Cover

Title Page

Dedication

For KOS, my North Star, my ride or die.

There is no Carrigan’s, or me, without you.

Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

Tap here to learn more.

Content Guidance

This book contains discussions of past emotional and financial abuse, the death of family members both suddenly and from prolonged illness, grief, parental estrangement, and 12-Step recovery from alcoholism, as well as passing mention of being the adult child of alcoholics. It also contains a brief mention of online trolling, including antisemitism and homophobia, and a brief mention of unspecified harm to animals.

Please treat yourself with care if any of these topics are sensitive for you.

Part 1

Sukkot to Thanksgiving

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Miriam

When Miriam Blum’s life changed forever, she was holding a chain saw in both hands, a bottle of glitter glue between her teeth, and standing in an empty warehouse over an antique bed frame.

The warehouse was mostly dust, painted concrete, and fluorescent lights, but soon it would be the flagship storefront for Blum Again Vintage & Curios, her online antique upcycling business. The old naval shipyard of Charleston was the perfect spot for its first ever physical space. As part of the up-and-coming arts destination, it would be a place for people to find, as her window promised, “What You Never Knew You Always Needed.”

She’d just flown back to Charleston this morning from a whirlwind trip to spend Sukkot with some friends, and to check in on her network of Old Ladies who owned antique and junk shops. They kept her supplied with weird vintage things she chainsawed, decoupaged, and hot-glued into art pieces that were shockingly popular on Pinterest. At the moment, she was waiting on a potentially haunted doll for a client in Huntington and some brooches she was going to make into the skirt of a life-sized ballerina.

Her phone played a dirge from the pocket of her dress—her mother’s ringtone. Setting down the chain saw, she walked outside to take the call, not wanting to get her mother’s energy in this space. The dread that always accompanied speaking to her mother coalesced uneasily with the realization that it wasn’t their designated time to check in. Miriam couldn’t handle more than one phone call a month, which her mother knew—even if she never acknowledged it. If the schedule had changed, something bad must have happened.

“Mom, what’s wrong? It’s not our Friday,” she said, instead of hello.

“Well,” her mother said primly, “if you would accept my calls any time other than Shabbos…” She trailed off, her guilt trip hanging heavy in the air. Miriam didn’t feel guilty. Her mom knew why their relationship was relegated to fifteen carefully curated minutes a month.

“Mom. Why. Are. You. Calling?” Miriam asked, again. She kicked an acorn across the street, watching it skitter.