CHAPTER
Five

Nora’s phone dinged to signal an incoming text message while she was skimming the village payroll Nikki had assembled. She’d heard once that constant distractions from text messages, social media notifications, and incoming emails had a deadly effect on deep concentration and productive work.

Yeah, but . . . but . . . Look! A new text.

The moment she saw John’s name, adrenaline bolted through her. “It’s only a text,” she whispered to herself. Nothing could come of her crush on John. Zero. He was already in a relationship. Nonetheless, her body continued its breathless clamor.

It had been three days since he’d offered to follow up on the course of action they’d discussed earlier in the week. Rationally, she understood that three days was a perfectly appropriate amount of time. John was a busy man! Yet to her, the distance from Tuesday to Friday had seemed endless.

Nora could plow through research more quickly and powerfully than oxen through fresh, soft dirt. Since her meeting with John, she’d been aching to pick up the phone and greedily make all the phone calls he’d said he’d make.

She restrained herself because, regardless of how much she wanted to overstep, this was John’s search. He had the right to pursue it at his own pace, to handle as much of it as he wanted, and to keep as much of it private from her as he wished. She was restricted to her usual role: Genealogist Who Gives Advice.

Her phone’s screen revealed his full text. The daughter of the attorney who handled my adoption gave me an address for Sherry Thompson. 3476 Regent Drive, Shelton.

Her eyebrows climbed upward. An address already! Quite a development.

If she opened his text immediately, scrolling ellipses would appear on his end. Not wanting to seem overzealous, she made herself wait several minutes before finally tapping on his message and typing her reply. She thought about it, deleted it, reworded it, then finally sent, Outstanding news! Good work. I’ll check the Central Appraisal District site to see who owns the house currently.

Almost immediately, he answered. I already did. The house is owned by Travis and Whitney Hillcrest.

She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed that he’d thought to check the appraisal district’s site or disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to do it for him. The latter would have allowed her to amaze him with her productivity. I’m pleasantly surprised! You may have skills above and beyond Navy SEAL-type stuff.

What’s our next step? he typed.

We can find out who owned the house in Shelton at the time of your birth by visiting the Mason County auditor’s office and researching the house’s deeds.

I can meet you there on Monday morning if that’s good for you.

10? she asked.

See you there.

The next afternoon, Nora and Willow went to Britt’s shop in search of bliss by chocolate. “I’d like the dark chocolate cashew, please,” Nora said, mouth watering.

“Creature of habit,” Britt accused. She plucked the asked-for truffle from the display case and handed it over.

Nora admired the chocolate sitting on her palm, tucked into its pristine white paper crib. Then she took a bite. Britt had fairy-dusted salt on top of the dark chocolate cashew. That faint salty tang enhanced the perfectly balanced flavors of dark chocolate, cream, and cashews. Nora’s muscles relaxed by degrees.

“Milk chocolate caramel for me,” Willow said.

“Two creatures of habit.” Britt handed Willow the caramel with a shake of her head. “Go find a spot, and I’ll bring you something new to try. You guys need to branch out.”

When Britt had returned from her years overseas and announced her plan to open a chocolate shop, Nora had insisted that she locate her shop inside the historical village. Britt, Nora, and their dad then launched a hunt for just the right old structure to transport to the village for Britt’s purposes. They eventually found a bank that looked like an escapee from a London set for Peter Pan.

Despite its cuteness, Nora was at first skeptical of the bank. The building seemed too staid for Britt’s vivid personality. Britt, however, was able to envision its potential right from the start. Her certainty had paid off.

The bank’s faded brick façade had needed little restoration. Indoors, Britt removed the old partitions and counters. She dedicated the front half of the square footage to the store and the back half to her kitchen. After some debate, she left the scarred floors just as they were and whitewashed everything else.

Windows marked two of the walls. Britt had covered the remaining walls with black-and-white photographs depicting America’s chocolate-making history. A display case highlighted row upon row of chocolates. On the wall behind the display case, a blackboard listed the prices per pound.

Almost every day of the week, Britt stopped by the library or Nora stopped by Sweet Art. As much as she loved her library, Nora loved Sweet Art almost as much. It smelled of cocoa powder and the espresso beans Britt used in some of the chocolates. The bank’s windows invited sunlight in and multiplied it, so Sweet Art glowed with a welcoming and warm ambience. The shop portion of the building didn’t offer room enough for tables, so Britt had installed a bar and bar stools around the interior’s perimeter.

Nora and Willow settled onto two of the stools and polished off their chocolates just before Britt arrived. She placed a cup of ice water and a chocolate before each of them.

Ordinarily, Britt didn’t wait on customers unless there was a rush. She’d hired her friend to work the floor so that she’d be free to spend her time the way she preferred: in the kitchen, hair in a high ponytail, chef’s coat in place, sugar crystals floating. She always came out, however, to wait on Nora and Willow when they stopped by. It was their sisterly privilege: free chocolate plus personal service from the chocolate maestro.

“I’ve been experimenting with gold flakes, slivers of almond, and candied citrus peel,” Britt explained. “This is my most recent attempt.”

Nora and Willow both made a fuss over the beauty of Britt’s creation. The rectangular base of the chocolate swept upward into a firm curve. Gold flecks shone from just beneath the chocolate’s surface, like amber leaves poised beneath a frozen pond.

“Is this real gold?” Willow asked.

“Yes,” Britt answered. “Twenty-four-karat gold, pounded into extremely thin sheets, then flaked.”

“I didn’t realize gold was edible,” Nora said.

“It is in this form. Actually, the Japanese have been using it in food and drinks for centuries. It has a long European history, too.”

As much as Nora liked to think of herself as the smart one, Britt’s knowledge of the culinary arts could probably give Nora’s knowledge of genealogy a run for its money.

Willow reached for the chocolate—

Britt made a tsking sound. “Cleanse your palate first, please.”

“You haven’t been around in a while,” Nora said to Willow. “You’ve gotten rusty.”

Both older sisters took dutiful sips of water. When tasting chocolate, Britt had taught them to cleanse their palate, smell the chocolate, ensure the chocolate was served at room temperature, and hold each bite on their tongues for ten or fifteen seconds to notice how the different elements melted.

“Give it a rub and a smell,” Britt said. “What do you notice?”

“A hint of orange?” Nora offered. “Vanilla?”

“Mostly just dark chocolate smell,” Willow admitted.

Britt made a gesture to proceed. “Okay, give it a try.”

Nora did her best to eat the chocolate like an expert, instead of like the novice she still was. Only Zander, who’d educated himself on chocolate, was adept at picking up on nuances.

Britt leaned forward, her features sharpened in concentration. “Does it have enough essence of wild strawberry?” she asked when the fifteen seconds had passed.

“Huh?”

A sheepish smile. “Essence of wild strawberry. Does it have enough?”

“Mm, yes,” Willow said emphatically. “The essence of wild strawberry is coming through.”

Britt narrowed her eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“Fine. Yes. I’m just saying that.”

“We’re only qualified to enjoy your chocolates, Britt,” said Nora. “You know we’re hopeless as critics.”

“Hopeless,” Britt agreed. “How are things going at the Inn at Bradfordwood?” she asked Willow.

“Since Clint cleans each day, I’ve mostly spent my time learning the reservation and billing systems.”

“Have you made Mom’s baked French toast recipe yet?” Nora asked. Like a B&B, the inn served breakfast to its guests each day.

“What about her egg and sausage casserole?” Britt asked. “Or cranberry scones?”

“I’ve tried all of the above. The scones, especially, need more work.” Willow dusted chocolate from her hands. “Overall, I think I’m off to an okay start.”

“Call me if the scone recipe continues to give you trouble,” Britt said.

“Have you decided what Britt and I can do to help with the planning of Grandma’s party?” Nora asked.

“Not yet. But I’ll assign responsibilities soon. You know . . .” she murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I might make a good critic, after all, Britt. Give me another”—she put out her palm and crooked her fingertips—“so I’ll know for sure if there’s enough essence of wild strawberry.”

“Get out of my shop, freeloaders.” Britt winked at them and disappeared in the direction of her kitchen.

“I think that was the first time I’ve ever eaten gold,” Willow said to Nora. “I wonder if that means I’m now worth my weight in it.”

“You’re worth way more than your weight in gold, and you know it.”

“You’re worth way more than your weight in gold, too,” Willow said.

“Funny, Adolphus Brook told me the very same thing just last night.”

Nora hoped her older sister would laugh. Instead, Willow’s extraordinary catlike eyes considered Nora without blinking. Willow was soft-spoken and well-mannered, but she was also incredibly observant.

“Nora Bradford?” Willow asked.

“Yes?”

“How long has it been since you and Harrison split up?”

The question impacted Nora the way a tiny sharp knife thrust deeply into her chest cavity might have. Which infuriated her. She’d been praying against bitterness and envy and hurt for so long now. She’d gone down on her knees and pleaded with God to cleanse her heart over and over and over. She didn’t want those awful, insidious emotions. Take them, she’d begged Him. Take them! Yet here she still was, experiencing pain at the mention of his name, which made her feel like a failure. She’d give away her house not to feel pain at the mention of Harrison’s name. “Three years,” Nora said.

“Is he the last nonfictional person you dated?”

“Um . . .” Nora pretended to think it over while scratching the side of her chin.

“I’d like to punch him,” Willow said companionably, “right in his dumb nose. I never liked him very much.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I liked him. But not very much. I definitely never liked his dumb nose.”

The conversations of shop patrons filled the air with a cozy purr. The pleasantness of her surroundings contrasted harshly with the gloom of this particular topic. “He and Rory are expecting a baby. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“She’s due in a few months.” As the words left her mouth, Nora could hear that she’d spoken them too lightly. They sounded suspiciously jovial.

Willow blew out a breath. “After he broke off your engagement to start dating Rory, I wish the two of them had moved to another town. How often do you see him?”

“Pretty often. Maybe weekly?” She didn’t add that her quickest route from home to work took her straight past his orthodontic office, which amounted to a twice daily reminder of him. She sometimes detoured around his office. But every time she did, the need to take the detour ended up reminding her of him anyway.

“That must stink.”

“I’d probably see him less if he didn’t insist on being so friendly. As it is, he catches my eye and waves or makes an effort to talk to me every time we come within a hundred yards of each other. He invites me to parties at their house. He even stops by the library.”

Willow wrinkled her nose. “That’s not normal.”

“I think it is normal for a lot of couples these days. An amicable split, you know?”

“Amicable splits are for divorced couples with kids, not dating couples.”

“I think they are for dating couples whose parents are friends, who grew up together.”

“You were engaged, and he called things off two months before the wedding. You don’t owe Harrison amicable. You don’t owe him anything. He owes you about a thousand apologies and a replacement groom.”

Nora chuckled, but it was a chuckle undergirded by heartache.

She and Harrison were the same age and had gone through Merryweather schools together since kindergarten. He was outgoing, a bit of a showman, and classically handsome in an Ivy League kind of way. She’d been self-concious, bookish, and just a little bit smarter than Harrison in every subject. They’d operated on opposite sides of the same group of friends and kept in touch through college. Stanford for her, Duke for him.

When he kissed her under a maple tree at sunset the summer after they graduated college and before he headed to dental school, she mostly remembered feeling overwhelmingly flattered.

Merryweather didn’t offer many eligible single men. An extroverted dentist: her clear best choice. She and Harrison had gotten along beautifully throughout the four years that they’d dated. No fights. No uncontrollable passion. Just two mature people in a secure relationship. She’d wondered why other people found relationships so difficult. Relationships are a pleasure, she’d thought, with an enjoyable sense of superiority. She and Harrison were exceptional at this!

When he’d proposed, she’d once again been overwhelmingly flattered. She was going to marry before either of her sisters, which seemed like a hugely surprising and fortunate outcome. Her future was settled, and whew, wasn’t that a load off her mind? She felt safe. Smug.

Until. Until Harrison had met the love of his life.

And it hadn’t been ordinary, hometown her.

It had been fresh and creative Rory. Even her name was fresh and creative. Rory. She’d come out of the sort of East Coast family that summered on Nantucket. She possessed a calm demeanor and a face and body that were, if you looked closely, rather normal. However, she came across as dazzling thanks to her amazing sense of style. Impeccable makeup, an ability to layer clothing artfully, and a knack with accessories went a long way. As did her perfect bangs (too few appreciated how hard it was to get bangs to lay perfectly), coupled with the sleek mahogany bob she wore tucked behind both ears.

On her blog, Say Yes to Beauty, Rory discussed style, makeup, hair, interior design, art, and cooking. She’d started the blog in high school and amassed such a staggering number of followers that she now made her living blogging.

Harrison and Rory met at a coffee shop near the University of Washington, where he’d been finishing dental school. It had only taken him fifteen days of friendship with Rory to realize she was the one for him.

Fifteen days.

He’d come to Nora and broken their engagement as honorably as possible. He’d not yet asked Rory out at that time, and he’d been properly remorseful. Tearful, even. With anguished candor, he told Nora that it couldn’t be explained, but he believed he’d suddenly found, in Rory, his soul mate. Which had been honest of him and all. Kudos to him for his forthrightness. But his confession left Nora feeling wretched.

In order to assuage his guilt, Harrison had doted on Nora in the days and weeks following their breakup. His cloying care had made the whole situation worse. If he’d been a jerk, she could have cut him out of her life and told herself she was glad to have discovered his true character before the altar.

Rory had ended up saying yes to Harrison the same way she said yes to beauty on her blog. The two of them married ten months after Nora’s canceled wedding date.

For a good long while, Nora had tortured herself by reading Rory’s blog. Via her posts, Rory detailed her beautiful and tasteful romance, her beautiful and tasteful home, her beautiful and tasteful clothes, cooking, makeup, and knowledge of art. Rory had flair and an understated sense of humor. She was a gifted writer. The posts caused Nora to like Rory about as much as she’d automatically loathed her on principle.

When this past New Year’s Day had rolled around, Nora had given up Say Yes to Beauty as a New Year’s resolution. Thank goodness for that. A beautiful and tasteful pregnancy would have been more than she could have handled.

Before Harrison had ended things with her, Nora had believed that her boyfriend loved her, that he was trustworthy, that she’d found her partner for life, that they’d honeymoon on Fiji, and that she’d have baby #1 by the age of thirty.

She’d been completely wrong. She’d been completely wrong about all of it.

The predicament with Harrison, even three years later, was still a miserable and confusing emotional stew. “Did you ever have to see Corbin again after the two of you broke up?” Nora asked. Willow had had a handful of boyfriends over the years, but Nora sensed that her sister had only deeply loved one: NFL quarterback Corbin Stewart.

“No. I had a close call once. I learned at the last minute that we were both scheduled to attend the same charity event. Luckily, I found out in time and skipped it.”

“But you could have gone and been all stunning and haughty and sent him into an agony of regret.”

“True. But then I’d have had to see him with his date, which might have sent me into an agony of regret.” Willow sipped her water and carefully folded and re-folded the tiny paper wrapper that had held the gold-flecked chocolate. “Remember how you insisted I start dating again after Corbin and I broke up?” Willow asked.

Uh-oh. She could see where Willow was headed.

“You prodded me to go out again after four months,” Willow continued. “You haven’t dated anyone in three years, so I think I’m past due in demanding that you put yourself back out there.”

Nora pulled a face.

“You haven’t sworn off dating forever, have you?” Willow asked, completely serious.

“No!” Not forever, anyway. Just for the next forty years or so. Nora liked to think she might enjoy dating when she was an elderly person. “Merryweather doesn’t exactly have a bustling singles scene.”

Nora had a wide pragmatic streak. After Harrison, she’d decided to abstain from dating and focus instead on old buildings and older genealogy records. Whenever anyone asked about her love life, she boldly announced her contentment with her singlehood.

She was scholarly and dependable, but not particularly pretty. She’d self-diagnosed herself with a low libido and often thought that God had no doubt wired her that way so she’d be well suited for a life as an unmarried auntie to Willow’s and Britt’s kids.

Willow extended her palm. “Let me have your phone.”

“My phone?”

Willow waited. Nora passed it over, and Willow went to work. “You have lots of apps on here, but I don’t see any dating apps.”

“Goodness, no.”

“I’m going to download one that will show us the single guys in this area.”

“I will murder you if you put a profile of me on a dating app.”

“I’m already doing it. Go ahead and try to murder me. I’m taller and stronger.” Willow looked up with a bemused smile. “Remember when we used to wrestle with Dad when we were kids?”

“What if someone I know sees me on the app?”

“Then that’ll mean they’re on it, too, and they’ll have no room to judge.”

“Willow,” she growled.

“We’ll just jump on for ten minutes and check out some of the men. If you don’t like it, we’ll delete it. No biggie.”

Nora bared her teeth.

Willow busily punched things into Nora’s phone. “You’re right about the singles scene in Merryweather,” Willow said. “So why not get a little help from online dating services or apps?”

“Do you use online dating services or apps?”

“Certainly not.” One final tap. “There. You’re on. And look. Here’s someone to consider.” Willow set the phone on the bar’s surface and the sisters bent their heads over it.

A picture of a plain man with a massive Adam’s apple filled the phone’s screen. Even though the picture revealed only his head and shoulders, he appeared to be extremely tall and skinny.

“Swipe right if you’re interested and left if you’re not,” Willow said.

“But I feel horrible about rejecting this poor guy based on nothing but his looks! He might be really sweet or funny or smart.”

“Do you want to go on a date with this man? Yes or no?”

Nora didn’t harbor the smallest speck of attraction for the guy with the Adam’s apple. While apologizing to him mentally, she swiped left.

Instantly, another man appeared.

“No!” Nora wailed. “That’s Evan from the post office. This is all your fault, Willow. I can’t unsee this. Every time I visit the post office I’ll remember that Evan’s looking for love.”

“Looking for love is nothing to be ashamed of. He’s decent looking.”

“And he’s perfectly nice, but he lives with his mom and has several pet ferrets. Plus, he smells like mustard.”

“Left or right?”

“Left!”

An image of a man who resembled a sumo wrestler materialized. His LA Dodgers baseball hat sat on his head like an acorn cap on top of an orange.

“Left,” Nora sighed.

A message came up announcing that there were no more matches in their area.

“That’s it?” Willow demanded.

“Is it too late to go back and give the guy with the Adam’s apple a second chance?”

They giggled.

“Now delete it,” Nora said, “before Evan sees me on there. I’ll be mortified if he asks me over to meet his ferrets.”

More giggles as Willow deleted the app and handed back the phone. “This situation is more serious than I thought.”

“I’m happy with my non-dating life. I have Northamptonshire.” And I have my working relationship with the mouthwatering John Lawson.

“I think we need to take drastic measures.” Willow tilted her head, then slowly swept her attention down to Nora’s toes and back up to her eyes.

“You’re frightening me.”

“I’m constantly worked on by makeup artists, hair stylists, manicurists, fashion people, and on and on and on. I’d love a chance to work on someone else for a change.”

“You think I need a makeover.” Nora tried not to take offense. When she and her sisters were young, they’d freely criticized and made fun of each other. They’d stopped that years ago, however. Nowadays, they operated on a plane of mutual respect. Pointing out one another’s flaws violated their unspoken code.

“Not a makeover,” Willow answered. “I think you look great. But it’s been three years since Harrison, and maybe now’s the time to leave the past behind. If you’re ready for a change, I’d like to help. That’s all.”

It would be churlish not to accept makeover help from a successful model. Yet it was humiliating to accept makeover help from a sister. “That was very diplomatic. Everything you just said.”

“It would be a treat for me. A creative outlet.”

“The baked French toast recipe isn’t creative enough for you?”

“It’s not creative at all. That’s just me trying to follow Mom’s steps exactly.”

Change. The siren song of change was enticing, Nora had to admit. It had been ages since she’d changed anything about her clothes or hair.

“C’mon.” Willow rose without waiting for an official okay. “We’ll start with your closet.”

“You own a lot of cardigans, Nora.” Willow zipped hanger after hanger along the bar mounted on the inside of Nora’s small walk-in closet. “A whole lot of cardigans.”

Nora sat on the edge of her mattress. “I live in a cool, rainy climate.”

“Hmm.”

“I really like cardigans. You’ve convinced me of the benefits of change, but I don’t . . . well, I don’t want to wear clothes that aren’t me. You know?”

“I want to make you more you, not less. This is about enhancing your sense of style.” Willow selected a heather-gray cardigan and a white collared shirt. “Do you have a pencil skirt?”

“Plenty of skirts but no pencil skirts.”

Willow pulled out a navy, knee-length A-line skirt. “Can you try this outfit on for me?”

“Sure.” This was exactly the kind of outfit Nora already wore to work every day. She came out of the bathroom moments later.

Willow approached, opened the neck of the white shirt, and turned up the collar. She unfastened the cardigan and then snapped Nora’s wide belt around her waist on top of it. “Do you have any clothespins?” Willow asked.

“No. This is the era of the clothes dryer.”

“Chip clips, smart aleck? You know, to hold your chip bags closed?”

Nora retrieved three chip clips. “If my Ruffles go stale, it’s on you.”

Willow gathered the back of the skirt against Nora’s legs, rolling the excess fabric in and clipping it to hold it in place. “This will simulate the lines of a pencil skirt.” She selected a pair of high heels.

Nora dutifully stepped into the heels. “I’m not a fan of high heels—”

“Keep an open mind.”

Willow retreated a few paces to assess. “Can I take a look at your jewelry?”

“Yes.”

“Any brooches?”

“A couple of vintage ones.”

Willow sorted through Nora’s jewelry. “You could do a big chunky necklace with this outfit. Since you’re wearing neutrals, accent jewelry in a color like jade green or pink or turquoise might be fun. Or strands of silver beads. That kind of thing. Today, though, let’s try this.” She pinned a fifties-era sunburst brooch above Nora’s heart and clicked three bracelets around her wrist, bracelets Nora never would have thought to pair together.

Once again, Willow moved back to study her progress. A slow smile moved across her lips. “I’m good at this.”

She positioned Nora squarely in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the inside of her closet door.

“Wow,” Nora breathed, somewhat stunned. “You are good at this.”

Written by Willow:

To Do . . .

1) Take Nora shopping

2) Get her eyebrows threaded

3) Purchase all new makeup for her

4) Think about how to convince her to get a new haircut without in any way offending or criticizing her