Chapter 1
Chapter 1
“My mother is my own personal travel agent,” Roselle Lewis muttered. “She’s always ready to book me on another guilt trip.”
Still dressed in her white waitress uniform, Roselle tightened a hand on the phone and braced herself for the rapid-fire assault Mom called “keeping in touch.” She combed her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair in case Mom’s superpowers could tell it was mussed. Although her feet ached from working the morning shift at Kozy’s Coffee Shop, Roselle forced a cheery, “Hello, Mom.”
“Roselle, you have to go to Aunt Caryn’s house immediately.”
Across the faded gray vinyl kitchen floor, the radiator hissed disapproval. Roselle shot an annoying glare at the ancient heater which refused to shut off in the warmth of the Indian summer day.
“Roselle, did you hear me? You must drive over to your Aunt Caryn’s. It’s a life and death matter!”
Mom’s emergencies were never emergencies, and Aunt Caryn wasn’t really an aunt. But since Caryn Christie had hired Roselle’s mother, she’d been bumped up from acquaintance to relative.
“Why? Did she make the one-hundredth jar of jelly and run out of room in her six-foot cabinet?” Roselle didn’t understand why anyone wanted an adult-size cabinet for small jars.
“Caryn called to tell me the cabinet tilts, and my reputation will be ruined if I’ve bought a cheap piece and Caryn exposes it to everyone.”
“I hardly think it’s an evening news headliner, Mom.” Yet her mother’s voice held a note of panic that ricocheted off Roselle’s feelings.
Stay detached.No, help your mother.Stay detached.No, help your mother. Roselle wished conversations with her parent didn’t always trigger these struggles.
Mom was a fifty-year-old housewife who had decided two weeks ago to become a personal shopper after reading an article about it in a women’s magazine. So far, only Mrs. Christie had hired her, despite numerous telephone calls to relatives and acquaintances.
So “Aunt” Caryn had ordered the jelly cabinet, and Roselle had helped her mom deliver the six-foot piece of furniture.
“Unless we can fix it,” her mother whimpered, “I’ll have to return the money and the cabinet.”
A return translated into staggering down Mrs. Christie’s front steps along ten feet of walkway and then angling the monstrosity into the back of Mom’s van while she shouted, “To the left--to the right—push!” The tiny Mrs. Christie would stand in her doorway watching, not lifting a petite hand.
“Uh-oh.” Roselle sighed.
“I know, problem with a capital P, right here in River City,” Mom said, inserting one of her favorite musical lines.
Mom loved musicals, but she was always misquoting lines from them. “I didn’t tell anyone,” her mother continued, “but I bought the cabinet on sale from Dollar Maniacs with a no-returns policy. Help me out and see if you can steady it.”
“Steady it? Ask Dad to help you. I’m not a carpenter.”
“You know I can’t. Your father thinks the whole idea of my business is silly. I have to do this on my own.”
Roselle wanted to blurt out, “Then do it on your own!” But she decided that wouldn’t go over too well. So she thought of the next best solution--her older sister. “How about Alicia?”
“Alicia has to study for a final in a big medical class.”
“Already? Didn’t she start grad school three weeks ago? How can the school be holding finals after a few weeks of school?”
Sounded like a crock if she’d ever heard one, but Roselle knew she’d never win the debate. Alicia was the golden pre-med girl. She looked like a model, tall with blonde hair and sky blue eyes, and to top it off she was the firstborn child. In contrast, Roselle looked like a munchkin with mousy brown hair, stormy grey eyes, and suffered from middle child angst according to the Dr. Phil show last week.
“Pre-med is advanced, but I heard you can still register for some classes, Roselle.”
“Like basket weaving?” Her mother never gave up pushing school at her and couldn’t accept that some people like her own daughter just weren’t the university type. Roselle loved reading, but school and study had never managed to make her top ten list. “How about Bobby helps you?”
“Your brother has football practice tomorrow.”
Everyone had made plans for the weekend. Maybe she should lie and say she was hooking up with a hot date.
Mom made that exasperated noise in her throat. “Go stick a piece of cardboard under the leg of the cabinet and everything will be fine. Aunt Caryn won’t care how you make it level.”
“Mom, why don’t you do it? Caryn loves seeing you.”
“I have to go with your father to his dentist’s appointment. You know what a baby he is when the dentist cleans his teeth.”
All the air deflated from Roselle’s lungs. It was true. Her dad ran his own computer sales business and faced the wrath of angry dissatisfied geeks with a smile and a calm that foreign dignitaries would envy. But show him a dentist’s chair and he lost it.
She eyed her oversized green chair in the small, square living room. When she sat in it, the cushion sank with a gushing noise. She longed to plop down in the seat and sink to the floor. Instead, she felt her mom’s invisible lasso tightening about her.
“Do this for me, Roselle, and I’ll bring you dinner with your favorite--chocolate cake.”
“A ready-cooked dinner for tonight?” Roselle imagined herself with her aching feet propped up, feasting on cake. And her mom would hover at her elbow, waiting for the next command.
Okay, she could be the good daughter in the family for a change. Everyone knew that’d be a switch. She was the daughter who refused to “further her education” and supported herself by waiting tables. At least for the moment, her mom had avoided the big question, “What are you going to do with your life, Roselle?” Like she could figure it out. Waitressing just seemed to be something she’d try out on her way to the “real job.”
Where was the good fairy who’d sweep down and sprinkle her with career dust?
Must be out with the tooth fairy.
“I’ll go.” Roselle sighed again. “But I don’t have any cardboard.” Well, not quite the cooperative daughter...
“Good, she’s expecting you.”
Before Roselle could protest further, Mom hung up. For a second Roselle fumed. How could her mother have beaten her by hanging up first? Apparently she’d perfected her disconnect speed on a few telemarketers. And she hadn’t even mentioned her other favorite topic: Will.
Whenever her mom worked his name into the conversation, goose bumps broke out over Roselle’s entire body. Then her heart did an Olympic flip followed by a mid-air panic freeze as she remembered: they’d broken up six months, five hours and two minutes ago.
She’d never let her mother in on the big why of the break-up, which only fueled her parent’s obsessive prying. Funny, her mom had never liked Will. Over and over she’d sung the same refrain, “He’s all wrong for Roselle.”
Like Roselle could tell her it was Will’s other love, alcohol, that had broken them up. Forget Will. Concentrate on the now. Roselle vowed to run the errand quickly and be back slouching in her chair and pigging out before J Lo found a new husband.
She changed into jeans and the T-shirt,s which was a gift from her mother with I’m a Keeper plastered on the back. No one would see her except Mrs. Christie.
She glanced around for anything to wedge under a furniture leg. Her gaze landed on the weekly tabloid magazines stacked on the hand-me-down maple coffee table. A group of famous stars on the cover stared back at her. She ripped off Brad Pitt’s face. That would teach him to fool around and break up his first marriage.
Next she tore out Brittnyy Spears’ breasts. Rats, even with an inflated picture, the supply still appeared meager, not enough to compensate for an un-level furniture leg. She’d take the whole pile.
Armed with her carpenter supplies and the keys of the Saturn she remembered she’d left her cell phone in the charger. Retrieving the phone, she headed out. Caryn Christie lived about fifteen minutes from Main Street and Roselle’s one bedroom apartment above the coffee shop. Of course, downtown only consisted of three blocks of two-story clapboard buildings, but Roselle always had loved the small town feel. And if she wanted bigger stores, she’d hop in her car and drive to the bigger city twenty minutes away.
Stark Falls was in a perfect location. Within an hour you could drive to the beach or the mountains. She waved to old Mrs. Lang who was at her mailbox as Roselle zipped by. And she could always find someone to talk to. It was hard to be lonely in Stark Falls because everyone always felt they were related to you or friends with your best friend.
A few trees had lost their grip on the end of summer and their leaves blazed a bright red. She turned the volume of the car radio high enough to be heard in another state and before she knew it, she was turning onto Mrs. Christie’s road.
Her house was built on the edge of federal woods. Trails had been carved through the forest for adults to play with their toys. ATVs roared past in the summer. In the winter, snowmobiles glided over the trails. If Roselle turned down the music, she would be able to hear the hum of motors as riders crisscrossed the dirt paths hidden behind the trees.
Ahead, she spied Mrs. Christie’s curving drive, a gravel path cut out of the woods. Disguised as the good driver and the good daughter, she put on her blinker for the turn. She started across the yellow line into the drive when a car shot around the clump of trees lining a curve in the driveway-straight at her!
God! She hit the brake. Panic charged her heartbeat into overtime. Her stomach plunged to her feet. Desperate, she yanked the wheel to the right. The black sedan continued hurtling like a rogue torpedo from a bad computer game. Worse, she was the target. She screamed.
The sedan and the Saturn rushed toward their death collision. For one long second, she looked into the face of the suicide driver: an older man, big, burly, and with a cigar clenched between his teeth.
It was Fast Eddie.
They were going to hit! She threw one arm up in front of her face. The black car swerved. A thud jolted her back and forth like a pinball in an arcade game. The clang of metal screeched as she closed her eyes. Despite her foot on the brake at full force, she felt the car skid across the road, drop a foot, and die. Frozen in her seat, her stomach continued to bounce up and down in a sickening motion.
Over the voice of the fourteen-year-old rock star on the radio came the sound of tires screeching and speeding away. She opened her eyes. Between the sharp turn of the wheel and the sedan whacking her, the car had landed in the culvert by the side of the road. She heard an unfamiliar noise.
Shaking, she clenched her fingers into fists. I’m okay. She blinked and looked at the air bag that had exploded on the passenger side. A fine light powder dusted the interior.
Figures. Wrong seat.
It took a few moments for her brain to clear. She glanced out the window. Fast Eddie had disappeared and left her stranded in the ditch.
But what else could she expect from a man like him? She could hear her mother’s shocked voice gossiping in her head, Caryn Christie is dating a man from the Sopranos!
She’d never believed Mom’s silly story. Until today. But Mom was right. Mrs. Christie’s hottie possessed no moral fiber whatsoever. He was an evil hit-and-runner.
Roselle blinked back tears. At least she had insurance and could deal with this accident. Reciting a self-pep talk, she shut off the radio and slid out. Bracing herself, she studied the ocean-blue Saturn and tried not to cry over the long dented streak where the sedan had sideswiped her.
She closed the car door and inhaled the crisp air while battling tears. Her once-beautiful two-month-old car had an ugly slash on its side. Well, legally it was the bank’s two-month-old car.
Roselle sucked in air to calm herself. She could have the car repaired. First she needed to get out of this ditch. She wobbled back to the driver’s seat and slipped inside.
She forced her fingers to grasp the key and turned it. The engine roared to life. With relief, she put the car in reverse and stepped on the gas. The vehicle rocked back half a foot, fell forward, and refused to move. The tires spun and protested with a squeal. She was stuck.
Oh, goody. If only a little cardboard would solve this problem. And if she ever saw that Fast Eddie guy again, she’d have a few un-good daughter words to shout at him. At least her anger had chased away her shakes.
She jumped out again and studied the car. Hopeless. If only a good kick would work. Roselle flung her foot at the tire.
“Crud!”
And pain! She hopped on one foot in a circle until the nerve ends stopped screaming.
Frustrated, she opened the door. Grabbing her purse from the seat, she found her cell phone and pressed the number for Mom. Nothing happened. Roselle yanked the phone from her ear and read No Service. Double crud! She was stuck in a black hole. She tossed the phone on the passenger seat and slammed the door.
Roselle didn’t have much choice now. She hobbled up the driveway. Ready to dodge other charming visitors, she kept an eye on each curve. A mosquito buzzed around her head. She hated bugs, flying, creeping or crawling. She batted at the air.
The roar of ATVS and the fragrance of leaves and rotting vegetation surrounded her. Her foot hurt, but she forced herself to hurry up the twisting driveway. She avoided looking into the woods, in case more insects were lurking about.
After walking forever she spied Mrs. Christie’s neat green bungalow. She loped up to the front door and stabbed the doorbell.
Silence. She pressed the button again and listened.
Overhead, a dark cloud blotted out the sun while the chimes rang inside the house. Where was Caryn Christie?
She banged on the door. A cool breeze rippled through the trees in the hushed silence. Strange. A chill crept up her arms. She had a car in a ditch, a hit-and-run to report, and Mrs. Christie had a crooked jelly cabinet. She should be salivating to pull Roselle inside.
She tried the knob. The door opened. “Mrs. Christie?”
Wandering into the small pine-paneled entry, she paused and gazed into the kitchen. She spied the phone hanging on the opposite wall. It beckoned to her. If Mrs. Christie was somewhere in the house, all Roselle had to do was pick up the receiver, and Mrs. C’s gossip radar would lead her to the kitchen to eavesdrop on the conversation.
Roselle trudged across to the mudroom. The stillness in the house was creepy. She rubbed her arms and hesitated on the threshold of the apple-stenciled room. “Mrs. Christie, it’s Roselle Lewis. I’m here to fix your jelly cabinet.”
No answer except the grandfather clock chiming the half hour from the other room. Weird. Her heart beat faster. Mrs. Christie had to be here. Roselle scanned the room. A rose china teapot holding pink and blue asters sat in the center of the table. Roselle recognized the sweet fragrance of the flowers hanging in the air. The pine table and chairs were probably from one of the flea market purchases that Mrs. Christie loved to brag about.
Settings for two people were laid out on the table’s lacy white tablecloth. On the far wall, two long shelves held a collection of teapots of various colors and sizes.
To her left stood the jelly cabinet, leaning forward toward a multicolored braided rug. An array of jellies and shelve slats lay on the rug. Had Mrs. Christie removed the contents to try to repair the cabinet herself? Or was she emptying it, getting it ready for return?
Her mother must have phoned Mrs. Christie and filled her in on Roselle’s visit. Where was the woman? Roselle reached for the knob of the jelly cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
Roselle whirled around with a gasp. A tall brown-haired stranger stood in the doorway. Dressed in black spandex, he peered at her with dark, suspicious brown eyes through rimless glasses. His gloves were tucked in the elastic of his waistband.
She swallowed against the tightness closing up her throat. “I’m looking for Mrs. Christie.”
“Why are you inside her house?” He advanced into the kitchen, glancing from her to the jellies piled on the rug.
She recognized the accusation in his voice. “I’m not stealing food. I’m here to fix her jelly cabinet.” She nodded at the monster piece of furniture.
“You are?”
The two words sounded skeptical. She must explain. Offering her hand she said, “Excuse me. I’m Roselle Lewis. My mother is good friends with Mrs. Christie.”
The name must have meant something to him because the furrows over his eyebrows smoothed and the sharp look in his eyes disappeared. “I’m Vince Christie, Caryn’s nephew.”
Vince, Vince...
Roselle rolled his name around in her mind. “Ah, we first met when I was about ten.”
Immediately it all became clear: her mother’s lack of normal interrogation on her dating life, her insistence that Roselle leave immediately, and the missing Mrs. Christie. The encounter had all the earmarks of a fix-up.
But with Vince? She remembered that he worked at Clone Copiers. Mrs. Christie and her aunt Lola had taken Vince to breakfast at Kozy’s to celebrate his first day of work about a month ago. Angie had waited on them.
Now it was her turn to harbor suspicions. “By any chance, did your aunt mention me to you?”
“She did.” He grinned, revealing perfect white teeth.
Roselle smiled in relief. She slipped her hand into his for a handshake. His long fingers laced through hers in an intimate way. Surprised, she stood staring down at them.
He pulled away with an embarrassed grimace. “Sorry, ah, about the dirt under my fingernails…and hands. I’ve been riding my bike out on the trails in the woods.” He curled his fingers into his palms and pressed them against the sides of his dark spandex pants.
Unable to stop herself, her gaze zoomed to his fists. She felt foolish for staring at his hands, looking for a ring. She glanced up. Now that he wasn’t glaring, she noticed he had a wide mouth and a small scar on his chin. Behind his glasses, curious eyes stared back at her. A slight flush of embarrassment colored his face.
“Your aunt isn’t here, is she?”
He seemed puzzled. “Isn’t she? She phoned and invited me to lunch. She should be home.”
Roselle recognized a set-up when she saw one. At any moment she expected violins and guitars to burst into the romantic songs from her mother’s favorite musicals. “I’m afraid we’re victims.” She sent him a very wise and knowing smile.
“Excuse me?” A lock of brown hair had fallen onto his forehead, adding to his youthful appearance.
“Let me explain. I’m twenty-one and single, which my mother dislikes. The single part, I mean. She takes it as a personal failure on her part.” Roselle waited for this information to sink into his brain and for understanding to dawn on his face.
The confused expression faded into an aha expression.
“I’m guessing you’re single too.”
He gave her a boyish smile. “I’m twenty-four and recently broke up with my girlfriend of two years.”
Roselle couldn’t resist a laugh of triumph. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Vince. I’ll tell my mother you beat me to the cardboard.” How had she fallen for such a flimsy excuse?
He stood with his hands dangling by his sides. “I don’t know anything about cardboard, but shouldn’t we do something? Exchange cell phone numbers or dating horoscopes?”
“Thanks, Vince, but I have a very jealous ex. He’s close to stalker material. You don’t want to get involved with me.” The story was untrue, but she found it easier and more effective than explaining that she felt burnt out over the whole man-woman scene.
He gave her an understanding nod.
“Do you think you could try to push my car? I’m stuck in the culvert at the bottom, courtesy of Fast Eddie.”
“Who’s Fast Eddie?” His brow wrinkled, reminding her of a sweet pug dog.
A twinge of conscience nipped at her for using the silly nickname. “Sorry, Fast Eddie is Ed Ferrani. Your aunt met him speed-dating.”
“You’re kidding. I know Ed, but I didn’t know my aunt and Ed were into speed-dating.”
“How about that push?” she asked, hoping to distract him from the fact that she was spreading gossip about his aunt.
“Sure, lead the way.” He turned and stepped aside for her.
She glanced at the jelly cabinet. What a fool she was rushing over here to put cardboard under it. But then why were the contents on the rug?
“I bet if your aunt put her bigger jars in the back, she could level the rear leg. She reached over and yanked the cabinet door open.
Caryn Christie tumbled out.
.