Waiting For You in Wickitocket

By Robynne Rand

Fifty-seven-year-old Margaret Thompson lives a life of quiet desperation. Her daughters are in college, her ex-husband has remarried, and her vision of the future is blurry and uncertain. Until a letter arrives in March, informing Margaret she has inherited her beloved late aunt’s beach house in Connecticut. Her home every summer when she was a child.

Pictures from the attorney tell the story of a vengeful cousin, but Margaret has no idea of the true damage until she arrives in June. Over thirty years of cherished memories are erased as soon as she opens the front door. If that wasn’t bad enough, Margaret hears her late aunt talking to her and wonders if she’s losing her mind.

With little money, and only a college kid for a construction crew, Margaret is determined to bring the house back to what she remembers. Hidden treasures, secret rooms, and ancestral stories bring Margaret’s other memories to the surface—memories she had hoped to keep buried.

New friends, new ideas about her future, and new revelations about what home really means, force Margaret to question everything she once held dear and fight for what she now wants.
Unfortunately, what she truly wants only exists in the secret place in her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robynne Rand
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463082423

Robynne Rand

Robynne Rand grew up on the shores of Rhode Island. Now living in the Foothills of the Piedmont in North Carolina with her daughter, two dogs, and a cat named Henry David Thoreau, she writes about home and the people she misses.Rand also writes Regency romance under the pen name Anne Gallagher.

Book preview

Chapter One

Margaret Thompson hadn’t driven by herself for so many hours in the car since she’d brought her youngest daughter Ally to college last fall. However, the return from Jacksonville had only been seven hours. This trip to Connecticut seemed endless.

Google maps indicated the drive from Winston-Salem would only take twelve hours, either way she chose to go—straight up Interstate 95, or along the Appalachian Trail. After Margaret studied the maps again, she’d decided to drive the high country through Virginia, then into Pennsylvania, and the woods of New York into Connecticut. Starting out on the trip, Margaret was confident in her ability to handle the long-distance drive. Since her eldest daughter, Amber, had started college, Margaret thought of highway driving as work, and she was a dedicated professional.

However, now, between the road construction, back-ups, and lost time sleeping at the Motel 6 the night before, Margaret was afraid she wouldn’t get to Wickitocket until after dark. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was almost three in the afternoon. She wanted to sleep at Aunt Tibby’s, not another hotel.

Outside Meriden, Connecticut, she took the wrong exit, north instead of south, and by the time Margaret found the correct direction, she had lost another forty-five minutes. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes and she brushed them away. Hungry, tired, and her stomach in knots over what she would find when she arrived, Margaret wanted to pull over, but stubbornness won out and she continued to drive. Thank you, Jesus, she said. Just get me there, please. Margaret said thank-you-Jesus prayers instead of reaching for a cigarette. She had quit over thirty years before, but the cravings still hit her in times of exasperation.

It must have worked because thirty seconds later, Margaret saw the exit sign for Mystic. She glanced at the clock again—5:04—and took the off-ramp with a sigh of relief, not only because she was almost there, but because she could finally slow down to fifty-five. The stress of driving over seventy-miles an hour to keep up with the flow of traffic ate her nerves raw.

Nothing looked familiar, not that it would, she hadn’t been to Aunt Tibby’s in over thirty years. However, as she drove along Route 1, Margaret started to wonder if she was in the right place. Nothing looked familiar. Where were the farms? Where was the old windmill? When did Route 1 become a super-highway? This wasn’t at all what she remembered.

Her phone chimed the direction to take the next exit. Continue for point two miles and take the next right, her phone said. The highway sign read Stonington.

Thank God, Margaret said. She put her signal on and took the exit. At the red light, she looked around trying to figure out where she was. This was not the way to Aunt Tibby’s. She must have taken the wrong Stonington exit.

Continue right for point two miles.

Okay, but this isn’t the way, Margaret said. She didn’t panic because she was close, but she should be in the city, not still on the bi-way. However, she continued to drive. A few miles later, the post office building came into view, and a new road sign. Welcome to Wickitocket. Exit Only. Margaret heaved a sigh as she took the exit. The bi-way continued on to the left. She didn’t want to know where it went.

As she slowed for the STOP sign, perhaps she was in the right place after all, Margaret wondered where the A & P was. Where was Henson’s Ice Cream? What happened to the other restaurant where she and Aunt Tibby used to eat Sunday breakfast after church? As she came to a stop, Margaret looked to her left and drew in a huge breath. What happened to the woods? To the left past the old bridge, now a new bridge, where there used to be a forest, was a four-lane boulevard with a huge traffic signal. Oh, my God in heaven, she said aloud.

Margaret took in what progress had brought after being away for almost thirty-five years. Although, she wasn’t surprised. The same thing had happened to every other small town in North Carolina since she had moved there twenty-eight years ago. No one could stop progress.

Take a right hand turn, the phone repeated for the third time.

Margaret put her foot on the gas, still flabbergasted by what she had just seen.

Take the next left, the phone said. Your destination is on the left.

Margaret slowed, and then took the left onto the newly paved road and stopped. It couldn’t be. This could not be Aunt Tibby’s street. She glanced back to find the sign. Cove Point Road. All indications said she was in the right place, but six houses now lined the lane that faced the ocean. Where were the trees? And the dirt road with the grass in between the ruts she always had to mow? She continued until she came to the last house. A sad neglected two-story Victorian stood at the end of the driveway, its brown peeling paint lending it a haunted air. Margaret pulled in and struggled with her disbelief as she put the shift in park. This could not be Aunt Tibby’s house, but the phone confirmed it.

You have arrived at your destination.

Margaret shut the car off, swung the door open, and practically fell to the ground when she climbed from the seat. Unsure if her sudden lack of leg support was exhaustion or shock, Margaret stood in the driveway and stared at the house. Nothing was as she remembered it.

Margaret spun around to face the water. At least that hadn’t changed. The view of the ocean was still the same in front, but where did all the houses come from? When she stayed with Aunt Tibby all those summers, there had only been trees that lined the road and Aunt Tibby’s house at the end of it. What had her cousin Norman done? Had he really sold the land?

Excuse me, a voice called. This is private property.

Margaret turned and said, I’m Margaret Thompson. I own the house now.

The woman, who appeared to be about her age, wore a bright blue sundress, and sported an I-live-at-the-beach-tan. She let go of her armed guard stance and smiled. Oh, how nice to meet you. The woman walked toward her. Gloria said you were coming. She stuck out her hand. I’m Patty Greer.

Margaret shook her hand. Nice to meet you.

Well, I’m glad you’re finally here, Patty said. It’s just been awful trying to keep the riff-raff out. Now we can petition the town for a gate.

A gate? Margaret asked. There used to be a gate, Margaret remembered now that Patty mentioned it. When she was really little. A red cattle gate at the top of the street.

For the top of the street. Patty pointed. So we can be a private road. That way we won’t have to worry about people trying to use our boat ramp.

Surprised, Margaret asked, Since when does this road have a boat ramp?

Since Bill Bartle moved in. He petitioned Town Council. We all voted. Patty pointed up the road again. He lives in the blue house. Patty lowered her voice. He’s a little loud when he’s here, but lucky for us, he’s in South America for the next month.

How nice for him. Margaret muttered under her breath.

Well, I’m sure you’re tired, Patty said, so I’ll let you be, but if you need anything, just let me know.

Actually, Margaret said. Do you know where the grocery store is? There used to be one on the corner as soon as you turned off the highway, but it’s not there anymore.

Oh, they tore that down about twenty years ago to put in the Wal-mart. It’s just over the bridge. There’s a Target too, and a Kohl’s further down. The Stop & Shop is past that on the other side of the road. Patty smiled. Do you need any help with anything? My boys are home.

Oh, no, Patty, that’s sweet, Margaret said. But thanks. It’s only the two suitcases. I can manage.

Okay, Patty said. But if you need anything, we’re right there.

Okay, thanks. Margaret grabbed her purse from the front seat and closed the door.

See you, Patty said. She turned and walked across the grass to her house.

Margaret popped the trunk and hauled out a suitcase. She rolled it up the dirt drive and heaved it up the porch steps. Standing in front of the door, she dug in her purse for the keys Aunt Tibby’s attorney had sent her. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the door and pushed it open.

A wave of old man stench, closed up house, and dust hit her in the face. She pulled the bottom of her t-shirt up to her nose, stepped into the once familiar house, and burst into tears.

All of her memories were erased in a split second. Aunt Tibby’s beautiful hardwood floors were now covered in dirty brown shag carpeting. The spindled archways into the front parlor and den were now actual walls painted brown with weird gold flecks. The kitchen cabinets had been painted green to match the appliances, the furniture was 1970’s Naugahyde, and the side porch had been turned into a laundry room. Unfortunately, it also looked as though the washer had leaked for twenty years and the floor dipped at an odd angle.

Margaret was afraid to go upstairs to see what horrors Norman had wrought in the bedrooms, but she forced herself. She had to find somewhere to sleep. Margaret peered into Aunt Tibby’s room and sucked in a breath. It was something out of Rat Pack Vegas—mirrors on the ceiling, a king-sized bed with a fake fur bed spread, more brown shag carpet, and a wet bar set into the closet. Disgusted, Margaret closed the bedroom door and walked up the hall to her old room. Thankfully, Norman hadn’t bothered wasting money on redecorating any of the smaller bedrooms. Her room was just as she remembered, more or less. Boxes of old books lined the floor and dresser top. Piles of women’s dresses and men’s suits lay on top of the bed. And every surface was covered in twelve layers of grime.

Margaret flung the curtains wide. Unfortunately, decades of dirt and dust hit her square in the face. Coughing and choking, she successfully managed to open the windows. Although, throughout the rest of the house, only one window in each room opened. Margaret would have to find a handyman quickly if she were going to survive. She could live without air conditioning. She couldn’t live without open windows.

Margaret returned to the car, retrieved the other suitcase, three large plastic bins, and four smallish boxes, and left them all in the foyer. She had to get to the grocery store before dark. She’d never find her way back, even with GPS. She flipped the switch in the kitchen to make sure she had lights on when she returned. Nothing happened. She walked to the other light switch and flipped that. Nothing.

Great, Margaret said. Now what am I supposed to do? She stood in the middle of the dirty kitchen and pondered where the electrical panel would be. Hers at home was in the back hall. This house didn’t have a back hall. Margaret walked to the laundry room. Sure enough, there was the electric panel. She opened the little grey door and started flipping the buttons to the opposite side of the panel. The kitchen light went on over her shoulder.

Let there be light, Margaret said. Maybe she could do this after all.

Now that she had lights and a place to sleep, all she needed was something to eat, and milk for her tea in the morning. A quick trip to the Stop & Shop and she would be able to survive the next few days.

Once Margaret returned from the grocery store, she wiped the kitchen table and counters down with vinegar and water—the only cleaning solution she could find in the house—and ate the cold sandwich she had bought. Sitting at the kitchen table, she pulled the attorney’s paperwork from her large traveling bag and read it through for the eight-hundredth time. Now that Aunt Tibby’s only son was dead, the house, land, and entire contents belonged to Margaret. The problem was she couldn’t afford it.

Since her divorce, Margaret scraped by on her salary as a fifth grade teacher at a Catholic elementary school. Thankfully, the judge had decreed Margaret and the girls could stay in their house and Ray pay the mortgage and upkeep as long as their youngest daughter remained in college. But, Margaret’s meager income barely covered half of the girls’ expenses for school and the electric bill. How on earth could she pay for the major repairs this behemoth of a house warranted? She was no contractor, but she had watched enough DIY home television shows to know this was bad.

After seeing the pictures the attorney had sent, Amber and Allyson, Margaret’s daughters, wanted her to sell the place. Ray, Margaret’s ex-husband, pushed her to sell the place. What are you going to do with it? Ray asked. It’s seven-hundred miles away. It’s not like the girls will want to go there. They’re not kids anymore. Besides, they never even liked the beach.

That much was true. They were mountain girls. They liked to hike and climb with Ray when they were kids. Getting them to the beach in North Carolina was a battle every summer. Once they were there, they were fine, but Ally was afraid of seaweed and Amber prone to sunburn. They spent more time at the arcade, than at the beach. When Amber was thirteen, Margaret stopped asking if they wanted to go. Instead of a week at the shore and one in the mountains, Ray booked two weeks at the cabin. During those two weeks, Margaret read a lot, walked by herself, and worked on her lesson plans for the following school year. She also made a vow that when the girls were in college, she would go to the beach by herself. And now here she was, sitting alone in a filthy house, eating a cold sub sandwich, and wondering what she had gotten herself into.

It’s what you always wanted.

Margaret jumped in her chair. It sounded as if Aunt Tibby sat right next to her.

Chapter Two

Margaret slept, but not very well, the lumpy, dirty mattress making her feel as if bugs crawled over her. Luckily, she had thought to bring her own sheets, so it wasn’t true, but Margaret was up before dawn, and downstairs making a list of things she would absolutely need, the first being a new mattress.

It was barely six when her phone rang. Her eldest daughter, Amber. Margaret picked it up and said hello.

Are you all right? Amber asked. "Where are you? Ally and I have been worried sick. We’ve been calling you all night. You were supposed to call the second you got there. Where are you?" Amber’s voice cracked.

I’m here, Margaret said. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I got in late, then had to go to the store. I was really tired, so I just went to bed. I wasn’t thinking. I left my phone on the kitchen table. I’m sorry, honey.

Well, I’m glad you’re all right. How is it? Is it everything you remembered?

Margaret glanced around the kitchen. No. Not at all. Norman ruined everything.

I’m sorry, Mom, Amber said. I know how much you were looking forward to this. What are you going to do?

I don’t know. I have to talk to the attorney today. He had mentioned there was some money for repairs, but there’s so much wrong with the house, it’s going to take a small fortune to fix it.

I’m sorry, Mom, Amber said again and paused. Do you want to come home?

No. Not yet. I’m going to see what’s what, find out how much money there is or not, and then think about selling once the house is back to its former glory. Maybe.

Well, we all think you should sell, including Daddy.

Yes, I know what Daddy thinks, Margaret said, a tinge of bitterness underlying the statement.

Mom, he’s only trying to help you.

I don’t want to talk about your father. The pain of Ray’s betrayal, the subsequent divorce, and now grappling with the fact that he had a new baby with his new, younger wife, ripped her guts apart every time she thought about him. It wasn’t fair. Margaret had wanted another baby and Ray had said no. Now she understood he wanted one, just not with her.

I’m sorry, Mom, Amber said. I don’t want to fight with you, but you have to know that by selling the house you won’t have to worry about retirement. Ally and I won’t have to worry about you.

Sweetheart, Margaret said. You and Ally never have to worry about me. I’ll be fine for retirement. I’ve been working for the school department for twenty-five years. I have a nice pension. But she was petrified because she knew it wasn’t enough.

But Mom, you know how those things can go bad. Remember what happened to Aunt Grace?

Margaret did, which was why she was petrified. Ray’s sister Grace had worked for a school system in Ohio and when the recession hit in ’08, she lost everything.

I’m not worried about my retirement, Margaret said. Look, Button, everything will be all right, okay. Don’t worry. I’m going to take the summer, fix the house, and figure it out as I go along. Who knows, I might be so disgusted at the end of the day I’ll jump back in my car and be home by Friday.

Really? Amber’s enthusiasm rang through the phone loud and clear.

No, Margaret said. You know I have to stay, but if you saw what I’m up against, you would be a little freaked out too.

Is it really bad? Did he completely ruin it?

"It looks like something out of that movie Casino with Robert DeNiro. Or Al Pacino? I can never remember."

The cocaine one?

Yeah, Margaret said. Remember the mirrors in the bathroom? With the fake gold leaf?

Yeah, Amber said.

Well, Norman put those on the ceiling in Aunt Tibby’s bedroom.

Oh my God, that’s disgusting, Amber said.

Yes, yes it is. I hate to think of what he was doing in there.

Eww, gross. Mom, what are you going to do? You can’t live in a place like that.

I know. That’s why I’m meeting with the attorney today. I’m going to see if there’s enough money to hire a construction crew or a handyman or something. If I have to, I’ll rip everything out myself.

There was a long pause and then Amber asked, Mom, do you want me to come up there and help you?

No, don’t be silly. You have your job. And your father would kill me if I took you away from him. I can handle this. It’s a bit overwhelming right now, that’s all. Once I get things a little cleaned up and see some progress being made, I’ll be fine.

I hate to think of you up there alone dealing with all of it.

It’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll be fine, Margaret said, if only to reassure herself. Who knows, maybe I’ll find some treasure.

Treasure? Amber asked. Like what, a pound of old coke?

Ha. Ha, Margaret said. "But maybe all the money from the sale of the pound of coke."

Wouldn’t that be nice, Amber said.

Yes, wouldn’t it. Yes, wouldn’t it. Thank you, Jesus.

There was another long pause, and then Amber said, Ok, Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get ready for work.

Okay, sweetheart, give your sister a kiss for me. I love you.

I love you too, Mommy. Miss you.

I miss you too, Button. Bye.

Margaret clicked end and placed the phone on the table. The attorney’s office didn’t open for another two hours. She rose from the chair, walked to the cabinets, and opened them all looking for cleaning supplies. Nothing. Had Norman ever cleaned? She went into the laundry room and opened those cabinets. Again, nothing. She should just go shopping. But first, what she needed to do was make a list. Everything was always better when she had a list.

Margaret walked to her travel bag and pulled out her trusty clipboard, blank ruled paper, and several pens in different colors. She placed the paper on the clipboard, grabbed a blue pen, and walked into the other rooms making lists of all that would have to be done.

Forty-minutes later, when she returned into the kitchen, she grabbed a red magic marker and wrote RIP OUT RUGS FIRST across the top of the first page. Perhaps the attorney would be better able to come up with some money if she showed him her lists.

Margaret wanted to shower before the meeting, however, the upstairs bathroom left a lot to be desired. The toilet was stained and no matter how much cleanser she used—finally finding some in the linen closet—the rust stains wouldn’t dissipate. She scrubbed the tub, and then the sink. She would leave the floor because it was getting late, but at least she could take a shower, use the toilet, and brush her teeth without fear of contracting leprosy.

Once showered and dressed, Margaret called the attorney’s office to make an appointment.

Rivera Law Office, this is Kathy. How can I help you?

Hi, this is Margaret Thompson. I’m in Wickitocket. I’d like to make an appointment to speak with Steve Rivera.

We’re so glad you’re here, Mrs. Thompson, Kathy said. I know Mr. Rivera was worried you weren’t coming.

Why would he think that? When I spoke to him in March, I told him I would be here.

Yes, but after he sent the pictures, he was afraid you would just up and sell, sight unseen.

Believe me, I wanted to, Margaret thought, but instead she said, I’m not afraid of a little hard work. Besides, Aunt Tibby wouldn’t have wanted that.

No, Mr. Rivera didn’t think so either. Well, I have you down for ten-thirty. Do you know how to find us? We’re right on Main Road above Billy’s Burgers. You can park in back and come through the green door up the stairs.

Great. Thanks. I’ll see you at ten-thirty. Margaret said good-bye and hung up. Billy’s Burgers was still in town! The little beachside restaurant tripped so many memories Margaret had trouble keeping them all straight. She would have to eat there for lunch. She grabbed her keys, purse, and lists, and headed out to the car.

In the driveway, she waved to Patty next door, got in the car, and started it. She adjusted the rear view mirror while at the same time rolled down the windows. It was only a little after nine, but warm for mid-June on the beach in Connecticut. This struck Margaret as oddly disconcerting.

Margaret put the car in reverse, and backed out of the drive. She paused a minute and looked at the house. Now that it was broad daylight, there was no doubt in her mind it would take a million dollars to make it resemble what she remembered. She flicked a glance at the huge pine that stood sentinel in front of the porch. She prayed it wouldn’t have to be taken down. So far, the tree, and the view, were the only things she had left of Aunt Tibby.

The cove in front of the house narrowed into an inlet as it ran past Aunt Tibby’s property to the north, where it met a tributary from the Pawcatuck River and formed a wetland area, the entire ten miles upstream protected by Coastal Resources and Fish and Game. Because Aunt Tibby’s ancestor’s house had been built before building or fire codes, the house could remain until the mean high tide from the inlet reached one hundred feet from the back door. Every summer Aunt Tibby would say a prayer there wouldn’t be a hurricane. That was always her biggest fear. Now, it claimed Margaret.

She put the car in drive and headed to Wal-mart.

Driving back into town from the shopping center, Margaret stared dumbfounded at the way progress had taken over. Condominiums and town homes lined either side of the massive boulevard. Strip malls, chain restaurants, and gas stations filled whatever land was left. There were street signs for neighborhoods where cow pastures, big giant barns, and long low stone walls used to be. Margaret remembered long swaths of pine forests along the road, now replaced by greed and capitalism. Her throat closed and tears stung her eyes.

Margaret heard Aunt Tibby’s voice. I was afraid this would happen.

Startled, yet comforted at the same time, Margaret said, Yes, you always were, weren’t you, as if her aunt was sitting in the passenger seat. The last conversation she remembered having with her aunt on the subject popped into her head.

Of course, progress has to happen, Aunt Tibby had said. But does it have to be so fast? First, they put in a McDonald’s right across the street from the church. That is sacrilege. Then, they built a Sunoco gas station up the street from poor Charlie Carter and it drove him right out of business. What next? A hotel on every corner? What’s going to happen when they put in a Wal-mart?

Aunt, Margaret said. You can’t stop it. Well, you can, but—

Really? How can this little old lady stop progress? Her aunt’s hands flailed in the air.

Run for president of Town Council, Margaret said. You can approve or disapprove any new building codes and permits.

No I can’t. Her aunt snorted. That’s a vote.

Yes, but you can persuade the other members of the Council to vote your way. You could sell ice cream to a snow man.

That, my darling girl, is illegal. It’s also immoral and corrupt.

It’s also how you stop the megaplexes from being built and the conglomerates from taking over. How do you think Sunoco and McDonald’s got to be built in the first place? They told Town Council it would be good for taxes. Bring revenue and jobs. You, as mayor, could stop it.

Aunt Tibby had laughed, but before the summer was over, her aunt had spoken to several people about running for a seat on the Town Council. Sadly, though, it never happened. Aunt Tibby died that October.

A car horn brought Margaret out of her reverie.

Yes, okay, I’m going, Margaret said. She put her foot on the gas and continued past Cove Point Road to what Aunt Tibby always called the village.

As she drove down Main Road, she was quite taken aback. This looked like what she remembered as a kid, but with flair that 1970’s Wickitocket, Connecticut didn’t have. Little shops lined the street, people sat outside in front of cafés, the smell of high tide and seaweed mixed with French fries and cinnamon. She found Billy’s Burgers exactly where it used to be and parked in back.

Margaret grabbed her traveling bag and purse and headed across the parking lot, through the green door, and up the stairs.

A very cute tanned twenty-something sat behind a desk under a dormer window. Hi, you must be Mrs. Thompson. I’m Kathy. How are you? Mr. Rivera will be with you in just a second. He’s on the phone, but expecting you.

Okay, thanks, Margaret said. Her stomach growled. The smell of fried food was overpowering on the second floor.

A door opened on her left. A handsome middle-aged man dressed in khakis and a white polo shirt framed the doorway. Mrs. Thompson, Steve Rivera. He approached her, his hand outstretched.

Margaret shook his hand. Please, call me Margaret.

Steve. Come on in. Would you like a coffee? Bottle of water? Tea? He waited, arm outstretched, for her to enter.

No, thanks. I’m fine. Margaret walked into the office. Wide windows, French doors to a balcony, and two skylights brightened the small cramped room. Manila folders sat in boxes on every surface. Two computer monitors sat open on a small table tucked under the eave. A huge maple tree hugged the balcony outside and gave the room a tree house quality.

Steve closed the door. How was the drive up? He walked to sit behind his desk and proffered her the chair in front.

Margaret sat. Fine, long, but that was to be expected.

What did you think of the house? Steve asked.

It’s filthy and needs work, Margaret said. But you took the pictures. You’ve seen it.

Steve raised his brows. It could become a million dollar property.

It could also become my retirement home. Margaret was surprised when those words erupted from her lips. She’d always wanted a beach house for the summer, but had never really thought of living there for retirement. Then again, she always thought she’d be married when she retired.

Steve leaned back in his chair and smiled. True. Well… He pushed some papers around on his desk and then found a manila envelope and handed it to her. This is for you from Mrs. Banks.

Margaret took the envelope and swallowed. What do you mean, from Mrs. Banks?

Your aunt, Steve said. She had personal papers set aside for you.

Why didn’t I receive these after she died? Margaret stared at the large envelope in her lap, tears blinding her vision.

Strict instructions until you take over the house, Steve said. He handed her another envelope. "This is

Reviews for Waiting For You in Wickitocket

[Lara Schmitt Davenport · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Such a sweet story! If you want an easy, quick read that will make you feel good, read this. Since most of us can't sit at the beach yet and enjoy a quick book there, read this and imagine you're there. If you are lucky enough to be on a beach this summer, put this on your reading list! Margaret is a loveable character and you are so rooting for her the whole time. After all, don't we all just want a happy ending?