Three Wishes - Softcover
In this “heart-tugging story of love and redemption that is surprisingly powerful” (People), a woman’s life is miraculously changed forever after she’s caught in a blizzard in a picturesque Vermont town.
When waitress Bree Miller wakes up in the hospital after a blizzard in a tiny Vermont town, she can’t recall the tragedy that landed her there. But she’s certain of only one thing—that she has been magically granted three wishes. Are the things Bree longs for—a home, a soul mate, a family—now within her grasp?
After all, one of her wishes seems to have already come true: at her bedside is Tom Gates, a renowned author who’s come to town to make sense of his fame—and who, as the accident’s only witness, is determined to make sure Bree is safe and sound. As Bree recovers and Tom learns more about her, they discover that they will have to take unimagined risks to truly live their dreams.
Entwining courage, community, and the magic of second chances, this “heartwarming, tear-jerking small-town romance” (Kirkus Reviews) asks: What if wishes really could come true?
When waitress Bree Miller wakes up in the hospital after a blizzard in a tiny Vermont town, she can’t recall the tragedy that landed her there. But she’s certain of only one thing—that she has been magically granted three wishes. Are the things Bree longs for—a home, a soul mate, a family—now within her grasp?
After all, one of her wishes seems to have already come true: at her bedside is Tom Gates, a renowned author who’s come to town to make sense of his fame—and who, as the accident’s only witness, is determined to make sure Bree is safe and sound. As Bree recovers and Tom learns more about her, they discover that they will have to take unimagined risks to truly live their dreams.
Entwining courage, community, and the magic of second chances, this “heartwarming, tear-jerking small-town romance” (Kirkus Reviews) asks: What if wishes really could come true?
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Barbara Delinsky has written more than twenty New York Times bestselling novels, with over thirty million copies in print. Her books are highly emotional, character-driven studies of marriage, parenthood, sibling rivalry, and friendship. She is also the author of a breast cancer handbook. A breast cancer survivor herself, Barbara donates her author proceeds from the book to fund a research fellowship at Massachusetts General Hospital. Visit her at BarbaraDelinsky.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Three Wishes Chapter 1
It wasn’t the first snow of the season. Panama, Vermont, lay far enough north to have already seen several snow-dusted dawns. But this wasn’t dawn, and these flakes didn’t dust. From early afternoon right on into evening, they fell heavy and fat and wet.
Truckers stopping at the diner complained of the roads growing slick, but the warning carried little weight with locals. They knew that the sun would be back, even an Indian summer before winter set in. Snowfall now was simply frosting on the cake of another wildfire fall, thick flakes silencing the riot of colorful leaves, draping a plump white shawl on the town green’s oak benches, on marigolds that lingeringly lined front walks, on a bicycle propped against an open front gate.
The scene was so peaceful that no one imagined the accident to come, least of all Bree Miller. Winter was her favorite season. There was something about snow that softened the world, made it make-believe for the briefest time, and while she wasn’t a woman prone to fancy—would have immediately denied it if accused—she had her private moments.
She didn’t bother with a jacket. The memory of summer’s heat was all too fresh. Besides, with locals wanting to eat before the weather worsened and with truckers bulking up, the diner had been hopping, so she was plenty warm without.
She slipped out the door, closing it tight on the hum of conversation, the hiss and sizzle of the grill, the sultry twang of Shania Twain. In the sudden hush, she ran lightly down the steps, across the parking lot, then the street. On the far side, she flattened her spine to the crusty trunk of a large maple whose amber leaves hung heavy with snow, and looked back.
The diner was a vision of stainless steel and neon, rich purples and greens bouncing off silver, new and more gallant through a steady fall of snow. Gone were little items on her fix-it list—the scrape Morgan Willis’s truck had put on a corner panel, a dent in the front railing, bird droppings off the edge of the roof. What remained was sparkling clean, warm, and inviting, starting with the diner’s roadside logo, concentric rings of neon forming a large frying pan with the elegant eruption of FLASH AN’ THE PAN from its core. Behind that were golden lamps at each of ten broad windows running the diner’s length and, in booths behind those lamps, looking snug and content, the customers.
The diner wasn’t Bree’s. She just worked there. But she liked looking at it.
Same with Panama. Up the hill, at the spot where East Main leveled into an oval around the town green, snow capped the steel roofs of the row of tall Federals and beyond, white on white, the church steeple. Down the hill, at the spot where the road dipped past the old train depot, snow hid the stains that years of diesel abuse had left and put a hearty head on the large wood beer stein that marked the Sleepy Creek Brewery.
Panama was ten minutes off the highway on the truck route running from Concord to Montreal. Being neither here nor there was one of its greatest strengths. There were no cookie-cutter subdivisions, no planned developments with architect-designed wraparound porches. Porches had been wrapping around houses in Panama since the days of the Revolution, not for the sake of style but for community. Those porches were as genuine as the people who used them. Add the lack of crime and the low cost of land, and the town’s survival was ensured. Bright minds sought haven here and found inspiration. The brewery was but one example. There was also a bread company, workshops producing hand-carved furniture and wooden toys, and a gourmet ice cream factory. Native Panamanians lent stability. Newcomers brought cash.
Bree drew in a snow-chilled breath, held it deep in her lungs, let it slowly out. The occasional snowflake breached the leaves overhead to land in an airy puff on her arm, looking soft, feeling rich, in those few seconds before melting away. On impulse, she slid around the tree trunk to face the woods. Here, the snow picked up the diner’s lights in a mystical way. Drifting leaves whirled about, forest fairies at play, Bree fancied. From nowhere came childhood images of carousels, clowns, and Christmas, all more dream than memory. She listened hard, half expecting to hear elf sounds mixed in with those of nocturnal creatures. But, of course, there were none.
Foolish Bree. High on snow. Time to go inside.
Still she stood there, riveted by something that made her eyes mist and her throat ache. If it was wanting, she didn’t know what for. She had a good life. She was content.
Still she stood there.
Behind her came a fragment of conversation when the diner door opened, and the subsequent growls, muted by billowing flakes, of one big rig, then a second. By the time the semis had rumbled out of the parking lot, cruised down the hill, and turned toward the highway, the only sound left was the cat’s-paw whisper of snow upon snow.
The diner door opened again, this time to a louder “Bree! I need you!”
Brushing tears from her eyes, she pushed off from the bark. Seconds later, she was running back across the road, turning her head against the densest of the flakes, suddenly so desperate to be back inside, where everything made sense, that she grew careless. She slipped, fought for balance with a flailing of arms, landed in the snow all the same. Scrambling up, she brushed at the seat of her black jeans and, with barely a pause to shake her hands free of snow, rushed inside, to be met by applause, several wolf whistles, and a “Way to go, Bree!”
The last was from a trucker, one of the regulars. Another round of applause broke out when she wrapped her icy hands around his bull neck and gave an affectionate squeeze on her way to the kitchen.
Flash, the diner’s owner and executive chef, met her at the swinging door. A near-full gallon of milk hung from his fingers. “It’s bad again,” he said, releasing the door once she was inside. “What’re we gonna do? Look of the roads, no delivery’s coming anytime soon.”
“We have extra,” Bree assured him, opening the refrigerator to verify it.
Flash ducked his head and took a look. “That’ll be enough?”
“Plenty.”
“Seventeen’s up, Bree,” the grillman called.
The diner sat fifty-two, in ten booths and twelve counter stools. At its busiest times, there were lines out the door, but bad weather slowed things down. Barely thirty-five remained now. LeeAnn Conti was serving half. The rest were Bree’s.
Balancing four plates holding a total of twelve eggs, twelve rashers of bacon, six sausages, six slabs each of maple nut and raisin toast, and enough Flash browns to crowd everything in, she delivered supper to the men in seventeen, the booth to the right of the door. She had known the four all her life. They, too, had gone to the local schools and stayed to work in the area, Sam and Dave at the lumber mill three towns over, Andy at his family’s tackle store, Jack at the farm his father had left his brother and him. They were large men with insatiable appetites for early-evening breakfast.
The Littles, two booths down, were another story. Ben and Liz had fled a New York ad agency to run their own by way of computer, fax, and phone from Vermont. Along with seven-year-old Benji, five-year-old Samantha, and two-year-old Joey, they hit the diner several times a week to take advantage of Flash’s huge portions, easily splitting three orders of turkey, mashed potatoes, and peas, or biscuit-topped shepherd’s pie, or American chop suey. They were currently sharing a serving of warm apple crisp and a large chocolate chip cookie.
At Bree’s appearance, the two-year-old put down his hunk of cookie, scrambled to his feet on the bench, and opened his arms. She scooped him up. “Was everything good?”
He gave her a chocolaty grin that melted her heart.
“Anything else here?” she asked his parents.
“Just the check,” said Ben. “That snow keeps coming. Driving won’t be great.”
When Joey squirmed, Bree kissed the mop of his hair and returned him to the bench. At the side counter, she tallied the check, then put it on their table and set to cleaning the adjacent booth, where the drivers of the newly departed big rigs had been. She cleared the dirty dishes, pocketed her tip, wiped down the black Formica, straightened shakers, condiment bottles, and the small black vase that held a spray of goldenrod. She set out new place mats, oval replicas of the frying pan from the logo, with the regular menu printed in its center. Specials—“The Daily Flash”—were hand-written on each of two elliptical chalkboards high behind either end of the counter.
She moved several booths down to Panama’s power elite —postmaster Earl Yarum, police chief Eliot Bonner, town meeting moderator Emma McGreevy. Before them were dishes that had earlier held a beef stew, a pork chop special, and a grilled chicken salad. All three plates, plus a basket of sourdough rolls, were empty, which was good news. When sated, Earl, Eliot, and Emma were innocuous.
Bree grinned. “Ready for dessert?”
“Whaddya got?” Earl asked.
“Whaddya want?”
“Pie.”
“O-kay. We have apple, peach, and blueberry. We have pumpkin. We have strawberry rhubarb, banana cream, maple cream, maple pecan, pumpkin pecan, lemon meringue—”
“Anything chocolate?” Earl asked.
“Chocolate pecan, chocolate mousse, chocolate rum cream—”
“How about a brownie?”
She might have guessed they were headed there. Earl was predictable.
“One brownie,” she said, and raised questioning brows at Emma. “Tea?”
“Please.” Emma never had anything but tea.
Eliot played his usual game, letting Bree list as many ice cream flavors as she could—Flash owned part of Panama Rich and stocked every one of its twenty-three flavors—before ordering a dish of plain old strawberry.
Working around LeeAnn, the grillman, the cook, the dishwasher, and Flash, Bree warmed the brownie and added whipped cream, hot fudge, and nuts, the way Earl liked it, and scooped up Eliot’s ice cream. She served a chicken stir-fry to Panama’s only lawyer, Martin Sprague, in the six spot at the counter, and pork chops and chili to Ned and Frank Wright, local plumbers, two stools over. With carafes in either hand, she topped off coffees down the row of booths, then worked her way along the counter.
At the far end sat Dotty Hale and her daughter, Jane. Both were tall and lean, but while Dotty’s face was tight, Jane’s was softer in ways that had little to do with age. Not that Bree was impartial. Jane was one of her closest friends.
LeeAnn had her elbows on the counter before them. In contrast to the Hales, she was small and spirited, with short, spiked blond hair and eyes that filled her face. Those eyes were wider than ever. “Abby Nolan spent the night where? But she just divorced John.”
“Final last week,” Dotty confirmed, with the nod of a bony chin. “Court papers came in the mail. Earl saw them.”
“So why’s she sleeping with him?”
“She isn’t,” Jane said.
Dotty turned on her. “This isn’t coming from me. Eliot was the one who saw her car in John’s drive.” She returned to LeeAnn. “Why? Because she’s pregnant.”
LeeAnn looked beside herself with curiosity. “With John’s child? How?”
Bree smiled dryly as she joined them. “The normal way, I’d think. Only the baby isn’t John’s. It’s Davey Hillard’s.”
Dotty looked wounded. “Who told you that?”
“Abby,” Bree said. She, Abby, and Jane had been friends since grade school.
“Then why’d she spend the night with John?” LeeAnn asked.
“She didn’t,” Jane said.
“Were you there?” Dotty asked archly.
“Abby just went to talk,” Bree said to divert Dotty’s attention from Jane. “She and John are still friends. She wanted to break the news to him herself.”
“That’s not what Emma says,” Dotty argued. Emma was her sister and her major source of gossip. “Know what else she says? Julia Dean got a postcard.”
“Mother,” Jane pleaded.
“Well, it’s fact,” Dotty argued. “Earl saw the postcard and told Eliot, since he’s the one has to keep peace here and family being upset can cause trouble. Julia’s family is not thrilled that she’s here. The postcard was from her daughter in Des Moines, who said that it was a shame that Julia was isolating herself, and that she understood how upset she had been by Daddy’s death, that they all were, but three years of mourning should be enough, so when was she coming home?”
“All that on a postcard?” Bree asked. She didn’t know much more about Julia than that she had opened a small flower store three years before and twice weekly arranged sprigs in the diner’s vases. She came by for an occasional meal but kept to herself. She struck Bree as shy but sweet, certainly not the type to deserve being the butt of gossip.
“Julia’s family doesn’t know about Earl,” Jane muttered.
“Really.” Bree glanced toward the window when a bright light swelled there, another eighteen-wheeler pulling into the parking lot.
“And then,” Dotty said, with a glance of her own at that light, “there’s Verity. She claims she saw another UFO. Eliot says the lights were from a truck, but she insists there’s a mark on the back of her car where that mother ship tailed her.”
LeeAnn leaned closer. “Did she see the baby ships again, the squiggly little pods?”
“I didn’t ask.” Dotty shuddered. “That woman’s odd.”
Bree had always found Verity more amusing than odd and would have said as much now if Flash hadn’t called. “Twenty-two’s up, LeeAnn.”
Bree stayed LeeAnn with a touch. “I’ll get it.”
She topped off Dotty’s coffee and returned the carafes to their heaters. Scooping up the chicken piccata with angel hair that was ready and waiting, she headed down the counter toward the booths. Twenty-two was the last in the row, tucked in the corner by the jukebox. A lone man sat there, just as he had from time to time in the last seven months. He never said much, never invited much to be said. Most often, like now, he was reading a book.
His name was Tom Gates. He had bought the Hubbard place, a shingle-sided bungalow on West Elm that hadn’t seen a stitch of improvement in all the years that the Hubbards’ health had been in decline. Since Tom Gates had taken possession, missing shingles had been replaced, shutters had been straightened, the porch had been painted, the lawn cut. What had happened inside was more murky. Skipper Boone had rewired the place, and the Wrights had installed a new furnace, but beyond that, no one knew. And Bree had asked. She had always loved the Hubbard place. Though smaller than her Victorian, it had ten times the charm. She might have bought it herself if she’d had the nerve, but she had inherited her own house from her father, who had inherited it from his. Millers had lived on South Forest for too many years to count and too many to move. So she contented herself with catching what bits of gossip she could about restoration of the bungalow on West Elm.
None of those bits came from Tom Gates. He wasn’t sociable. Good-looking. Very good-looking. Too good-looking to be alone. But not sociable.
“Here you go,” Bree said. When he moved his book aside, she slid the plate in. She wiped her palms on the back of her jeans and pushed her hands in the pockets there. “Reading anything good...
It wasn’t the first snow of the season. Panama, Vermont, lay far enough north to have already seen several snow-dusted dawns. But this wasn’t dawn, and these flakes didn’t dust. From early afternoon right on into evening, they fell heavy and fat and wet.
Truckers stopping at the diner complained of the roads growing slick, but the warning carried little weight with locals. They knew that the sun would be back, even an Indian summer before winter set in. Snowfall now was simply frosting on the cake of another wildfire fall, thick flakes silencing the riot of colorful leaves, draping a plump white shawl on the town green’s oak benches, on marigolds that lingeringly lined front walks, on a bicycle propped against an open front gate.
The scene was so peaceful that no one imagined the accident to come, least of all Bree Miller. Winter was her favorite season. There was something about snow that softened the world, made it make-believe for the briefest time, and while she wasn’t a woman prone to fancy—would have immediately denied it if accused—she had her private moments.
She didn’t bother with a jacket. The memory of summer’s heat was all too fresh. Besides, with locals wanting to eat before the weather worsened and with truckers bulking up, the diner had been hopping, so she was plenty warm without.
She slipped out the door, closing it tight on the hum of conversation, the hiss and sizzle of the grill, the sultry twang of Shania Twain. In the sudden hush, she ran lightly down the steps, across the parking lot, then the street. On the far side, she flattened her spine to the crusty trunk of a large maple whose amber leaves hung heavy with snow, and looked back.
The diner was a vision of stainless steel and neon, rich purples and greens bouncing off silver, new and more gallant through a steady fall of snow. Gone were little items on her fix-it list—the scrape Morgan Willis’s truck had put on a corner panel, a dent in the front railing, bird droppings off the edge of the roof. What remained was sparkling clean, warm, and inviting, starting with the diner’s roadside logo, concentric rings of neon forming a large frying pan with the elegant eruption of FLASH AN’ THE PAN from its core. Behind that were golden lamps at each of ten broad windows running the diner’s length and, in booths behind those lamps, looking snug and content, the customers.
The diner wasn’t Bree’s. She just worked there. But she liked looking at it.
Same with Panama. Up the hill, at the spot where East Main leveled into an oval around the town green, snow capped the steel roofs of the row of tall Federals and beyond, white on white, the church steeple. Down the hill, at the spot where the road dipped past the old train depot, snow hid the stains that years of diesel abuse had left and put a hearty head on the large wood beer stein that marked the Sleepy Creek Brewery.
Panama was ten minutes off the highway on the truck route running from Concord to Montreal. Being neither here nor there was one of its greatest strengths. There were no cookie-cutter subdivisions, no planned developments with architect-designed wraparound porches. Porches had been wrapping around houses in Panama since the days of the Revolution, not for the sake of style but for community. Those porches were as genuine as the people who used them. Add the lack of crime and the low cost of land, and the town’s survival was ensured. Bright minds sought haven here and found inspiration. The brewery was but one example. There was also a bread company, workshops producing hand-carved furniture and wooden toys, and a gourmet ice cream factory. Native Panamanians lent stability. Newcomers brought cash.
Bree drew in a snow-chilled breath, held it deep in her lungs, let it slowly out. The occasional snowflake breached the leaves overhead to land in an airy puff on her arm, looking soft, feeling rich, in those few seconds before melting away. On impulse, she slid around the tree trunk to face the woods. Here, the snow picked up the diner’s lights in a mystical way. Drifting leaves whirled about, forest fairies at play, Bree fancied. From nowhere came childhood images of carousels, clowns, and Christmas, all more dream than memory. She listened hard, half expecting to hear elf sounds mixed in with those of nocturnal creatures. But, of course, there were none.
Foolish Bree. High on snow. Time to go inside.
Still she stood there, riveted by something that made her eyes mist and her throat ache. If it was wanting, she didn’t know what for. She had a good life. She was content.
Still she stood there.
Behind her came a fragment of conversation when the diner door opened, and the subsequent growls, muted by billowing flakes, of one big rig, then a second. By the time the semis had rumbled out of the parking lot, cruised down the hill, and turned toward the highway, the only sound left was the cat’s-paw whisper of snow upon snow.
The diner door opened again, this time to a louder “Bree! I need you!”
Brushing tears from her eyes, she pushed off from the bark. Seconds later, she was running back across the road, turning her head against the densest of the flakes, suddenly so desperate to be back inside, where everything made sense, that she grew careless. She slipped, fought for balance with a flailing of arms, landed in the snow all the same. Scrambling up, she brushed at the seat of her black jeans and, with barely a pause to shake her hands free of snow, rushed inside, to be met by applause, several wolf whistles, and a “Way to go, Bree!”
The last was from a trucker, one of the regulars. Another round of applause broke out when she wrapped her icy hands around his bull neck and gave an affectionate squeeze on her way to the kitchen.
Flash, the diner’s owner and executive chef, met her at the swinging door. A near-full gallon of milk hung from his fingers. “It’s bad again,” he said, releasing the door once she was inside. “What’re we gonna do? Look of the roads, no delivery’s coming anytime soon.”
“We have extra,” Bree assured him, opening the refrigerator to verify it.
Flash ducked his head and took a look. “That’ll be enough?”
“Plenty.”
“Seventeen’s up, Bree,” the grillman called.
The diner sat fifty-two, in ten booths and twelve counter stools. At its busiest times, there were lines out the door, but bad weather slowed things down. Barely thirty-five remained now. LeeAnn Conti was serving half. The rest were Bree’s.
Balancing four plates holding a total of twelve eggs, twelve rashers of bacon, six sausages, six slabs each of maple nut and raisin toast, and enough Flash browns to crowd everything in, she delivered supper to the men in seventeen, the booth to the right of the door. She had known the four all her life. They, too, had gone to the local schools and stayed to work in the area, Sam and Dave at the lumber mill three towns over, Andy at his family’s tackle store, Jack at the farm his father had left his brother and him. They were large men with insatiable appetites for early-evening breakfast.
The Littles, two booths down, were another story. Ben and Liz had fled a New York ad agency to run their own by way of computer, fax, and phone from Vermont. Along with seven-year-old Benji, five-year-old Samantha, and two-year-old Joey, they hit the diner several times a week to take advantage of Flash’s huge portions, easily splitting three orders of turkey, mashed potatoes, and peas, or biscuit-topped shepherd’s pie, or American chop suey. They were currently sharing a serving of warm apple crisp and a large chocolate chip cookie.
At Bree’s appearance, the two-year-old put down his hunk of cookie, scrambled to his feet on the bench, and opened his arms. She scooped him up. “Was everything good?”
He gave her a chocolaty grin that melted her heart.
“Anything else here?” she asked his parents.
“Just the check,” said Ben. “That snow keeps coming. Driving won’t be great.”
When Joey squirmed, Bree kissed the mop of his hair and returned him to the bench. At the side counter, she tallied the check, then put it on their table and set to cleaning the adjacent booth, where the drivers of the newly departed big rigs had been. She cleared the dirty dishes, pocketed her tip, wiped down the black Formica, straightened shakers, condiment bottles, and the small black vase that held a spray of goldenrod. She set out new place mats, oval replicas of the frying pan from the logo, with the regular menu printed in its center. Specials—“The Daily Flash”—were hand-written on each of two elliptical chalkboards high behind either end of the counter.
She moved several booths down to Panama’s power elite —postmaster Earl Yarum, police chief Eliot Bonner, town meeting moderator Emma McGreevy. Before them were dishes that had earlier held a beef stew, a pork chop special, and a grilled chicken salad. All three plates, plus a basket of sourdough rolls, were empty, which was good news. When sated, Earl, Eliot, and Emma were innocuous.
Bree grinned. “Ready for dessert?”
“Whaddya got?” Earl asked.
“Whaddya want?”
“Pie.”
“O-kay. We have apple, peach, and blueberry. We have pumpkin. We have strawberry rhubarb, banana cream, maple cream, maple pecan, pumpkin pecan, lemon meringue—”
“Anything chocolate?” Earl asked.
“Chocolate pecan, chocolate mousse, chocolate rum cream—”
“How about a brownie?”
She might have guessed they were headed there. Earl was predictable.
“One brownie,” she said, and raised questioning brows at Emma. “Tea?”
“Please.” Emma never had anything but tea.
Eliot played his usual game, letting Bree list as many ice cream flavors as she could—Flash owned part of Panama Rich and stocked every one of its twenty-three flavors—before ordering a dish of plain old strawberry.
Working around LeeAnn, the grillman, the cook, the dishwasher, and Flash, Bree warmed the brownie and added whipped cream, hot fudge, and nuts, the way Earl liked it, and scooped up Eliot’s ice cream. She served a chicken stir-fry to Panama’s only lawyer, Martin Sprague, in the six spot at the counter, and pork chops and chili to Ned and Frank Wright, local plumbers, two stools over. With carafes in either hand, she topped off coffees down the row of booths, then worked her way along the counter.
At the far end sat Dotty Hale and her daughter, Jane. Both were tall and lean, but while Dotty’s face was tight, Jane’s was softer in ways that had little to do with age. Not that Bree was impartial. Jane was one of her closest friends.
LeeAnn had her elbows on the counter before them. In contrast to the Hales, she was small and spirited, with short, spiked blond hair and eyes that filled her face. Those eyes were wider than ever. “Abby Nolan spent the night where? But she just divorced John.”
“Final last week,” Dotty confirmed, with the nod of a bony chin. “Court papers came in the mail. Earl saw them.”
“So why’s she sleeping with him?”
“She isn’t,” Jane said.
Dotty turned on her. “This isn’t coming from me. Eliot was the one who saw her car in John’s drive.” She returned to LeeAnn. “Why? Because she’s pregnant.”
LeeAnn looked beside herself with curiosity. “With John’s child? How?”
Bree smiled dryly as she joined them. “The normal way, I’d think. Only the baby isn’t John’s. It’s Davey Hillard’s.”
Dotty looked wounded. “Who told you that?”
“Abby,” Bree said. She, Abby, and Jane had been friends since grade school.
“Then why’d she spend the night with John?” LeeAnn asked.
“She didn’t,” Jane said.
“Were you there?” Dotty asked archly.
“Abby just went to talk,” Bree said to divert Dotty’s attention from Jane. “She and John are still friends. She wanted to break the news to him herself.”
“That’s not what Emma says,” Dotty argued. Emma was her sister and her major source of gossip. “Know what else she says? Julia Dean got a postcard.”
“Mother,” Jane pleaded.
“Well, it’s fact,” Dotty argued. “Earl saw the postcard and told Eliot, since he’s the one has to keep peace here and family being upset can cause trouble. Julia’s family is not thrilled that she’s here. The postcard was from her daughter in Des Moines, who said that it was a shame that Julia was isolating herself, and that she understood how upset she had been by Daddy’s death, that they all were, but three years of mourning should be enough, so when was she coming home?”
“All that on a postcard?” Bree asked. She didn’t know much more about Julia than that she had opened a small flower store three years before and twice weekly arranged sprigs in the diner’s vases. She came by for an occasional meal but kept to herself. She struck Bree as shy but sweet, certainly not the type to deserve being the butt of gossip.
“Julia’s family doesn’t know about Earl,” Jane muttered.
“Really.” Bree glanced toward the window when a bright light swelled there, another eighteen-wheeler pulling into the parking lot.
“And then,” Dotty said, with a glance of her own at that light, “there’s Verity. She claims she saw another UFO. Eliot says the lights were from a truck, but she insists there’s a mark on the back of her car where that mother ship tailed her.”
LeeAnn leaned closer. “Did she see the baby ships again, the squiggly little pods?”
“I didn’t ask.” Dotty shuddered. “That woman’s odd.”
Bree had always found Verity more amusing than odd and would have said as much now if Flash hadn’t called. “Twenty-two’s up, LeeAnn.”
Bree stayed LeeAnn with a touch. “I’ll get it.”
She topped off Dotty’s coffee and returned the carafes to their heaters. Scooping up the chicken piccata with angel hair that was ready and waiting, she headed down the counter toward the booths. Twenty-two was the last in the row, tucked in the corner by the jukebox. A lone man sat there, just as he had from time to time in the last seven months. He never said much, never invited much to be said. Most often, like now, he was reading a book.
His name was Tom Gates. He had bought the Hubbard place, a shingle-sided bungalow on West Elm that hadn’t seen a stitch of improvement in all the years that the Hubbards’ health had been in decline. Since Tom Gates had taken possession, missing shingles had been replaced, shutters had been straightened, the porch had been painted, the lawn cut. What had happened inside was more murky. Skipper Boone had rewired the place, and the Wrights had installed a new furnace, but beyond that, no one knew. And Bree had asked. She had always loved the Hubbard place. Though smaller than her Victorian, it had ten times the charm. She might have bought it herself if she’d had the nerve, but she had inherited her own house from her father, who had inherited it from his. Millers had lived on South Forest for too many years to count and too many to move. So she contented herself with catching what bits of gossip she could about restoration of the bungalow on West Elm.
None of those bits came from Tom Gates. He wasn’t sociable. Good-looking. Very good-looking. Too good-looking to be alone. But not sociable.
“Here you go,” Bree said. When he moved his book aside, she slid the plate in. She wiped her palms on the back of her jeans and pushed her hands in the pockets there. “Reading anything good...
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- PublisherPocket Books
- Publication date2019
- ISBN 10 1982123486
- ISBN 13 9781982123482
- BindingMass Market Paperback
- Number of pages336
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