Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Quote
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- Part Two
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- Part Three
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- Part Four
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- Part Five
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Six
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- Part Seven
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- Part Eight
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- Part Nine
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- Part Ten
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- Part Eleven
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- Part Twelve
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- Part Thirteen
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR NOTE
- Reader’s Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- The Heirloom Garden
- Abby
The sound of a car engine shatters the symphony, and I open my eyes. Headlights illuminate Lakeshore Drive and the dunes. I squint my eyes and scan the darkness. The car—a white BMW SUV—slows, and I can now see its illuminated interior: a strip of soft blue rings the doors, and the dashboard navigation shines. It turns, and the gravel drive announces its approach. Sonny wakes and elicits a deep, long growl, a warning woof that echoes across the lakeshore.
“It’s okay,” I say as much for him as for myself. “Is this finally our last guests?”
I stand and usher Sonny into the cottage, luring him into my suite before turning on all of the outdoor lights for the new arrivals.
“I’m at least going to do things correctly for one set of guests,” I say.
I grab three sparklers and a fireplace lighter from the basket on the front door. As the guests make their way up the steps, I can hear what sounds like a man and woman arguing.
“Traffic was a nightmare because it’s Memorial Day weekend,” the woman is saying.
“I had to work,” the man says.
“Until six on a holiday Friday?”
“Yes,” he says. “Someone has to work.”
My eyes are wide when they approach.
“Welcome to The Summer Cottage Inn,” I say, finding a reserve tank of energy and enthusiasm. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell. I’m Adie Lou Kruger. How was your drive?”
The two glare at one another, and I nervously shuffle my feet in the awkward silence. Finally, the woman says, “Hi, Adie Lou.”
“Hello,” I say uncertainly.
“It’s Trey and Cissy,” she says, her eyes growing as wide as mine just were.
“Hi,” I repeat, sounding like a parakeet.
Am I supposed to know these people? I think.
“Trey and Cissy Caldwell,” she continues, her voice filling with irritation. “Remember?”
Oh, my God. The Caldwells. Nate’s Caldwells. The bond trader and his snooty wife. The epicureans who get invited to all the hot Chicago restaurant openings. The couple who don’t watch TV. The ones who had a chef and maid and twin girls who modeled for J. Crew.
I realize I’m not speaking.
“Oh, my gosh! Trey and Cissy! I’m so sorry. I didn’t put two and two together. It’s been a crazy first day,” I babble. “How are you? How long has it been?”
“Well,” Cissy says.
I hate people that say “well” when you ask them how they are. I’m not specifically inquiring about their health. It’s a common phrase. You can say “good.”