The sun had yet to rise when Ava walked from her bedroom through the sparsely furnished living room and into the kitchen. She started the coffeemaker and then bent to retrieve a pot from the bottom cupboard. She turned on the tap, glancing out the window while filling the pot with cold water. The sky looked like an artist’s palette with splotches of lavender breaking through the midnight black, streaks of tangerine on the horizon.
When she was younger, she would have taken a moment to appreciate the beauty of the view and watch the white-crested waves breaking against the dock’s pylons across the road. Today her eyes automatically went to the thermostat attached to the white window frame, its paint peeling. Her walk to and from the manor would be more pleasant than yesterday’s.
She turned off the water and placed the pot on the back burner, flicking it on. The coffeemaker spat and gurgled as she salted the water. She reached for the bag of steel-cut oats, placing it on the yellowed laminate countertop beside the stove. Then she went to the fridge and took out the top round beef and vegetables, placing them on the counter beside the cutting board. She retrieved two sweet onions from the windowsill and removed the skins. Ignoring the ache in her arm, she mechanically chopped the vegetables before moving on to the meat.
Once she was finished, she scraped everything into the Crock-Pot, adding two cups of red wine, several cups of the beef stock she’d made earlier in the week, the leftover tomato sauce from last night’s dinner, and a couple pinches of basil, thyme, and marjoram. Setting the Crock-Pot to medium heat, she turned to the water boiling on the stove and added the oats before covering it with the glass lid.
It was a routine she could do in her sleep. Which was probably a good thing since she’d barely gotten two hours last night. Her father had had another bad night. Every night for the past three weeks had been the same. Though Ava doubted she would have slept even if he’d had a good one.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Griffin. Her body responded with the same desperate yearning, the same want and need, as it had when he’d opened the shower curtain, when he so easily swept her off her feet, and when his strong, calloused hands had gently wrapped around her ankles to remove her shoes.
The strength of her desire had shocked her. It shouldn’t, she supposed. This was Griffin, after all. A man who, with one look, could cause butterflies to take flight in her stomach and her toes to curl. A man whose body she had once known as well as her own.
There had been a time, though—twelve years before—when those rippling muscles and chiseled eight-pack had filled her with something other than desire. Her emotions had been darker and haunted back then. The thought of making love, even with the husband she adored, had filled her with dread, shame, and guilt. Unable to see a way to get past the crippling emotions, she’d asked him for a divorce.
If he discovered the book behind the bricks, he’d know why. For now, she thought she was safe. She would have heard from him if he’d found it. She prayed he’d used all the firewood, inadvertently burning the book in the process.
Reaching for a mug, she recalled the flash of anger in his indigo eyes when he whipped open the shower curtain, the way his upper lip curled in loathing beneath his heavy scruff. After all this time, he still hated her, and she loved him with every fiber of her being. The mug slipped from her fingers and hit the edge of the stove, shattering into a thousand pieces at her feet.
“Can’t a man get some sleep in his own home? Keep it down out there!” her father yelled in Italian from the back bedroom, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep and his two-pack-a-day habit.
She crouched to pick up the broken mug, fighting back tears of exhaustion and resentment. Her emotions were bubbling too close to the surface these days. For years, she’d been like a zombie, sleepwalking through her life. Then Colleen died and Sophie became manager of the manor, figuratively holding up a mirror to Ava, forcing her to see the woman she’d become. Ava hadn’t liked what she saw, but she couldn’t change the past, and she didn’t see a way to change her future. The road that lay ahead seemed as bleak as the one she’d been on for the past twelve years.
As she stood up to walk to the garbage, a splinter of glass stabbed the ball of her big toe. She swore and raised her foot, pulling out a thick shard of ceramic. Droplets of blood splashed onto the tile.
“What’s wrong?” her father called out.
She grabbed the paper towel roll from the counter, ripping off several pieces to stop the bleeding. “Nothing, Papa.”
Wrapping the paper towel around her foot, she straightened to give the pot of oatmeal a quick stir and then removed it from the burner. Once she cleaned the blood droplets off the black-and-white tile floor, she washed her hands before preparing her father’s breakfast tray. She scooped several tablespoons of the fruit salad she’d made the night before into a small bowl, sprinkled wheat germ and cinnamon on the oatmeal, and added a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a mug of coffee to the tray. She hobbled to the bathroom, cleaned and bandaged her foot, then made her way down the bright blue carpeted hallway to her father’s bedroom.
Squaring her shoulders, she forced a smile and entered. “Good morning, Papa.”
“What’s good about it?” he grumbled, glaring at the breakfast tray. “What is that crap? Where’s my bacon and eggs?”
She set the legs of the tray carefully over his hips. “Your cholesterol levels were high at your last appointment. Dr. Bishop recommended—”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what Doc Bishop has to say. I want my bacon and eggs. Take it away.” He shoved the tray.
Ava gasped, grabbing the juice glass and mug before they toppled over, hot coffee sloshing over her hand and onto her father’s beige comforter. What looked to be regret flickered briefly in his green eyes. “I don’t have much to look forward to. I should be able to eat whatever I want,” he said in a sullen voice, pushing at the tray again, not as hard this time.
Ava nudged aside the framed photographs on the nightstand to set down the glass and mug. Her parents’ wedding photo, a photo of the three of them the Christmas before her mother died, and one of Ava and her father taken a few years before his accident.
He was still as ruggedly handsome as the man in the photographs, though his curly hair was more gray than ebony now and his green eyes no longer sparkled with good humor. Unless he was angry, which more often than not he was these days, his eyes were dull and lifeless. The lines that fanned from the corners were deeper and more pronounced, like the ones carved into either side of his down-turned mouth.
His injury had turned her once kind and loving father into a man who could be cruel and vindictive. He wasn’t the father she remembered, but as she had done for so many years now, she reminded herself of the man he’d once been and stuffed down the hurt, anger, and resentment. “Eat some of your porridge, and I’ll make you bacon and eggs. Only one egg, though, and two slices of bacon. You can have the fruit cup for lunch.”
Making a second breakfast for her father messed up Ava’s carefully scheduled routine. By the time she’d showered, gotten ready for work, stripped and remade her father’s bed, helped him bathe, shave, and get dressed, it was almost eight o’clock.
At the side door, she pulled on a black knit hat and wrapped a scarf around her neck. “I’m leaving now, Papa. I’ll see you at six.”
Her father, sitting in his wheelchair watching television, glanced at her. “Don’t be late. I’m almost out of smokes and whiskey. Get me a forty-ouncer of Crown Royal this time. No more of the cheap stuff. They’re watering it down.”
Ava opened her mouth and then closed it. She couldn’t tell him she was the one watering it down. She hadn’t thought he’d caught on. “Next paycheck. There’s red wine in the bottom cupboard. It’s better for you anyway.” If he’d drink only one glass it would be. “Dr. Bishop wants you to cut—”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what Doc Bishop wants. He can kiss my hairy ass. I’ll not give up the only things that give me pleasure.”
Ava thought about arguing, pointing out he was heading for an early grave. But she was too tired to fight. “All right, Papa. I’ll get your Crown Royal.”
He picked up his package of cigarettes, looked inside, and frowned. “I thought I had more left. You better get me a couple packs.”
Ava had picked up her father’s dirty habit. She found it relaxing. Though she limited herself to eight cigarettes a day. She’d taken them from her father’s package this morning. Now she’d have to find time to make the long trek to the liquor store and corner store on her lunch hour. “Papa, why don’t you go out today? The fresh air will do you good. The sidewalks have been salted, and I put sand on the ramp last night.”
He turned up the volume on the television. Ava sighed and opened the door, the tension in her body releasing as soon as she pulled it closed behind her. She glanced at the ramp. On the off chance he’d actually go out, she scooped another cupful of sand from the bag beside the door and tossed it onto the weather-beaten boards.
The front door of the blue bungalow beside theirs opened, and Dorothy popped her head out. “Do you have a minute to spare, lovey?”
Ava’s stomach dropped, afraid this was the day their neighbor said she’d had enough of Gino’s verbal abuse. The older woman was a retired nurse and had been Ava’s mother’s childhood best friend. She’d moved back to Harmony Harbor last month when her husband died. She popped in to check on Gino a couple times a day.
“Of course. Is something wrong?” Ava asked tentatively as she walked along the sidewalk.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Come in, it’s freezing.” She held the door open. No matter what time of day, the older woman was always well put together. Today was no exception. Dorothy’s chin-length blond hair was styled, her lightly lined face made up. She wore black slacks and a fuchsia sweater. “I didn’t want to call in case your father picked up the other line.”
Ava tried not to let her panic show. “Did something happen when you were over yesterday?”
“It’s not just yesterday. He’s getting worse, lovey. Surely you out of anyone can see that.” She gave Ava’s arm a pointed look.
Dorothy knew how Ava had gotten the bruise. Gino had been in a rage when she’d arrived home late from work the other night, and Dorothy had been outside shoveling. She’d heard Gino throwing things around the kitchen and cursing at Ava. The older woman had opened the side door at the same time Ava deflected a cast-iron frying pan with her arm. Dorothy had threatened to call the police. At the thought of everyone in town knowing their business, Ava had begged her not to. She didn’t believe her father meant to hurt her. He’d never hurt her purposefully before. Sometimes, he just forgot his own strength.
“It’s the weather and being stuck inside. You know how active he was. He lived to be at sea.”
“Lovey, stop making excuses for him. He’s been in a chair going on twelve years.”
“You’re right, I know you are. But it doesn’t make it any less difficult for him, Dorothy. He was used to being the breadwinner and self-sufficient. Now he’s dependent on me. I think it scared him when I was late coming home the other night.”
“I’m sure it did, and I have a feeling my stopping by to check on him isn’t helping matters. He’s gotten it into his head you’re getting ready to move on with your life, and I’m your replacement. I suppose I haven’t helped by suggesting that’s exactly what you should do. Still, there’s no excuse for that kind of behavior. He’s drinking too much.”
Ava fiddled with the zipper on her coat. “I know. I’ll talk to him about it tonight.” She dreaded the thought of confronting him about his drinking, but Dorothy was right. His mood swings had become more dramatic, his behavior more erratic.
“I don’t want you to do it on your own. Call me when you get home, and I’ll come over.”
Ava wasn’t sure having Dorothy there when she talked to her father was a good idea. It would probably make matters worse. Gino was as private as Ava was. But Dorothy was a determined woman, and just like with her father, Ava was too tired to fight. “Okay. There’s chicken sandwiches and white bean soup in the fridge for lunch. I made extra for you, and there’s stew in the Crock-Pot. I left a container on the counter for you to fill.”
Dorothy patted Ava’s cheek. “I wish you’d take care of yourself as well as you do your father and me.”
“It’s the least I can do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She glanced at the clock on the living room wall. “I better get going or I’ll be late for work.”
“Why don’t you let me drive you? Rosa tells me your ex-husband is staying at the manor and helping renovate the ballroom. I’d like to get a look at the man…and the ballroom, of course.”
Ava didn’t want to think about why her Auntie Rosa was talking to Dorothy about Griffin or why the older woman wanted a look at him. Dorothy had recently joined the Widows Club, of which Rosa was also a member. A month earlier, the group’s sole focus had been getting Sophie and Liam together. Which was probably responsible for the nervous hitch in Ava’s voice and the reason she avoided any mention of Griffin. “Grazie, but the walk will do me good.”
Dorothy held the door open. “I can think of several other things that would be good for you, too, and more fun. Your father might be stuck in a chair, but you’re as stuck as he is, lovey. Life’s short. Don’t let it pass you by.”
Dorothy’s proclamation joined Ava on the walk to work—it made for an uncomfortable traveling companion. She breathed deeply of the frosty morning air as she walked past the pastel-colored Colonials along Main Street, trying not to think about what Dorothy had said. If she did, Ava might start wondering what her life would have been like if she’d made different choices. She wasn’t going to let the what ifs get a toehold in her mind. As far as she was concerned, it was better to stay firmly rooted in the reality of her life than waste precious energy on an impossible dream. If she didn’t, she’d become frustrated and bitter.
This was her life, and she’d make the best of it. Things would get back to normal once she ensured Colleen’s memoirs had burned and Griffin left town. Other people might not agree that her life was normal, but it was the one she’d known for twelve years. Then she remembered the issue of her father self-medicating with alcohol and tonight’s upcoming confrontation.
It looked like she could use a fairy godmother after all. One who had a talent for dealing with belligerent fathers. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than someone knocked on a window. Julia Landon, owner of Books and Beans, was dressed like a fairy and waving her inside.
Ava looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “I don’t think you’re funny, Colleen. Meddle in someone else’s affairs.”
“So, does she answer you back or is it a one-sided conversation?” a smooth male voice asked.
Byron Harte, reporter and part owner of the Harmony Harbor Gazette, looked at her with a grin on his sun-bronzed face. Ava didn’t trust his slick, pretty-boy looks. He reminded her of Griffin’s childhood best friend Damien Gray, a man Ava had made the mistake of trusting a long time ago.
Despite wishing the sidewalk would open up and swallow her whole, Ava shrugged. “Depends if she’s in the mood to talk or not.”
“Fascinating. I’ve never met anyone who can converse with the dead. I’d love to interview—”
She rolled her eyes. “It was a joke, Mr. Harte.”
“Really? That’s a shame. I was hoping you’d ask where her memoirs are. Unless…No one’s found the book yet, have they?” He held the door open for her.
Ava’s stomach dropped at Byron’s interest in Colleen’s memoirs. “Don’t tell me you actually fell for that? Colleen was a hundred and four. She was pazza, crazy.” She forced a laugh while silently asking for her old friend’s forgiveness.
Julia smiled as they entered Books and Beans. She stood behind the small coffee bar at the front of the shop. A few feet beyond the counter and through an arched opening was the bookstore. The walls of the children’s section at the back were covered in brightly painted murals. A big, red velvet chair that Julia sat in during children’s hour was the focal point of the space. “I thought I missed you, Ava. Your chocolate cinnamon latte is almost ready.”
Stopping at Books and Beans for a latte was the highlight of Ava’s morning. She supposed she’d be better off saving the money for new shoes and a cell phone, but she justified the expense as her small contribution toward making the bookstore a success. Julia had become a good friend, and their daily conversation and Julia’s coffee made Ava happy. And it’s not as if she had a lot that made her happy these days. She’d take it where she could get it.
Ava dug in her knapsack for her thermos. “Thank you. I’m running a little late.”
“Just a minute more.” Julia smiled, then glanced at Byron. “You’re looking a little glum this morning. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“Ms. DiRossi just dashed my hopes of a big story. It seems there’s no truth to the rumors that The Secret Keeper of Harmony Harbor exists.”
Julia held Ava’s gaze for a moment before giving Byron a bright smile. “Of course there isn’t. Colleen was a hundred and four. No one believed she’d actually written the book.”
“According to my grandmother, the Widows Club did. And I can tell you so did quite a few other people in town. Most of whom I imagine will be pleased to learn the book doesn’t exist.”
“There you go. Run the story as a public service announcement.”
A slow smile creased Byron’s handsome face, and he leaned across the counter. Taking Julia by the shoulders, he kissed her. “You’re brilliant.”
“I am?” the other woman’s voice cracked.
“You are. I know of at least five people who were terrified the book would come to light. Now I just have to find out why.” He frowned. “Are you all right, love? You look a little peaked.”
“I’m fine.” Julia gave him a bright smile. Ava noticed it faltered when she turned to the coffee machine. “You want your usual today, Byron?” Julia asked as she filled Ava’s thermos.
“Please.” He leaned over the counter again. “Watch your fairy wings, love. You nearly took out the cups. What’s on for story hour today?”
With her smile back in place, Julia handed Ava her thermos. “Cinderella.”
“Ah, you should have Ms. DiRossi play the lead role. She fits the part perfectly. She’s a maid and hides her beauty behind oversized, ugly clothes. One wave of your sparkly wand and, voila, Cinderella. Albeit with black hair.”
Ava fumbled the thermos she’d been returning to her bag.
Byron caught the thermos and handed it to her. “You are beautiful, Ms. DiRossi. Stunningly so.” He angled his head. “It makes me wonder why or who you’re hiding from.”
His words felt like a threat, but she didn’t see it in his eyes. They were warm and kind. Then again, she hadn’t thought Damien was a threat either. She forced a derisive snort. “You’re pazza.” And handed a fistful of change to Julia. “Have a good day, Julia. You, too, Mr. Harte.”
“I’m planning on heading to the manor to check on the ballroom’s progress, Ms. DiRossi. If you wait a moment, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Grazie, but no. I prefer to walk.”
“I had a feeling you might say that,” he said with a half-smile.
“Just a minute, Ava. I nearly forgot.” Julia bent down, reappearing with a fistful of flyers. “Can you pass these around at the manor? I’m starting a book club in February. Meetings will be once a month on Wednesday nights. I hope you’ll join.”
Ava was tempted to say yes. She liked to read when she had the time, and she wanted to support Julia. But her father…“Maybe. We’ll see. Ciao.”
“Where do I sign up?” Byron asked.
The door closed on Julia saying something about it being a women-only club, and Byron arguing against sexism.
Ava hurried down the sidewalk, half walking, half running. She wanted to have at least ten minutes to enjoy her coffee and cigarette at the manor before starting work.
“Hi, Ava.” A woman waved a broom outside of Truly Scrumptious, the hood of her parka covering her long, caramel-colored hair.
“Morning, Mackenzie.” Ava pointed at the snow piling up on top of the bakery’s purple-and-white striped awning. “Be careful. It looks like ice has built up on the right-hand side.”
“Thanks, pal. Have a good day.”
“You too. Morning, Arianna,” Ava called to the stylish blonde standing back from the storefront window a few doors down from Truly Scrumptious.
“Hey, Ava. How does the display look from over there?” Arianna was a designer and owned Tie the Knot. With small purple and pink hearts, she’d created the outline of a large heart that framed a mannequin wearing a stunning bridal gown.
“Gorgeous as always.”
“Thanks.” Arianna smiled. “I’ll see you later. I wanna check out the ballroom.”
“Me too. I’ll come with you. Morning, Ava.” Lily, the owner of In Bloom, called out as she unloaded a box from a delivery truck a few shops down from Tie the Knot.
Ava waved. “I’ll see you both later.” She said hello to several more shopkeepers who were out salting the sidewalks. If she went down the next street, she could take the shortcut to the manor. It’s how she usually walked to work. But there was one problem—DiRossi’s Fine Foods was on that particular street. Given that her aunt had filled Dorothy in on Griffin, the last thing Ava wanted was to run into Rosa.
Ava took the long way instead, her heavy black coat and boots weighing her down as she ran up the hill, past the town hall and the copper-domed clock tower. Byron’s words kept time with her boots hitting the pavement. Ugly clothes. Thud. Beautiful. Thud. Hiding. Thud. She tried to empty them from her head, but her mind kept flashing images of the voluptuous girl she used to be. Until that long-ago night, she’d loved her body, loved each and every one of her curves. She’d felt feminine and strong. She’d felt beautiful.
Damien had changed how she saw herself, how she felt about herself. Byron was right. She’d tried to disappear, to hide in plain sight. She hadn’t wanted to attract attention. She understood why she hadn’t then. But more than a decade had passed, and still she wore ugly clothes that were two sizes too big. She didn’t care what she looked like. She didn’t want anyone to see her—to really see her.
Tears prickled behind her eyelids. She hated Byron. Hated him for asking his stupid question and making her think. She’d destroyed the man she loved and ruined her life. There was no going back. The past had to stay in the past. She had her father to take care of.
She cut through a small opening in the stone fence and ran across Greystone’s half-empty parking lot. Finally, she’d reached her refuge. At the manor, she could simply go about her job and no one would bother her. She sighed. How quickly she forgot about the book, Griffin, and her cousin Sophie.
“Basta, enough,” she grumbled when thoughts of Gino and Dorothy entered her already overcrowded head.
She ducked behind a tall cedar tree in the frozen garden at the front of the manor and crouched, pulling the thermos from her knapsack and then a cigarette and lighter from her coat pocket. She lit the cigarette, her mind emptying as she deeply inhaled. After two more calming drags, she unscrewed the lid on the thermos, breathing in the chocolate and cinnamon scent with a contented smile. She straightened and leaned against the sand-colored granite wall. These few moments alone with her coffee and cigarette made the rest of the day seem survivable and put the morning from hell in her rearview mirror.
She relaxed and sipped her coffee, savoring its taste and warmth, welcoming the tiny buzz from the caffeine. She took a couple more drags of the cigarette, blowing out lazy smoke rings. At the low rumble of an engine, she leaned to the side. A black truck with an open bed backed toward the walkway. She recognized the honey-brown hair and wide shoulders of the man at the wheel and slid an inch to her left.
She had half a cigarette and coffee to go; the risk was worth it. Griffin had obviously picked up supplies for the ballroom. He’d be too busy lugging them in to notice her.
The truck door slammed, and she took a sip of coffee and then another drag on her cigarette. She waited for the sound of the truck’s gate opening. Instead she heard, “What are you doing hiding behind a tree?”
Crapola. She shuffled a little farther to the left. “Enjoying a few minutes of peace and quiet before my shift.”
She heard the crunch of Griffin’s boots on the snow-crusted ground, and then he was standing in front of her with a bag in his hands. Avoiding his eyes, she drank her coffee while easing her left hand behind her. She knew his opinion of smoking and had no doubt she would have to listen to a lecture.
“Give me that before you set your coat on fire.” He reached for her hand.
She lifted the cigarette to her mouth. “Now you don’t have to worry about my coat.” She put it between her lips.
Griffin plucked it from her mouth. “Now you don’t have to worry about your lungs.” He tossed the cigarette on the ground, grinding it to dust under his boot.
“You had no right to do that, Griffin Gallagher. If I want to smoke, I will.” Furious, she dug in her pocket for the second cigarette and her lighter. She now had a better understanding of how her father felt about people telling him what he shouldn’t do and sympathized with him.
“Since when?”
“Since when what?” she asked, placing the second cigarette between her lips. She clamped it between her teeth when he moved his hand toward her. She raised a finger. “Do not even think about taking this cigarette from me.”
“Yeah, what are you going to do about it if I do?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I will—” Before she got another word out of her mouth, he’d taken her cigarette and broken it in half.
“You can thank me later.”
She looked from him to her cigarette. “Th-thank you…Thank you! You…you,” she sputtered, her temper rendering her momentarily speechless.
Griffin grinned and put a finger behind his ear. “You…you what?”
She gasped at his teasing, and all the emotions she’d kept bottled up inside her exploded in a torrent of rapid-fire Italian. She forgot she had her thermos in her hands and threw up her arms, her precious latte ending up on the wall behind her. “Testa di cazzo!” she yelled, and picked up her knapsack. Which went to prove just how furious she was. She only ever called him a dickhead when she’d totally lost it.
“And there she is,” Ava thought she heard him say as she stormed off, but he no longer sounded amused.
“Ava,” he called after her.
“What?” she shouted back.
He held up a finger, a white plastic bag dangling from it. “For you.”
She frowned. “No, it’s not mine.”
His broad shoulders rose on a sigh. “Yeah, it is. They’re for you.”
“For me?” she asked as she slowly approached him.
“You still wear a size seven?”
“Yes, but what does that have to—”
“Your shoes are falling apart. You needed new ones.”
She stared up at him as she took the bag, a familiar warmth spreading in her chest. When they were married, he’d often surprise her with new shoes. “I don’t understand. You bought me shoes?” she asked, unable to stop her lips from curving in a tentative smile.
He looked away. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal, so don’t make it one.”
The muttered words replaced her initial pleasure with embarrassment. She handed back the bag. “Grazie, but I can buy my own shoes.”
“Just take the damn shoes, Ava. You work for us. They’re part of your uniform.”
“Grazie,” she said, adding under her breath, “you’re still a high-handed testa di cazzo.”