blueprints. She suggested the fieldstone and the bamboo trees. Did you see the picture?

We did, and it is a fine picture of Sara. We tell everyone that tree ended up in the White House, Ham said.

Gus was saved from a reply when the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open. Peggy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. This is so…so grand, Augustus.

Gus decided he didn’t feel like making coffee. He was too nervous around this couple from home. He knew in his gut they were going to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. He pressed a button on the console. Hillary, will you bring some coffee into my office. I have two guests. Some sticky buns, too, okay?

Gus whirled around, hoping to delay the moment they were going to tell him why they were really here. So, what do you think of California?

Well, we don’t fit in here, that’s for sure, Peggy said.

We’re simple people, Augustus. All those fancy cars that cost more than our farm brings in over ten years. The stores with all those expensive clothes where they hide the price tags made my eyes water. Our son-in-law took us to Ro-day-o Drive. That was the name of it, wasn’t it, Ham? Hollywood people, she sniffed. I didn’t see a mall or a Wal-Mart anywhere.

Will you just please get to it already. Gus licked at his dry lips, trying to think of something to say. I just finished up a house for Tammy Bevins. She’s a movie star. Would you like to see a picture of the house?

No, the Bledsoes said in unison. Gus blinked and then blinked again just as Hillary carried in a tray with an elegant coffeepot with fragile cups and saucers. Linen napkins and a crystal plate of sticky buns were set in the middle of a long conference table.

Will there be anything else, Gus?

Nope, this is fine. Thanks, Hillary. Hey, how’s the new boyfriend?

He’s a hottie. Hillary giggled. I think I’ll keep this one. Gus laughed.

Peggy Bledsoe pursed her lips in disapproval. Shouldn’t that youngster be calling you Mr. Moss?

Nah. We’re pretty informal around here, Miss Peggy. Sit down. Cream, sugar?

Black, the Bledsoes said in unison.

Gus poured. He filled his own cup and then loaded it with cream and four sugars. I hate coffee with cream and sugar. What’s wrong with me? He leaned back in his chair and waited.

We stopped by the farm before we left, Augustus. Your father isn’t doing well. I don’t mean healthwise. The farm has gone downhill. Business is way off. Last year he sold only two hundred Christmas trees. This year if he sells half that he’ll be lucky.

Gus was stunned. Moss Farms was known far and wide for their Christmas trees. People came from miles around to tag a tree in September. Normally his father sold thirty to fifty thousand trees from November first to Christmas Eve. He said so.

That was before your momma died and you lit out, Augustus. Sara was the heart and soul of that farm. She did the cider, she did the gingerbread, she managed the gift store. She did the decorations, she made the bows for the wreathes and the grave blankets. She even worked the chain saw when she had to. All that changed when she passed on. You should have gone back, Augustus. That farm is falling down around your father’s feet. The fields need to be thinned out, Peggy snapped.

Gus snapped back before he could bite his tongue. I did go back. Pop didn’t want me there. Told me to get out. I call three times a week—the answering machine comes on. He never calls me back. I send money home and he sends it back.

Ham drained the coffee in his cup. "I don’t think he’s going to sell any trees this year. The Senior Citizens group rented the old Coleman property and are setting up shop. Tillie Baran is spearheading the effort. They ordered their trees from North Carolina. They’re going all out to raise money to refurbish the Seniors’ Building. Just last week at our monthly meeting, Tillie said her daughter is coming home from Philadelphia to take over the project. Little Amy has her own publicity company. That means she’s the boss. When you’re the boss, you can take off and help your momma," he said pointedly.

You wouldn’t believe how good that little girl is to her momma, Peggy said with just a trace of frost in her voice.

Gus reached for a sticky bun he didn’t want. And you think I should go home to help my father and save the day, is that it? Like little Amy Baran is doing.

The thought occurred to us, Peggy said. I think your momma would want you to do that.

Before Gus could think of something to say, Ham jumped into the conversation. Tillie went out to the farm and asked your father if he would sell her the trees at cost if he wasn’t going to promote his own farm. It would have been a good way to thin out the fields but he turned her down flat. So now the Seniors have to pay a trucking company to bring the trees from North Carolina.

Gus searched for something to say. Maybe the farm is getting too much for him. It’s possible he wants to retire. It sounds to me like he’s had enough of the Christmas tree business.

Moss Farms is his life, Augustus. Your father can at times be a cantankerous curmudgeon, Peggy said. He’s all alone. With no business, he laid everyone off.

Gus felt sick to his stomach. He thought about his teenage years on the farm when his father worked him like a dog. That was when his father thought he was going to stick around and run the farm, but his mother was determined he go to college to make something of himself. How he’d hated the fights, the harsh words he heard late at night. All he wanted was to get away from the farm, to do what he was meant to do—create, design and see his creative designs brought to life. All he’d done was follow his mother’s dream for him. He wanted to explain to the Bledsoes that he wasn’t an uncaring son. He’d done his best where his father was concerned but his best wasn’t good enough. He reached for another sticky bun he didn’t want. He hated the sugary sweet coffee. He wished he could brush his teeth. Even as he decided that silence was a virtue at this point in time, he asked, More coffee?

No, thank you, Augustus. We have to be going. It was nice to see you again.

Yes, it was. Nice to see you too. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ll take you down to the lobby.

"What are all those movie stars really like?" Ham asked.

Just like you and me. Underneath all the glitz and glamour, they’re real people. The glitz and glamour is what they do to earn a living. When they go home at night, they’re just like you and Miss Peggy.

Peggy snorted to show what she thought of that statement.

The ride down to the lobby was made in silence. Gus stepped aside to allow the couple to walk out first. Have a safe trip home. It was nice seeing you. Have a nice holiday. He extended his hand to Ham who ignored it. Gus shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His gut was still churning.

Just how rich are you, Augustus? Peggy asked.

Stunned, Gus thought about the question and how his mother would respond. She’d say if a person had the guts to ask such a personal question, they deserved whatever answer you wanted to give. Filthy rich! he said cheerfully.

Peggy snorted again. Ham held the door open for his wife before he scurried through. Neither one looked back. Gus wondered how all this was going to play out back home when the Bledsoes returned.

Gus took the stairs to the fifth floor, his head buzzing. When he reached the fifth-floor landing, he sat down on the top step and dropped his head into his hands. For one wild moment he thought he could smell pine resin on his hands. He fought with his breathing to calm down. When his heartbeat returned to normal he let his thoughts drift. He thought about his dog Buster, his faithful companion during his childhood. He thought about Bixby, his buddy all through high school and college. He wondered where Bix was these days. He made a mental note to go on the Net to look him up.

Gus felt his eyes fill with moisture. The Bledsoes were right—his father was a hard man. A cranky curmudgeon pretty well nailed it. Because he’d been big for his age, six foot three at the age of twelve, his father thought him capable of a man’s work—to his mother’s chagrin. No amount of interference on her behalf could change his father’s mind. He’d worked him from sunup until sundown. He’d get sick late at night and his mother would always be there promising his life would get better. And it did when he went off to college.

Gus’s head jerked upright as he wondered if he hated his father or if he just didn’t like him. More likely the latter, since he didn’t hate anyone. He simply wasn’t capable of hating anyone.

An hour later, Gus untangled himself and opened the door that led to his office. He felt like he was stepping onto foreign territory since his thoughts were back at Moss Farms. Nothing had changed in his absence. The tray with the coffee service and the leftover sticky buns was still in the middle of the conference table. The pine branch was still hanging over his drafting table. How strange that the Bledsoes hadn’t asked what it was or why a dried pine branch was hanging on his wall. Everyone who entered the office asked sooner or later.

He decided right then and there that he didn’t like the Bledsoes any more than he liked his father.

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and made small talk with a client who wanted to take him to dinner. How about a rain check, Karl? I have to go out of town for a while. Let’s pencil in the first week of the New Year. Okay, glad it works for you. I’ll be in touch.

Gus whipped his day planner out of his backpack. He flipped through the pages to see what pressing matters had to be taken care of. Nothing that couldn’t wait, he decided.

Five minutes later he made an announcement over the intercom. Look alive, people, this is your boss. I’d like to see all of you in my office, STAT.

They came on the run the way they always did. When the boss called a special meeting it was of paramount importance. Gus Moss never sweated the small stuff.

Gus wasted no time. Look, guys, I need to go out of town for a couple of months. Actually, I have to go home. My father needs me. He wondered if it was a lie or wishful thinking on his part. Can you guys handle things?

Surely you jest, Derek Williams quipped. It will be a vacation for all of us with you gone. We’ll party up a storm and drink a toast to you every night.

Gus grinned. They wouldn’t do any such thing and they all knew it.

Hey, man, you said you were going to watch Cyrus for me while I go to Costa Rica next month. It was Max Whitfield who was Gus’s right hand.

Damn! Okay, okay, I’ll take him with me if that’s okay. He can run the farm all day. You okay with that, Max?

"Oh no, my dog does not fly in the cargo hold. Dogs die on airplanes."

Then I’ll drive. Works for me if you’re okay with it. I promise to coddle him just the way you do. I’ll give him an apple and a carrot every day. I’ll make sure to give him his vitamins and will give him only bottled water, just the way you do. What I won’t do is dress him up in those designer duds you deck him out in.

Max, a string bean of a man, eyeballed his boss and then nodded. When are you leaving?

In the morning. Bring the dog to the office and I’ll take off from here. You guys sure you can handle things?

Yes, Dad, the little group said in unison.

Swear you won’t call us a hundred times a day, Derek said.

I don’t think you have to worry about that. Okay, it’s all set then. Hillary, cancel the rest of my appointments. Reschedule.

Gus looked around at his loyal staff. A lump formed in his throat. They were the best of the best. He made a mental note to double their Christmas bonuses. He could do that tonight at home and hand them out in the morning. Loyalty was one thing he never skimped on. A long time ago his mother had told him a person was only as good as the people who worked for them. At the time he hadn’t understood what that meant. He knew now, though.

Time to go cross-country.

Back to his childhood memories.

Back to his father’s house.

He hoped he was up to the challenge.

Chapter Two

A week later and three thousand miles away in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, thirty-four-year-old career woman Amy Baran was on an emotional high as she packed her already overstuffed briefcase. She looked around her cluttered office and sighed. One of these days she really had to give some thought to organizing things. She knew it wasn’t going to happen because she loved living in clutter, loved that she could instantly lay her hands on anything she needed.

Amy Baran owned a small public relations firm in the heart of the Main Line District. It employed two full-time staff members; two part-time moms whose schedules she worked around; a receptionist-slash-secretary; and a battle-scarred, bushy-haired orange tabby cat named Cornelia she had found half-starved in the basement of the building she rented. If anyone reigned supreme at the Baran Agency, it was Cornelia who greeted clients by purring and strutting her stuff.

Cornelia knew how to turn on the computer, flush the john, and even open the box of Tender Vittles when someone left it sitting on the kitchen counter.

You going to miss me, Linda?

Does Cornelia need whipped cream on her catnip? Of course I’m going to miss you. That was a silly question, Amy. But things slow down at this time of year and you’re only a cell phone call away. You said your mom has a fax machine so I think we’re good to go in case something crops up. In a way, I envy you. Going home for the holidays is always kind of special and going all out on your mom’s project to help the Seniors is the icing on top as far as good feelings go. If anyone can make it work, you can.

Amy flopped down on her swivel chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her. Easy to say, Linda. Mapping out a PR campaign to sell cosmetics or corn flakes is a lot different from selling Christmas trees. I know zip about Christmas trees other than you put them in a stand, string lights and ornaments and flick the switch. Instant gratification.

You got a plan, boss?

Amy laughed, the sound ricocheting off the walls. Sort of, kind of. I’m thinking three tents. One for the stuff Mom wants to sell. You know, ornaments, lights, gift wrap, the big red velvet bows. I ordered tons of stuff a week ago when Mom hit me with this. I jumped right on it. Mom’s got the Seniors lined up to work the store, as she calls it. They’re going to be serving gingerbread and hot mulled cider the way they used to do at Moss Farms. I told you about that wonderful place from my childhood. I hate it that Mr. Moss let the farm go to ruin. I have such nice memories of going out there with my father. He always made it a special event. One year it actually snowed the day we went to pick up the tree. I was so excited I could hardly sleep the night before. Memories are wonderful, aren’t they?

Linda flicked the long braid that hung down to the middle of her back. Memories are super as long as you don’t dwell on them. Maybe you’ll meet Prince Charming when you go home. I see it now: he appears out of nowhere, asks you to help him pick out the perfect tree. You do, and then he asks you to deliver it and help him set it up. You agree. You fall into his arms in front of the tree and voila, you now have a boyfriend!

In your dreams! I don’t have time for boyfriends. I’m trying to build this business and working sixteen hours a day is more than any guy can understand. All in good time.

Linda eyed her boss. She would never understand how someone as personable, as pretty, as intelligent as Amy didn’t have men falling all over her. Your clock is ticking, Amy. There’s more to life than building a business.

Amy sniffed as she fiddled with the comb that controlled her long, dark, curly hair. She fixed her green eyes on Linda and said, You’re a year older and I don’t see you in any hurry to settle down.

Yeah, well, at least I have a prospect. George loves me and would marry me in a heartbeat if I said the word. I’m thinking about it. I want us to have enough money saved up to put a down payment on a house. There’s no way I’m going to live in an apartment with kids. I want lots of kids and so does George. By next year we’ll have saved enough for a starter house. It’s my plan. You don’t even have a prospect, much less a plan, Amy.

Linda was right even though she didn’t want to admit it. She longed for Mr. Right but so far he had eluded her. Maybe Linda was right and she needed to cut back on the hours she worked and get some kind of personal life. Or she could go to the Internet and sign up on one of those matchmaking sites. Like that was really going to happen.

Amy shrugged as she continued to stuff her briefcase. She had to sit on it so she could lock it. I don’t know why I’m taking all this. Better to be prepared for anything and everything. Okay, okay, I’ll work on my social skills and try to snag a guy when I get home. You realize single guys do not buy Christmas trees. They buy artificial ones. Families, moms and dads and kids, buy trees. Having said that, I will do my best to find a man who will meet with your approval. If I come back empty handed, I will explore one of those dating sites, okay?

Yeah. Look, if you need me, give me a call. I can take the train and be there in three hours. I’m going to miss Corny, Linda said as she scooped up the tabby to settle her in the carryall. She pulled the zipper.

Amy took a last look around. It feels right, Linda. Going home, I mean. I hate leaving you for two whole months but like you said, I’m just a phone call away. You don’t think I’m making a mistake, do you?

Am I hearing right? The famous Amy Baran is asking me if she’s making a mistake? The short answer is, no. Look, my mom passed away. I’d drop everything, even George, to have her back calling me to help out. You always have to give back, Amy. If you don’t, you’re just a shell of a person. I expect you to be an authority on Christmas trees when you get back. I can go on the Net and research Christmas tree farms and send out some query letters asking if they want to use our services next year. That’s assuming you pull this off and raise the money you need.

You don’t know my mother, Linda. Good idea. You know what bothers me the most is the trucking fees. We’re starting out in debt. I don’t like that. If bad weather sets in, the trees might not be cut in time. I’m at growers’ and truckers’ mercies. Mom did all the initial contacting. I wish she had left it up to me instead of going with the first person she contacted. You need to shop around to get the best price. Well, I gotta be going. I packed everything up last night. Yes, yes, I will call you along the way and will call you when I get to Mom’s house. I’ll miss you, Linda. Two months is a long time, Amy said wistfully.

Linda threw her arm over her boss’s shoulder. I think you’re going to be too busy to miss this place. Go on now before we both start blubbering.

Amy picked up Cornelia’s carrying case and threw it over her shoulder. The briefcase weighed a ton and she probably wouldn’t even open it once she got to Virginia. Her mother always said she overcompensated for everything. Her mother also said she was anal retentive, was an overachiever and needed to think inside the box instead of outside. So much for her loving mother.

Amy settled Cornelia on the passenger seat before she unzipped the carryall. Cornelia poked her head up just long enough to see her surroundings before she curled up to sleep. Amy slipped a disc into the player and settled down to make the trip to Fairfax, Virginia.

Four hours later with four stops along the way, Amy pulled into her mother’s driveway on Little Pumpkin Lane. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. She was home. The house where she’d grown up. A house of secrets. The house where she’d been lonely, sad, angry. So many memories.

Now why had she expected her mother to be standing in the doorway waiting to greet her? Because that’s what mothers usually did when an offspring returned home for a visit. A stupid expectation, Amy decided as she climbed out of the car. She left Cornelia in the car while she unloaded her bags and the boxes of things she’d brought with her. Four trips later, Amy carried Cornelia into the house and settled her and her litter box in the laundry room. She called her mother’s name, knowing there would be no answer. Her mother was a busy lady who did good deeds twenty-four/seven. All she did was sleep at the house. It was like that while she was growing up, too. Tillie Baran for the most part had always been an absentee mother with various housekeepers picking up her slack. When the housekeepers went home, her father took over, making sure she ate a good dinner, brushed her teeth, helped her with her homework and tucked her into bed at night. For some reason, though, she’d never felt cheated.

All of that changed when her father died of a heart attack in the lobby of the Pentagon on the day after she graduated from college. If her mother had grieved, she hadn’t seen it. Armed with her substantial inheritance, Amy had relocated to Philadelphia where she worked for a PR firm to get her feet wet before she opened her own small agency.

She called home once a week, usually early Sunday morning, to carry on an inane conversation with her mother that never lasted more than five minutes. She returned home for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas—just day trips, because her mother was too busy to visit. For the past two years, though, she hadn’t returned home at all. Her mother didn’t seem to notice. No matter what, though, Amy kept up with her early Sunday morning phone calls because she wanted to be a good daughter.

And now here she was. Home to do her mother’s bidding. For the first time in her entire life her mother had asked for her help. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was an ulterior