For a long time, Dorothea had blamed herself for his abandonment. She’d wondered if her appearance or weight had disappointed him. But then, she used to blame herself for Jazz’s infidelity, too. If only she’d worked harder to bring in more money, fixed her hair a different way, lost more weight, tried harder in bed, cooked better, offered more stimulating conversation, something, anything, she would have been enough.
But the fault didn’t rest on her shoulders. Even though she was the one constant in all her failed relationships.
Fighting a wave of depression, she focused on the hodgepodge charm of her surroundings. Four-bulb lampposts illuminated historic buildings intermixed with modern ones. While the inn possessed the elegance of an antebellum structure, the local grocery store was housed in a metal warehouse with a tin roof. Across the street, a row of box-shaped homes contained a hardware store, a “gourmet” café, an antiques store and a dry cleaner. The theater had a copper awning, and gargoyles perched along a balcony.
A whitewashed bungalow was home to Rhinestone Cowgirl, the town’s premier jewelry store. Around the corner was Lintz Auto Shop. Just down the street was Strawberry Valley Community Church, a white stone chapel with massive stained-glass windows.
Out of habit, her gaze lifted to the sky. No stars in sight, the bright pinpricks of lights obscured by cirrostratus clouds. A whitish veil with a smooth sheetlike appearance.
“Dorothea!”
A car idled beside her, she realized, Lyndie Scott behind the wheel.
Warm relief washed through her. “Hey, you. What are you doing out so late?”
The strawberry blonde was as beautiful as ever with wide amber eyes and flawless porcelain skin, but…she looked sad. She always looked sad, even when smiling. At the age of twenty-one, Lyndie had married the police chief of Blueberry Hill. By twenty-three, she had become a widow.
Dorothea had only seen pictures of her friend with Chief Carrington; their relationship had taken place during her years away. She hoped they had loved each other deeply, madly, the way Dorothea had always yearned to be loved, but she suspected the couple had had their fair share of problems. Otherwise Lyndie would have kept her married name? Maybe?
“I actually came by the inn a few hours ago.” Lyndie gazed at her with concern. “Are you all right? Your sister said you didn’t want to be disturbed because you had a case of—” she glanced over her shoulder and whispered “—raging diarrhea.”
Dorothea nearly choked on her tongue. “Holly lied.” What else had the girl told the townspeople? Chronic flatulence? Hemorrhoids and anal fissures? “I promise I’m perfectly healthy.”
Lyndie pressed her lips together only to burst into laughter. “I’m sorry! I am. But oh, wow, your sister is a character.”
“Yeah, a character in a horror novel.” Though Dorothea had done a lousy job of keeping up with her dear friends while living in the city—she’d worked too much and foolishly poured all her free time into Jazz—the two had called and texted her often. Tidbits here and there about what they were up to, or inside jokes about their high school days. For instance, the time they created the ten commitments for any relationship, even though they were invisible to boys.
A boy shalt not:
Lie to anyone, ever, not even to flatter;
Cheat with so much as a look;
Steal even when desperate;
Harm others in any way;
Make excuses for bad behavior.
He shalt:
Compliment when merited;
Help when needed;
Treat others with kindness, always;
Consult you when making big decisions;
Do his best, not just what’s good enough.
Looking back, she comprehended Lyndie and Ryanne had seen through Jazz’s charisma to the slimeball within. By reminding her oh, so subtly of the list, they’d hoped she would see the truth.
She had, only far too late.
“Ryanne has the night off,” Lyndie said, “and she’s fixin’ me breakfast for dinner. Of course, by ‘me’ I mean ‘us.’ You’re coming, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
A fun, spontaneous night with friends? “You don’t have to drag me kicking and screaming. I’m in!” She climbed into the passenger seat and buckled up.
They drove to the Scratching Post a few miles outside of town, once owned and operated by Ryanne’s fourth stepdad, Earl.
Her mother—Selma Martinez-Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery—had married Earl after divorcing Lyndie’s father for reasons neither girl had ever discussed with Dorothea. In fact, both girls tended to act cagey whenever the subject came up, so she’d stopped asking questions. Eventually she’d stopped feeling hurt by the secrecy, too.
Whatever had happened, the two had obviously been hurt deeply. Dorothea flattened her palm over her tattoo. Some hurts worsened when they were discussed, never able to heal.
Ryanne lived directly above the bar. She’d moved in a couple years ago to take care of Earl, who’d later died of cancer.
What seemed to be millions of cars littered the parking lot. Inside the smoky, two-story warehouse, crowds of people stretched wall-to-wall. A few months ago, Ryanne had begun selling a house-made fruit cocktail moonshine; now patrons came to the Scratching Post in droves.
Directly behind the counter, a narrow hallway led to offices as well as a secret stairwell guarded by a weathered door and some kind of weird-looking digital lock. Lyndie punched in the code known to very few people, and together they climbed to the top, where they found another lock. This time, Lyndie knocked.
When you lived above a bar, you had to take precautions.
“Come in,” Ryanne called from inside.
Lyndie punched in a second code and entered the apartment, Dorothea at her heels. The sound of clanging pots and pans drew them across the great room and into a spacious, industrial kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances, everything chrome or stainless steel.
The scent of maple and bacon saturated the air, and her mouth watered. Her stomach growled.
The gorgeous Ryanne bustled from stove to sink. She had long, dark hair, even darker eyes and flawless golden-brown skin. In a pink tank top and skinny jeans, her hourglass figure was on perfect display.
A cloud of steam rose from the pan, painting her in a dreamy haze as she looked up and smiled in welcome. “Good girl, Lyndie. You managed to corral us a wild filly.”
Me? Wild?