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
As I spin, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on top of the bedroom dresser.
I stop. “Hi,” I say to my reflection. “I know you.”
Although it’s been over three decades since I’ve danced to this song, and everything has changed—my face, my body, my life, not to mention cell phones, laptops, FaceTime, Alexa—I can still see that young girl reflected back.
“Hi, Adie Lou,” I say. “Good to see you again.”
It’s then I realize I am smiling. Even though my hair and face are covered in beachy blue paint, my back aches and I just wrote a $50,000-plus check for work I’ve yet to see completed, I am smiling from ear to ear.
Since I took a nap days ago, I’ve slept better than I have in ages. I’m still anxious and exhausted, but—for once—I feel a sliver of peace. And that is something I haven’t experienced in years.
“I Wanna Dance with Somebody” comes on, and I whoop.
“I used to love Whitney!” I yell at Sonny, who is watching while I paint. “And Madonna and Cyndi!”
Sonny cocks his head, and his one eye continues to follow me as I dance around the room. “I know you’re probably more of a Bruno Mars guy,” I call to Sonny over the music.
“Actually, I’m more of a Shania guy.”
Standing in the door is Frank. I laugh. “Now, that surprises me,” I say as I turn down the music. “I’d guess more old-school for you. Like Johnny Cash. But not as old-school as the Dragoon Lady. She probably listens to opera. Something like Don Giovanni.” I laugh. “No, no, I got it! Dirges! She listens to dirges!”
As I’m saying this, Frank’s eyes grow wider, and he gives me a slicing motion across his throat. That’s when Iris Dragoon comes into frame.
“Crap,” I mutter, as if I just got busted by my parents for playing the music too loud.
“Good morning, Miss...” She stops, and a grinchy grin slinks across her face. “What are we calling ourselves today?”
I hate when people use the collective noun “we” to be dismissive. It’s a pet peeve ever since my copywriting days.
“We,” I emphasize, “typically call someone before showing up at their home.”
She nods, as if to say “well played,” and then produces a document from her handbag. I already know it’s bad because Frank is backing away. I tried to warn you, he mouths, before disappearing.