ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, Winter hit the snooze three times, a new personal record. Two had become her normal routine after a lifetime of waking up five minutes before the alarm went off and bounding out of bed, her mind already on everything she wanted to accomplish.
As she stood under the hot shower, her smuggled bottle of the good shampoo cradled in her arm, she realized how low this week had already brought her.
It had started out well, with a reinvigorated effort to get so happy and fulfilled with her life that Whit regretted ever attempting to take on the Kingfishers.
Her solid start had taken a slight downturn after Caleb weakly threatened to expose her secret unless she gave up on her plans to help Whit’s opponent.
Then reading the story about Governor Duncan’s appalling stance on the state teachers’ union wanting to negotiate higher salaries for the coming school year had dimmed her positive attitude further because his quotes were… Winter winced as she tried to imagine standing at a podium and spinning anything so bad. Did he have no one with any media savvy on his staff? Worse, was he raised by wolves? “Shooting himself in the foot and on the record.”
At least she wasn’t facing the news media after that mess.
Winter had been able to shrug off the gloom for the most part. Working at Sweetwater Souvenir might not mean power suits and power players, but it was challenging. A different kind of challenging than what she was used to.
And planning with Leanne had been so much fun.
While they moved artwork around and considered the layout, Leanne had told Winter funny stories about her kids. When they evaluated Leanne’s canvases to decide which ones they should hang first, Winter told Leanne some of her favorite Cherokee stories, including the tale about Rabbit, the trickster, mostly passed down from her grandparents while they hiked or fished at the reserve. Leanne had done a small canvas featuring a rabbit with fur so fine that Winter had almost touched the paint, expecting soft warmth. “If that doesn’t sell the night of the opening, it’s mine.” Thanks to Janet Abernathy and Regina Blackburn, none of the other paintings would be in her price range until commissions started coming in. Leanne was lucky to have them representing her. Otherwise, she’d be giving away her talent for far too little.
The first paintings they chose would set the tone for the shop, so they’d deliberated carefully. Selling the collection Janet had put together should be easy once the number of tourists rose in the spring.
Even with the minor dark cloud of Caleb’s arrival, Tuesday had been a good day until she’d driven into Knoxville to volunteer at the closest office of the governor’s reelection campaign. Caleb’s ultimatum had increased her desire to do something. Richard Duncan wasn’t accepting her phone calls. Fine. Campaigns could always use volunteers, and she’d wanted to get involved so that when the prime months before the election hit, she’d have demonstrated her skills.
She could man a spot in the phone bank, sure, but she could do so much more.
Walking into that cramped spot in the strip mall had been an exercise in humility.
“Why am I having so many of those lately?”
Instead of greeting her warmly because she recognized the true gifts of Winter’s experience and talent, Duncan’s east Tennessee volunteer coordinator had stared her up and down before asking what she wanted. There was no doubt in Winter’s mind that Monica Hill recognized her, but instead of welcoming her in, suspicion had been thick in the air.
After a tense exchange, where Winter did her best to communicate that she was committed to Duncan’s campaign, Monica had finally given her a short list of businesses that had supported the governor’s previous campaigns. To make phone calls and network? No. To address and stuff envelopes with campaign materials.
And that was it.
Before she’d gotten back in the car to return to Sweetwater, Winter finagled two campaign signs from Monica.
All that had happened before she’d spied the newspaper her father had left folded on the kitchen table with Richard Duncan’s angry face and a jaw-dropping bad quote.
“Your campaign to keep Whit out of the capital is failing, thanks to a bad candidate making it impossible to support him.” Being against Whit wasn’t the same as being for Richard Duncan.
She’d courier a letter and résumé to Duncan’s attention. With a better advisor, he could improve his positions. He wouldn’t be the first politician to have an abrupt change of heart.
“Why would that work, Winter? Calls haven’t. Neither have emails.” She closed her eyes against the water and did her best to drown out the self-doubt. “When plan A doesn’t work, you better have a plan B.”
After she got out of the shower and dressed, she straightened her shoulders and headed for the kitchen. No good would come from letting her parents know that she was struggling. Every time she saw her mother, Winter had to ignore the expectant waiting in her eyes. Her parents were as anxious for Winter to get herself together as she was.
“Good morning,” Winter said as she marched toward the refrigerator. Pretend everything is fine. It is fine.
“Those signs are not going up in my yard,” her mother said from her usual spot in front of the stove. In a world of instant oatmeal and drive-thru biscuits, her mother was firmly in the “breakfast is the most important meal of the day” camp. She got up early and cooked, and had for as long as Winter could remember.
Winter stopped behind her mother and propped her chin over her shoulder to stare down at the Western omelet Donna Kingfisher had expertly turned. “I’ve got to put the signs up, Mama. I have to do something.”
In the big picture, the signs were nothing. Why did they seem so important now?
Her father folded down one corner of the paper. “No signs. Richard Duncan might not be a Callaway but he’s also not getting our vote.” The edge of the paper popped back up. The governor’s face was frowning back at Winter, too, but from her spot, she couldn’t read the headline. “The man has never met a teacher, obviously.”
When her father had a negative word to say, and this was as close as he got, things had gotten real.
“I want to hit the craft store in Knoxville early.” Her mother plopped down the plate on the table. “You’re getting enough rest, eating well for once, and I don’t want to hear another word about skipping breakfast or signs. Eat.”
Arguing would be a waste of breath. Winter took her usual spot at the table but paused when she understood what her mother had said. She was sleeping and eating better than she ever had in Knoxville. There, the pace of life, on top of work at the reserve, had kept her running all the time. Here, rest was a guarantee.
Had her mother worried about her health while she was living in Knoxville? Winter had never given it a second thought. Independence and accomplishment were her mother’s values. Winter’s, too, for that matter.
Being at home like this, with her mother’s concern so easy to see, wasn’t easy, but the brush of her mother’s hand on her shoulder as she put more plates on the table was nice. Sweet. Comforting.
This time over the breakfast table was important.
A campaign sign wouldn’t solve the problem, so why argue?
Skipping this meal?
That would be a criminal waste of eggs and precious breakfast food. Winter picked up her fork and took a bite.
“Fresh orange juice.” Her mother slid a glass toward her. “And water. Drink them both, please.” Her mother put down the second glass with emphasis before delivering the same setup to her father. “You can take a mug of rose-hip tea in the car. I made you both to-go drinks.”
Her father immediately folded his paper and followed directions.
When Winter had eaten as much as she could, she leaned back. “Thank you, Mom. That was good.”
Her mother nodded. “I know. And you have a big day and a lot of work to do. We all do. Your father is teaching a weaving class at the seniors’ center.” She waved her fork at her husband. “And since I have this place to myself all day, I’m going to work on my projects. Create a new soap, new lotion, a bath bomb or two.” She ran a hand over Winter’s glossy hair while Winter squashed the urge to wiggle with guilt. “I’ve been doing some tinkering with my shampoo formula.” Her mother leaned over, scooped a glass jar off the counter and held it proudly. From Winter’s spot, she would call it gray goop instead of shampoo. “My current formula is for my hair, which needs extra oomph—” she pointed at the blond curls tamed by a messy braid “—but for yours, I’ve been playing with oils. You like glossy. Give this a shot.” She smacked the jar on the table. Winter assumed her face had betrayed her misgivings about putting gray goop in her hair because her mother waved. “I can make it pretty later, add some scent. What’s your favorite?”
Winter tried to imagine what scent would match gray goop. Didn’t matter. She was going to have to give the gray goop a shot. To make her mother happy. “Anything flowery. You know I like flowers.”
Her mother pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced that Winter was on board.
There was no way the gray-goop conversation would drop until Winter used it, so she resolved to enjoy her only good hair day for a while and nodded. “I’ll try it tomorrow.”
“Retirement is the promised land and don’t let anyone tell you any differently.” Her mother had sold her law practice as soon as she turned sixty and had been making full use of every day since. She’d always loved her greenhouse and gardens, but with the extra time, her mother had become an inventor. If her father’s new obsession was baskets, her mother’s was all-natural beauty products.
Winter envied both of her parents. They’d worked hard. Now they were reaping the benefits and living every day better than the last. The fact that they were both building hobbies into something more, brand-new ventures that hadn’t been a part of their Monday-through-Friday, “go to work every day” lives, was impressive.
She’d moved back home and had a part-time job.
Yay, her.
“Even if you aren’t voting for Duncan, we could still put the signs up.”
Her mother spluttered for a few seconds. “Lie? No, Winter Rose Kingfisher. We don’t lie. The idea of the man gives me the skeeves. Those signs go up and there’s not enough lavender in my garden to burn to clear this place of bad energy. No. We’d never recover.”
Winter glanced over at her father. At a family dinner when they’d been plotting Ash’s comeback from the Callaways’ scheming, her father had admitted how he’d contributed to his mother’s beliefs that the skeeves were a valid thing, rooted in intuition. In this effort he had perpetuated the longest-running lie that Winter knew of and included the salvation of a schoolyard bully who was now a thriving pediatrician thanks to her mother’s burned lavender, but more to her father’s schooling about fairness and hard work.
Neither one of them would disabuse Donna Kingfisher of the idea that she’d changed a life.
Her father gave a tiny shake of his head as he stood to clear the table. The sound of running water was loud, so Winter decided to wait until the dishes were done to try again. She dried while her father washed. When everything was put away to her mother’s satisfaction, Winter slumped against the counter. “I tried to volunteer at their Knoxville office last night. The signs were all I could manage and…” They weren’t enough.
Especially if they were going to be hidden in the garage somewhere.
“Is there no other choice? No one else we can vote for?” her mother asked dramatically. That was her default. Drama. Winter remembered the restrained dinners at the Callaway table. The food had been less inspiring there, but the atmosphere had fit Winter perfectly. Polite conversation. Moderate tones. Hardly any emotion leaking around the edges. Soothing.
“No. Duncan is the incumbent and no one else is mounting a campaign against him. Only Whit. Only the Callaways stand any sort of chance against him. They have the resources to do it right.” Winter closed her eyes as she remembered the dinner where she and Whit had gone back and forth over whether it was a good time to make the run. He’d been serving in Knoxville and they’d enjoyed that.
But Callaways were impatient and they didn’t lose often.
Her mother crossed her arms over her chest. “Hate to say it, but we may have to vote for a Callaway.”
Winter thumped her head on the wood cabinet behind her.
“It’s like you and your fancy shampoo.” Her mother sniffed. “Mine’s better for the environment, but you have to be you. We have to vote for the best choice, even if it’s Whit Callaway.”
Winter rolled her head from side to side until she felt her father’s hands on her shoulders. “Hair looks good, Winter, but this desperation to elect anyone else? I don’t know if that will work out in the long run. Getting even? It’s a bad look and a worse life choice.” He pressed a kiss on the top of her head.
Since that was the realization that she was coming around to on her own, slowly, Winter leaned against her chair.
“Is Whit Callaway husband material?” Her mother tapped her fingers on the counter. “No, ma’am. He is not. That man would have gotten on your nerves in a heartbeat as soon as you two were living together. Nobody wants to credit my intuition, but I will.” She pressed her hands to her chest. “He’s wrong for you. A mother just knows. There is something better for you, baby, than marriage to a man you don’t love love. None of those Callaways measure up to Kingfisher standards. Can he at least do some good in Nashville?”
Winter wanted to argue about loving Whit. Neither one of them had been in love, but they cared about each other and…
When the silence stretched out, Winter tilted her head to the side to consider the right answer.
“I’m asking. Can he do any good in Nashville?” Her mother held out her hands, ready for a response.
“Absolutely. No doubt in my mind.” Winter shook her head. “But what about me?”
When she heard how pitiful the words sounded, Winter desperately wanted them back. All of them. She’d rewind the whole day and start over with only two snoozes and gray goop from a jar.
Her father reached over and wrapped his hand over Winter’s forearm. “Baby, you’re going to be fine. You just need a minute.”
Winter and her mother could argue about whether the sky was blue, but it was almost impossible not to trust her father’s faith in her ability. “I should get to the shop.” She trudged over to pick up the signs. “You’re sure about this?”
Her mother shook her head. “Never been more certain of anything. Kingfishers don’t put Duncan signs in their yard.” She walked over to Winter, wrapped her arms around her and squeezed tightly. Lavender and rose and warm kitchen all tangled together into her mother’s signature scent. Winter rested her head on her mother’s shoulder for a second before standing tall. “What Kingfishers do is the right thing. You’ll find it. No doubt in my mind. If your grandmother was here, what would she say?”
Donna Kingfisher had admired her mother-in-law above all other people. Instead of quoting international peacekeepers or Nobel Prize winners or catchy self-help slogans, her mother would rely on her mother-in-law’s wisdom.
“Make him pay?” Winter knew a joke would only exasperate her mother, but she didn’t want to be wise about any of it. Her mom’s long-suffering sigh was expected.
“You need to spend some time near the water. It will settle your brain, refill your soul,” her mother said and squeezed Winter tightly.
Einisi might also have been convinced that she had one foot in the grave because she heard a howl hoot before sunrise, but Winter knew her mother was right, and her grandmother, too. This conflict inside needed some resolution. She’d always think better next to Otter Lake.
“Peace comes from the flow of water. Try to find some peace.” Her mother bent her head down, the long, fuzzy blond braid draping over her shoulder. “Now get out of my house. I have some soap to make.” She waved to Winter and made a “hurry up” motion to Winter’s father, then the two of them walked out with their arms intertwined, her father swinging the signs.
“My mother was smart, baby. Yours is, too.” Her father propped the signs up next to the garbage can. “To get what you want, you’re going to have to let go of whatever you’re holding on to.”
Winter inhaled slowly, the cold air clearing her mind. “Right, but I don’t have to make any decisions today. Today, I have to go arrange baskets created by a local artist. His talent is impressive.”
Her father’s chest puffed out and he brushed both shoulders off. “I know that guy. He’s good.”
He saluted her before sliding into the truck he’d packed with all his provisions so carefully the night before.
“Those seniors will be making double-walled baskets in no time,” Winter murmured as she carried the signs to the station wagon. They’d be in the trash can before she got home if she didn’t take them with her. The car started faithfully, as it always did, and she made the quick turn through town to park in front of Sweetwater Souvenir. When the tourist season hit, these spots would be few and far between.
She had one hand on the door when her phone rang. The display showed the name of a reporter from Knoxville, Bailey Garcia.
Of course. Just what I needed. The calls used to be fun, a battle of wits to test how much information she could cram into a passing conversation. Now? Only a determined “making the best of it” would do.
Ignoring the call would mean fewer calls in the future. Winter was tempted to decline.
But Bailey had been so helpful in the battle to save Ash’s job that Winter had to answer. “Hi, Bailey, I haven’t been out to the lodge site, so I don’t have any news to report.”
Bailey laughed. “Direct. To the point. That’s why I always enjoyed your press events, Winter. We didn’t waste time with pleasant conversation.”
Why did that sting?
It was awfully close to the conversation she’d had at The Branch about friendship and sharing. Winter could name a long list of acquaintances like Bailey, people who’d been helpful along the way, but none of them had spent time on “pleasant conversation.”
“How can I help you? I have a nice new art gallery that I’d be happy to give you a tour of.” Then and there, the inspiration hit. If she could get news crews to Sweetwater for the gallery opening, Janet would have so much good press that she’d be an instant success. Did she still have the pull to manage that?
“I was hoping for a quote about Whit Callaway’s new relationship.” Bailey paused. “Have you heard?”
“Why would I care?” Winter drawled while she mentally flipped through all the news stories she’d seen. She would remember a new name linked with Whit’s.
Wouldn’t she?
“Gospel singer out of Nashville. Candace Hawthorne. They’ve been seen all over Knoxville and Nashville for the past three weeks. Speculation is he’s hunting for the first Mrs. Callaway. Well, a replacement first Mrs. Callaway.” Baily added, “We got some footage of them at a fund-raiser last night. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re discussing wedding rings.”
Winter watched the front window of Smoky Joe’s, Sweetwater’s coffee shop. If she had a meltdown on the street she’d have an audience, so she forced herself to take deep breaths.
But nothing worked. He was moving on with his life and with much better strategy than Richard Duncan. Whit was smart. This was a solid move to cast himself in a much better light and to throw a few shadows Winter’s way.
And his actions made it even harder to present herself as anything other than the jealous ex to anyone who might benefit from her political and media savvy.
Candace Hawthorne could have him, with Winter’s blessing, but the voters in the state needed some good advice.
“If that’s the case…” Winter cleared her throat. “Listen, it wouldn’t be the first time Whit Callaway has pulled a stunt like this. I hope every news story is about how that kind of maneuver, rehabilitating a rotten image by pairing it with a squeaky clean one, is one of the oldest tricks in the public-relations handbook. Anyone who falls for it deserves a governor like Whit Callaway.” What does that even mean, Winter? Smart? Determined. Committed to improving education and the support programs for Tennessee’s people. Ready to sacrifice a lot to lead the state. Winter clamped her jaw shut, paused and then asked, “Anything else, Bailey?”
Winter could hear the rustle of pages. Was that pen scratching across paper? Before Winter could tell the reporter not to use her words in a story, Bailey said, “If you have any pull with Caleb Callaway, could you get him to return my calls?” Then she laughed. “I’m guessing you don’t have anything to do with Caleb Callaway at all, do you, Winter? Never mind.”
Winter closed her eyes. She was never intended to be the go-between for Caleb Callaway, but if Bailey could get to him, maybe she would forget Winter’s comments about Candace Hawthorne.
“I’m sure Caleb’s on the job. You want to talk to him, go to the old weather station.” Winter ended the call because she wasn’t going to help anymore or dig the hole she’d stepped into any deeper.
What had she done? She and Whit had negotiated a marriage contract, one intended to cement his win.
But neither one of them had ever wanted anyone else to know that or to make it anything less than a true marriage for the best reasons. It would have been. Eventually.
Would Bailey put together what Winter had almost admitted? That Whit’s new relationship was not that far from the one they’d had, a performance meant to garner followers?
Except Winter had believed the decision to be smart and sound for both of them. What if Candace Hawthorne had another agenda or no agenda at all? What if she and Whit were falling in love? Real love?
The hard knot in her stomach was impossible to ignore. Every time she messed up, that knot made an appearance.
But every good PR person knew the best way to cover a bad story was to make a bigger, badder story.
She’d have to do that. If she could manage to swing good publicity Richard Duncan’s way, too, she could kill two birds with her one stony hard knot.
Janet waved at her from the window so Winter got out of the station wagon. On her way in, she paused on the sidewalk. Her mother didn’t want signs in the yard. Why drive a station wagon if you couldn’t turn it into a rolling advertisement to bring down your enemies? Winter stretched into the back and stood the signs carefully so that anyone passing by could read them. She shoved aside the junk her mother stored in the back to wedge the signs in place and then sighed happily. It was only a little something, but it was something.
Then she realized Caleb Callaway was standing on the sidewalk in front of Smoky Joe’s.
His angry jaywalk across the empty street was fast and Winter was frozen in place.