Chapter 1
Nobody thought Viola Thatcher would ever expire, if for no other reason than sheer stubbornness. She’d made it to eighty-seven, after all, without a single daily medication or chronic health condition. She was as spry as her cat Chaucer, bustled around her beloved bookshop like a woman half her age, and was known to ascend shelf ladders when no one was around to stop her.
But alas, no one was immortal. Not even Gram.
Shelby Thatcher dabbed her eyes with a tissue that now bore the remnants of her foundation, eyeliner, and mascara—none of which had kept their waterproof promise. She tried to block the canned music flowing into the restroom of Fancy’s Funeral Home and the cloying lavender scent emanating from a potpourri dish on the vanity.
She’d nearly made it through the two-hour visitation with her dignity intact. She’d smiled and nodded her way through platitudes and comforting hugs. She’d even held up through quiet exchanges with Dad, whose bloodshot eyes belied his unwavering assurances and stoic posture. But then Miss Dahlia struck the strident chords of “Amazing Grace” on the organ, and Gram’s favorite song twisted a key, unlocking Shelby’s pent-up grief.
That and the arrival of Grayson Briggs, who’d strutted through the door just in time for the service. It all went downhill from there.
Could there be a worse time or place to encounter one’s long-lost love? The daunting emotions of loss and grief seemed to compound the bittersweet—heavy on bitter—memory of heartbreak.
She blew her pinkened nose, losing more foundation and the last of her ruby-red lipstick. Vanity was a cruel teacher.
She was supposed to be in a breezy sundress when he saw her again, wearing just-fine-without-you makeup, her salon-styled light brown hair bouncing around her shoulders in slow motion. Not wilting in a matronly black dress she’d borrowed from Liddy, her best friend and sister-in-law, because she didn’t own anything as dark and gloomy as this wretched day deserved.
The hollow restroom door opened and Liddy entered, a wan smile warming her features. She’d pulled back her beautiful red hair in a loose updo, leaving a few tendrils to frame her peaches-and-cream face. Her blue eyes softened on Shelby. “How you holding up, honey?”
“About as well as my makeup, I’m afraid.”
“You’re beautiful without it. What I’d give for that olive complexion of yours.”
“Your freckles are adorable. If my brother hasn’t convinced you of that yet, he’s not doing his job.” Shelby tossed her tattered tissue, then eyed the door. “Is he still out there?” They both knew she wasn’t referring to Caleb.
“He is. And can I just say,holy cannoli!”
“Stop it. You’ve seen pictures of him.”
“From a decade ago. Don’t get me wrong—he was hot back then, but he’s since reached holy cannoli status.”
“Don’t let Caleb catch you saying that.”
“He’s been glowering at Gray since he walked in. I left the baby with Caleb—hopefully that’ll keep him in line.”
“What’s he hanging around for anyway? There’s no graveside service.”
“Maybe he wants to catch up with folks?”
Shelby huffed. Gray’s one and only fan had just passed. And since when had he wanted to stick around Grandville a moment longer than necessary? He’d shot off like a rocket two seconds after graduation. And four years ago when he’d returned to North Carolina for his own grandma’s service, he was gone before the funeral lilies could bloom.
“Maybe he wants to talk to you.”
“He skipped the receiving line. And last time he was in town he didn’t so much as glance my way.”
Liddy arched an auburn brow. “Maybe he finally realizes what a putz he was.”
Shelby could always count on Liddy to come to her defense. “Doubtful. I should get back to Dad. Folks will be coming by the house soon.” Plus Logan was probably wondering where she’d disappeared to. She tugged at the dress, which was shorter on her five-seven frame than on Liddy’s five-three, and resisted the urge to check her reflection one last time.
Liddy held the door, then took Shelby’s arm in solidarity as they walked down the hall and into the flower-perfumed funeral parlor. A quick visual sweep of the room revealed most of the lingering guests had departed—including the man she’d been avoiding for the past hour. It wasn’t too hard to convince herself that the funny fluttering in her stomach was relief.
Cars lined the street of Shelby’s childhood home, and friends and neighbors swarmed the ranch-style house. Sounds of chatter and laughter dominated the living spaces, and the aroma of Miss Martha’s peach cobbler filled the air.
As Shelby milled about the room, snatches of conversation reached her.
“She was quite the looker in her day, you know. Paul wooed her for weeks before she’d even go out with him...”
“They only had the one son, though Viola always said she’d have at least half a dozen...”
