A Convenient Catastrophe

By Tracy Bayle

A MODERN DAY LOVE STORY ON PARALLEL TRACKS WITH DECADES OF DECEPTION AND WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE TWO COLLIDE.

At the heart of A Convenient Catastrophe is a mother that was laid to rest a long time ago. But her secrets were buried much deeper than she ever was. No one in Flannery Cove has seen or heard from Caroline Chadwick in decades, not

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Bayle
• Release date: Dec 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781735450636

Tracy Bayle

"A keen observer of the experiences of humans."Tracy Bayle is an American author of women's fiction/family drama and romantic suspense, in both her Flannery Cove and Shanning's Bay novels, which are all part of The Sea Island Series. she is known for portraying the true characteristics of humans and the situations they create. She has been entertaining her family with tall tales ever since she could put two thoughts together, and if you're stuck in traffic or a waiting room with her, you are going to be forced to listen to her imagination run wild and create a story.Tracy resides in Florida with her family, and loves interacting with readers.Follow Tracy on Facebook to be part of an engaging community of readers and be the first to find out when more books are being released. https://www.facebook.com/TracyBayleAuthorInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/tracybayleauthor/https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19901615.Tracy_Bayle"Bayle's novels are baked with irresistible heartbreak and honesty, but it's that final sprinkling of relatable humor that makes them so addictive.".

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A Convenient Catastrophe

Tracy Bayle

A Convenient Catastrophe

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2020 by Tracy Bayle

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. if you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact author at: [e-mail]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Cover Design by: Yashodhan Jaltare

ISBN-10 : 1675915709

ISBN-13 : 978-1675915707

Published by: SkimStone Publishing
Winter Springs, FL, USA 32708

The Sea Island Series

There is a special place in the world called the Atlantic Ocean. Along this ocean’s coast, on the eastern part of the United States, from South Carolina down to Florida, is a chain of tidal and barrier islands called the Sea Islands. The Sea Islands gift the inhabitants of these coastal towns with a glorious watercolor rendition of nature’s most dynamic array of colors, as well as a continual symphony. Each island has a different flavor, but they all have been given a special sprinkling of enchantment.

It is that enchantment that brings visitors from around the globe seeking beauty and tranquility. But within every village there are the locals. The locals have families, jobs, homes. And the locals have secrets.

Contents

The Sea Island Series

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

Book two in the Sea Island series

THE ROAD TO REMORSE

A note from Tracy:

Questions for Discussion:

ONE

I’m thinking about killing Eleanor."

There. I’ve finally said it.

Becky frowns across the booth at me, her face a mixture of confusion and inquiry at my proclamation. Words form on her lips, then realization floods her features and she traps her words back inside unspoken. It’s apparent by this gesture alone that Eleanor isn’t that important.

I get that, I suppose. Eleanor is fictional. Eleanor was created in my imagination years ago and has been shelved and re-shelved off and on for the better part of my adult life. She’s been meticulously created and re-created so many times and, to Becky’s credit, she hasn’t been on my mind or in my discussions in a while. She’s been shelved once again.

Here we are though, with our visit drawing to a close and the important, soul-searching discussions being kept at bay. I catch her eye and dare her to drop the subject of Eleanor and her impending fate. We could pick up this thread, re-invent a new ending for Eleanor and her love, Samuel, and avoid the reality of actual life. That would be the ideal thing to do.

Two women at the booth behind us are talking about a recent trip to a hypnotist. I swear, one says to the other, she said twelve pounds in three weeks. Dance Moms, both of them. The bane of my existence, aside from Madame Bienve herself. Fortunately, it’s late afternoon and by this time Madame has locked her upstairs dance studio and gone home for the day. No more tapping of her stick on the floor above my head. No more scowling, looking down her long, thin nose at me, or correcting my speech. Until tomorrow, anyway.

Well, maybe not brutally killing her exactly. It’d be pretty hard to combine horror with historical romance. I frown and gnaw at the skin surrounding my nail on my index finger, considering. "Maybe having Samuel accidentally kill her. Or maybe she and Samuel should die tragically together, instead of all this happily ever after nonsense no one cares about reading. Give the people what they apparently want."

Still no bites?

Nope. I pop the P sound for emphasis. Unless you consider twenty-three rejections a bite.

Ooh. Becky swirls her latte with a stir stick, playing with her food, treading carefully. "Maybe it is time to let them die." She shrugs while she licks the stick like a child with a milkshake straw.

Surely she knows she’s crossed a line. She knows how much A Maiden’s Voyage means to me. She’s been hearing about Eleanor and Samuel since the day I first put pen to paper, knows their story as well as she knows my own — or thinks she knows my own.

Truth be told, no one knows my real story — not even sure I do. I’ve constructed one that serves me well, but my life has more holes than a slice of Swiss cheese, and I’m uncertain how to fill them. Dwelling on them brings too much to the surface that needs to stay buried. That’s why Eleanor keeps coming off the shelf, I suppose. I can fill in Eleanor’s plot holes and, in doing so, avoid my own.

I place my elbows on the table in front of me and hold my head with fists under my chin. The new poster I had framed and hung over the lunch counter was a good choice. That pastry on the little china plate — the light captures the milkiness of the icing that drips off of it beautifully. Even the bit of tarnish in the hollow of the silver spoon that’s been propped on the plate — nice touch. The tarnish spot blurs and takes on the shape of Texas as my mind meanders in directions I can’t afford to let it, not now. I run my tongue over the soft flesh inside my cheek, tasting the chocolate chip cookie I ate hours earlier until I’m calm enough to change the subject myself.

So. Hailey’s last year. I sigh and rest the side of my face in the palm of my hand, scrunching it. Me, the mother of an eighteen-year-old. She’s graduating! We’re officially old! My voice rises with each proclamation and I lean in to show how good-natured I am, not angered in the least on Eleanor’s behalf, not anxious about my meandering thoughts.

Oh, jeez. Remember us at that age? Becky watches my waiter, Cory, wipe down the counters with a washcloth and toss dirty dishes into a gray plastic bin. There are still crumbs under the barstool, sprinkled across the wood floor like a trail. Huge chunks of Pumpkin Maple Muffin left behind by that little boy that came in earlier with his mom.

I try not to. I fold my hands in my lap, the mannerisms of a wayward girl turned proper, or attempting to appear so. I was trying to graduate from high school and plan a shotgun wedding.

I was there. I remember it well. She flattens her lips. So what’s Baby Daddy Greg up to these days?

Same as always, I guess. I shrug and glance across the street at the bookstore and watch the owner, Deaton, maneuver his clearance rack through his doorway while thinking about my ex-husband’s new life. Still lying and sneaking around, I would imagine.

Becky follows my gaze. "Well, he’s a looker." She raises her brows to see if I’ll offer up any details on the man across the street who’s now picking up a stack of books he’s dropped.

Deaton? I make a face like she might be hallucinating. I squint and try to see what she might be seeing, but I can’t. All I see is goofy Deaton, in his wire-rimmed glasses that he constantly adjusts up and down his nose like the doctor gave him the wrong prescription. Deaton’s not a looker. He’s just… Deaton. A friend, a brother of sorts, a big blob of geekiness.

Becky and I grow silent, both lost in our thoughts about everything that’s happened, both of us continuing to avoid the real questions, the real truths as we know them.

I should go back and try to find another poster to hang beside the new one—maybe a steaming mug of something to fill that space. The mug would need to match the dessert plate somewhat and…

How is she? Becky asks with no change in tone, like we’ve been sitting here talking about her this whole time instead of made-up people I can control. Her voice is almost a whisper though, as if she’s afraid to intrude on my thoughts. I know how hard this is. You’re damned if you ask and damned if you don’t.

How is she?

The answer to this question changes from day to day, depending on Ian. Depending on the weather. Depending on which foot hits the floor first in the morning and how hard. Depending on if she’s found a doctor to keep writing the prescriptions.

She’s all right. She’s plodding along. My response is unsure, noncommittal. You know how it goes. Strong one day, broken the next.

She nods, nothing much else to say about it. It’s been this way forever. But then, Ames, don’t you ever think it might be time-

No! I don’t.

She tips back her head and finishes the last drop of her latte, glances at her watch, and settles things in her mind. Welp, okay. I better get going. It’s starting to look bad out there.

I glance out the window and unwad my napkin to wipe at the moisture that clouds my view, revealing the impending storm I hadn’t even noticed. Deaton has managed to get his wheeled racks inside and close shop. By the clock, we should have another hour before nightfall, but the sky is already darkening, casting ominous shadows. A woman walking across the street is holding her hair back with her hand, and a lost dog flyer is sauntering down the street on its merry way. The bell on the café door chimes as my last customers, two Dance Moms holding their ballerinas’ hands, leave. A strong gust blows the door out of their grip and it bangs against the nearby wall before slamming shut.

Cory runs from the kitchen to see what happened and disappears again, returning minutes later to wipe down the counters and top off all the filters for the next morning’s rush. The rich scent of chicory and hazelnut fill the air, like spraying a can of calm. Talk of her gets swept up in the vapor and dissipates.

When will you be back this way?

Becky stands, securing her coat sash tightly around her thin frame. She looks like some old New York socialite, like one of those Olson twins, all five feet four inches of her, enveloped in furry warmth that swallows her whole. Her long blonde hair is held back off her face by the oversized sunglasses she had on when she arrived and she clutches a disposable coffee cup. Not sure. Most likely Thanksgiving, she answers, tossing her cup into the nearby trash. Depends on schedules — mine, Bryan’s, the kids.

I nod knowingly, looking like a disappointed but pacified child. I hate this part of her infrequent visits, hate how far Montgomery, Alabama is from Flannery Cove, Georgia — how far her peaceful suburban comfort is from my chaotic tangle of lies.

The rain begins to pound. Drive safe, I yell as she dashes for the white SUV parked at the curb. My words are beaten down by the sudden flood and washed down the nearby gutter.

After Becky leaves, I send Cory home thirty minutes early. Not expecting any more today. I cut him off before he has a chance to tell me yet again how much he needs the hours for the new rims or whatever he’s saving up to buy. I’ll lock up. I smile affably like I’m doing him a great favor, then stare out the window while he collects his things.

The rain came down in sheets, soaking her skin and causing her blouse to cling to her…

Not now! This is ridiculous. Eleanor can live for now, but I have got to stop writing these narratives in my head all the time and face facts. Stringing sentences together does not make one an author.

But it does, Amy. It most certainly does, Mr. Scottsboro, my high school Literature teacher, would have said, while stroking his scruffy beard. Meaning that art is subjective. If you put color to canvas, you are an artist — words on a page, and you are a writer.

Well, Mr. Scottsboro, publishers apparently don’t see it that way.

I open the door for Cory so he can manage his backpack, cell phone, and keys, then step out under my front awning to glance up and down deserted Sandpiper Street. I start to turn back when I see Deaton again, standing directly across from me, inside his bookstore doorway. He holds up a hand, then flips his open sign to the closed side. In a split decision, I run back inside and grab two Styrofoam cups, filling one with the last dregs of decaf, the other with half dark roast, half vanilla cappuccino, and two pumps of skim milk. After flipping my sign over, I sprint across the street in the pouring rain, tapping on the bookstore’s glass door.

Deaton looks up from his register, where he’s counting his day’s take with a cordless phone propped between his cheek and shoulder, and he smiles. He grabs his keys and kicks a box out of the way as he strides purposefully back to the front door.

Well, tell Patty I’m on her side, he says into the phone. Bout time she threw that con-man to the curb. He holds up an index finger. I glance down at my sopping wet shirt and pull it out away from my skin as much as I can. Gotta run, Mom. Call you tomorrow. He clicks the phone off and sets it on a nearby table.

I hold up the cup in my right hand. I remembered how you like it.

Thanks. What did you call it? The Socialite Special?

I shrug, handing it to him. Can’t help it if you’re a lightweight.

Atticus jumps from the window seat and weaves himself between my ankles, then moseys off toward the back of the store, his tail held straight and high, dignified. The smell of newly installed carpet and fresh paint almost seems toxic. It’s too industrial for a bookstore. Things need to be scratched up a bit, spilled on a few times, made homey.

That sounded interesting.

Oh, yeah. Deaton wipes a hand across his lips and returns to his stool behind the register. My mom. Her cousin Patty’s been married twenty-some-odd-years to Larry the Loser. He grabs a handful of fifties and counts while still talking. So yesterday at Wanda Wiggin’s wedding…

Hmmm… there’s a title: Wanda’s Wedding… Wedding… beheading… Dreading the Wedding… That could be about a woman that…

I miss a few words before I realize Deaton’s tone has changed. "Anyway, Patty overheard some women talking about her husband Larry and Shirley Conway, who works down at Brennan’s Department Store. Turns out Larry and Shirley have a thing going on and Patty is the last one in town to know."

Hmph. I take a sip of my coffee and look for a place to throw my empty cup.

So anyway, Deaton continues, laying aside the fifties and picking up the stack of twenties, Mom says Patty has made up her mind, once and for all. She’s leaving Larry, he proclaims and nods his head with finality, proud of this Patty, as if he’s been trying to convince me for years that one day she would have had enough and I never believed it. The nod knocks his glasses, so he wrinkles his nose and works them back into place. Her mother died last year, leaving her a dilapidated old house on the edge of town, and Mom says she’s moving into it, determined to fix up the house and ‘fix up her life.’ He puts air quotes around the phrase.

I nod, agreeing that Cousin Patty has had enough. Sounds like she needs to leave Larry to make his own chicken pot pies and wash his own overalls, or whatever people do in rural Iowa.

"Only problem is that Patty’s son, L.J. — that’s Larry Jr. — is foolishly blaming his mom for splitting the family up. He lays aside the stack of twenties and reaching for the fives. Three hundred fifty."

I yawn, bored with talk of people I don’t even know. Deaton’s not the most interesting conversationalist, but he has a pretty good listening ear, for a man anyway. Looks like a good day. I raise my brows and try not to compare it to my empty cash register.

New Kathleen Barber book came out yesterday.

My mouth forms the word, Oh, but no sound comes forth. Kathleen Barber’s debut novel, Are You Sleeping, is being made into a ten-episode series and her second novel has just hit the bestseller list. For the second time in the span of an hour, Eleanor’s future obituary floats through my mind as a possibility.

Speaking of love lives. He glances up, wanting details of the blind date I told him I was going on last Friday.

Why did I even tell him that in the first place?

I bite at my lip, trying to remember the two of us a few weeks earlier, unpacking boxes of books in his back storeroom late into the evening. We’d been talking about the lack of people to date in this small town… in this big world. Deaton told me he hadn’t dated anyone since he came out a few months ago and I hadn’t known what to say to that, so I stupidly spouted off the story about how my waiter over at the café, Cory, had fixed me up with his uncle and we were going out the following night.

I roll my eyes. Don’t ask.

He picks up Atticus as the cat strides back into the room.

"Hey, your T." I nod toward the back wall where the name of his store is spelled out in tall black letters, without its full cast of characters. Stories by he Sea. A blank space is apparent between the y and the h.

Yeah, Deaton frowns as he zips the day’s cash close-out into a bank bag and closes the register with a loud ding. It’s supposed to arrive by next Thursday.

Aah. My phone chimes and I pull it from my back pocket as a flash of lightning strikes close by and the lights flicker. I try pulling up my inbox, but the agonizing circle that shows no Internet connection keeps spinning.

Wi-Fi’s out. I hold up the phone to show him the maddening swirl and hand him my empty cup to toss into the trash behind the counter. I better go, I announce, eager to get back to the café and see if I can pull up this message. If my phone dings with an email notification, it can only be from one source: A message to Unveiled Investigations. My side gig. My covert operation. One of my milder little secrets.

I wait in Deaton’s doorway for about ten seconds and then make a run for my own, sloshing through the stream that’s formed down the middle of the blacktop.

It’s eerily quiet inside, aside from the splash of rain hitting the glass windows. I grab a leash and call for Otis, but he ignores me. "Otis, come on! I yell out again after I wash out the carafes and check to make sure everything’s set to brew early in the morning. I peek into my cluttered office and find him curled up in his bed, snoring loudly. Stumbling over boxes and bags of inventory and dog toys strewn about on my way, I snap the leash on him and pull him to his squat legs. One day, I vow. One day, I’m going to claim that storage closet away from Madame Bienve and clean all this crap out."

The storm continues, following me from the east side of town, across the railroad tracks, to the historic section, where the oak trees grow together and canopy the roads with low-hanging moss that dangles in the field of vision. My part of town! My refuge! All the way there my wipers work overtime, throwing water to the sides and echoing out their repetitive chant: Chea-ter. Chea-ter. Chea-ter. I cannot wait to check that email message and see who’s been caught now, can’t wait to change the course of my thoughts and shed the heaviness that’s been weighing me down ever since my visit with Becky and her attempt to foray into the past and tell me what I should and shouldn’t do about it.

Home! I nudge the heap curled on the seat beside me: fifty-two pounds of solid muscle, quivering at the rumbling skies and the thought of getting wet. My shoe skids a bit as I scramble out of the driver’s seat, run around the front of the car, and open the passenger door, all the time struggling to open the umbrella with the two broken spokes that stick out dangerously. Mrs. Grimaldi, the neighbor who once joked I needed a real baby and a man to help me when she saw me carrying my dog in a blanket to the car on a cold morning, is watching the storm out her living room window. I once saw Mrs. Grimaldi honking her car horn very obnoxiously outside the convenience store on the corner while waiting impatiently on her crippled husband, whom she’d sent in to get a loaf of bread, so I take her opinions of my life with as much importance as a frayed thread. Once Otis sees the umbrella, he’s willing to give it a go. I walk in the rain, juggling bags in my left hand and a leash and umbrella in my right. I crouch and waddle simultaneously, the umbrella held low, providing cover for a stubborn bulldog every slow step of the way to the door.

I’m gonna miss this house when they come knocking and tell me to leave it, as will surely happen soon. It has its oddities, I know. How could I not know? I’ve only had them pointed out by every real estate agent in town. But I love the dining room walls washed in Benjamin Moore Marigold Daydreams. I adore the white shag carpeting in the sunken living room. If anyone knew how hard it had been to find real shag carpet, especially snow-white, they would surely appreciate it too. I’d had to special order that from a mill in Virginia and I paid a hefty price for it. The dark eggplant-colored velvet sectional situated on the shag carpet is the ultimate indulgence, and I’m proud to say my original black-and-white checkerboard kitchen counters and backsplash have survived over fifty years without a nick.

Every time I enter this room it’s hard not to picture my Nana, God bless her soul, standing over the stove sautéing a pot of something or at the counter stirring and sifting. The realtors call it out of date, over the top. I prefer retro and eclectic. But I’ll be leaving it all behind soon if I don’t figure out a way to pay the last six months of payments. I can’t even bear to think about that right now. Nana would be so disappointed.

Smells good in here. I inhale the garlic and let my bags drop on the Mexican tiled entryway. Authentic Saltillo tile. If you look closely, a few pieces even have markings where chickens walked across them before the clay was dry. So much more character than all that cold marble and granite everyone’s after these days.

Hailey is setting bowls of chili on the little bistro table in the corner of the kitchen.

Hey, she greets me. I managed to get everything done before the electricity went out.

I glance at the overhead Tiffany-style dome, shining brightly down on the table.

Just came back on. It went out for about thirty minutes, she says.

I scurry back to the entryway and find my phone dropped deep in the recesses of my purse before I settle myself across from her at the table, spooning chili with one hand and punching buttons with the other. Still that exhausting circle, swirling and trying to find a wave of Internet beams floating nearby it can grab.

I make a deep-throated growl of aggravation. I have a message on Unveiled’s email, but I haven’t been able to see it yet.

Hailey’s the only person who I can growl to. She’s my daughter, but she’s also my person — that best friend that gets me, cheers me on, feels my pain, and revels in my joy. She’s one of the very few people who knows I’m the face behind the town’s infamous investigation agency. No one would ever even suspect it’s me, and so far Unveiled has been the only name anyone needed to know. I’m just the owner of a struggling little café down by the beach whose own husband was a serial adulterer. To the world, I’m wholesome, honest, an apparent open-book. Fresh-faced and starry-eyed, the picture of innocence.

The Final Straw started fiscally strong. All the beachside shops were flourishing before the expansion of the west side of town. No one saw that coming. A mall in Flannery Cove? Never gonna happen. The old-timers used to sit in my very booths and declare prophecy, and we all banked on it. Now The Final Straw barely brings in enough money to pay the employees and the power bill, so I need Unveiled to grow beyond its small clientele into a serious, well-respected enterprise, and I desperately need to maintain its facade. Reputation and word of mouth are slowly getting me there, but not fast enough — not nearly fast enough! Flannery Cove is such a small town, I think my clients like the fact that my proprietorship is unknown. It allows me to stalk and eavesdrop to get the information they pay for. In a big city it might be different, but here the business growth depends on anonymity, and I intend to keep it that way.

Oh! Hailey says, between bites. She slurps tomato sauce back between her lips before continuing. We’re a pretty casual pair, but I should probably encourage some better table manners in case she ends up dating someone classier than Jarod when she goes away to college. I mean, Jarod’s great, but he’s no descendant of Emily Post or anything like that. He wouldn’t even notice my daughter’s slurping sauce, or her long legs folded crisscross style in the seat of the chair, or her brand new jeans that look like someone tossed them on the expressway and let cars run over them for a week. She could meet a law student, someone from an aristocratic old moneyed family that wants to take her home to meet the parents and...

So I guess you need to call him back. She looks at me and snaps her fingers in front of my face.

Huh?

The answering machine? She questions how much I’ve comprehended what she’s been telling me. Otis saunters in from the utility room, his nails clipping on the tiles. He grunts as if put out to find us doing the same old thing we do every night and plops himself down in the middle of the room.

Okay, Hailey begins again from the top, making sure I’m listening this time. The answering machine got erased when the power went out, but there was a message on there from Chappy asking you to call him.

I glance at the answering machine, even though she’s just told me it lost power. The red light is still, unblinking. Crazy that I still have an answering machine, I suppose. Along with a house phone that plugs into the wall, although I guess I should look into dropping home phone service to save a little money. But then the vintage, princess-style phone I got off of eBay would be wasted.

Dear God, the choices I’m being forced to make.

I wonder what Dad wants, I answer. My dad and I talk once or twice a week, but I just talked to him the day before, and he’s usually only one for meaningless chit-chat, nothing heavy. There’s only so much of that you can do in a week. Although he has been a bit better since he started dating Helena a year or so ago. I suspect she keeps after him about his obligations, trying to soften his edges. One thing I have to give her credit for. But then again, it’s probably for the best that my dad questions little and remains somewhat emotionally elusive. It’s served me well. Helena thinks she can change my father, mold him into some philosophical, mushy, marshmallow fellow, and maybe she can. Maybe she will eventually have herself a boyfriend that delves deep, unearths feelings and not just facts. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen a flawed husband learn all his lessons from a first marriage and morph into the perfect man for his second.

I wonder if that’ll be the case with Greg. Hailey tells me everything she witnesses between him and his girlfriend, Sherri. So far the man who used to leave all the dirty dishes towering in the sink, throw mud-caked work boots on the bathroom floor, and leave cracked eggshells on the countertops every morning has miraculously turned into a man who keeps an immaculate house. A germaphobe Hailey calls him. Ironic given the fact that I had medical tests run on me after we separated to make sure I hadn’t contracted hazardous diseases from him. The verdict is still out on his monogamy. I expect Sherri to contact the anonymous me one day, questioning her boyfriend’s fidelity, and it’ll be a quick buck I don’t even need to bother setting up a stake-out for. I have plenty of old photos of Greg coming out of hotels and lounges, his arm wrapped around some buxom blonde — sometimes two or three of them — that I can recycle. Cheaters don’t change. All the post-divorce self-help books said so.

Speaking of dads. Hailey takes a sip of her drink, then crunches her ice and swallows. Mine wants to take me to dinner for my birthday. With Sherri, of course.

Of course. I give a big, plastic grin.

Gotta be happy for Daddy. Gotta love Sherri. Gotta love dad’s cool, clean new digs, dad’s hip lifestyle.

Who am I fooling? Hailey knows what I think before I even think it. Well, mostly.

I’m not quite finished gnawing on my breadstick. It’s grown cold and tough. I pull my legs up crisscross style onto my chair and pick my phone back up, logging on to my company email. It goes through, allowing me to give up on the breadstick and concentrate.

To whom it may concern: I find myself with quite the dilemma.

This is obviously written by a very well-dressed woman, not a frayed thread in sight. High collar, and sensible, low-heeled shoes. Hair slicked back into a tight knot, and mouth puckered into a permanent sour grimace.

My partner proposed to me this past Christmas. I have not accepted yet.

Umm. It’s February now. Might want to check and see if the offer is still on the table.

He lost his first wife in a terrible accident many years ago; however, the authorities have never recovered her body. Understandably, I have my doubts about what really happened to her.

Understandably? Huh? Who doubts something like that? Well, I would, but that’s different. No one else would.

There are questions, and I find myself unable to venture into this next phase of life until I know for certain. That is where you come in.

Wait, this isn’t a cheating spouse case? I’m expanding into other investigative arenas?

I take my eyes off the screen and stare off into space for a second. Hailey’s filling the kitchen sink with hot, soapy water, and I’m off in a graveyard with a shovel and a lantern.

I would like to hire you to prove that his first wife is indeed deceased. I realize this is not your usual area, but your services come highly recommended. I have connections at the Flannery Cove Courier, and if you can solve this case successfully before next February, (I have given my word that I will have an answer regarding the proposal by then) I will have the paper run a feature article on your business.

Oh! My heart’s fluttering. Something is poking at the periphery of my brain, but I ignore it and focus on this nice flutter. An article in the Flannery Cove Courier could expose me to a whole new clientele. Already I’m thinking: two pages long, but no accompanying photos. Can I be simultaneously famous yet remain anonymous? Is it possible? I’ll make it be. I’m ignoring all the roadblocks and concerns trying to squeeze their way into my mind.

I also have connections at the Flannery Cove Country Club, and I can assure you…

Wait! What?

A sensation overtakes me, but I can’t identify it. A buzzing in my head, ghost ants crawling all over my nerves. I scroll back up to the beginning of the email and drop my phone on the table. It lands with a loud thud.

What the… Hailey turns off the faucet and walks toward me, drying her wet hands on the thighs of her new jeans.

I recoil, pointing to the phone that has landed in the middle of the table, and she picks it up, skims the message, and looks back at me with shock on her face.

Oh! My God! She says, a hand covering her mouth. She’s stunned, and she doesn’t even comprehend half of what this means — truly has no idea.

There at the top of the screen, in the sender’s information portion of the email, is the address: [e-mail]. My dad’s girlfriend and apparently, my future step-mother. And she wants me to prove my mother is dead.

My eyes meet Hailey’s, and we speak volumes with one glance. Of course she’s dead. She’s been gone for years. I’ve been motherless since I was a child.

I’m the first to break away from the glance before my eyes can reveal, but I had lunch with her just last week.

TWO

It should have been an ordinary night. The kind we’d talk about later and say, Remember last Tuesday night? What’d we do? And the other one would say, I dunno. Ate chili? Watched Law and Order? There was that storm.

But everything changed with that email.

Yo, Ames, Cory greets me early the next morning.

Yo, Core.

I turn my key in the door and spend the next few hours focusing on espressos, mochas, and lattes. I’ve not slept a wink, but this is what I do best