by Olivia Miles
Meet Me at Sunset
a novel
OLIVIA MILES
Rosewood Press
ALSO BY OLIVIA MILES
This Christmas
Oyster Bay Series
Feels Like Home
Along Came You
Maybe This Time
This Thing Called Love
Those Summer Nights
Still the One (Bayside Brides)
One Fine Day (Bayside Brides)
Had to Be You (Bayside Brides)
Misty Point Series
One Week to the Wedding
The Winter Wedding Plan
Sweeter in the City Series
Sweeter in the Summer
Sweeter Than Sunshine
No Sweeter Love
One Sweet Christmas
Briar Creek Series
Mistletoe on Main Street
A Match Made on Main Street
Hope Springs on Main Street
Love Blooms on Main Street
Christmas Comes to Main Street
Harlequin Special Edition
‘Twas the Week Before Christmas
Recipe for Romance
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
MEET ME AT SUNSET
Copyright © 2020 Megan Leavell
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
First Edition: February 2020
contents
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Ellie
Hope
Gemma
Hope
Hope
Chapter One
Gemma
Gemma Morgan should have been staring at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, not looking down at her now bare finger, the indentation of her two-carat, brilliant-cut engagement ring still fresh, even though months had passed since she’d taken it off. Five months. Five long, hard months. She rubbed at the skin, trying to banish the mark, but, like the memory it carried, it seemed determined to stay.
She sighed and pushed her chair away from her desk. The rain that had been falling since early morning had stopped, replaced just as quickly with bright sunshine and a clear blue sky, and she walked to the window of her living room, looking out onto Lincoln Park. It was her favorite thing about this apartment—the view. Ironic, she supposed, that she had come to Chicago thirteen years ago specifically to live in the city and be part of the whole urban experience, and yet the apartment she’d chosen overlooked nature instead of the buildings that had once appealed to her.
The only way she’d even been able to afford this apartment was because of her grandmother, who had left all three Morgan sisters a not completely insignificant trust and equal ownership of Gran’s house on a small, carless island in northern Michigan, about seven hours from Chicago. When Gran had passed away last summer, Gemma had used her inheritance to upgrade her apartment, allowing enough left over to quit her rather soulless job as an account executive at the advertising agency so she could write fulltime (in theory). Her older sister, Hope, had put her share into a compounding-interest savings plan for her twin daughters, and Ellie, the youngest, had rented an art studio on the island where she lived year-round in Gran’s house, so she could pursue her painting career, or at least try to do so until her funds ran out, as their father liked to grumble.
Ellie’s decision was the only decision that their father didn’t support, but then, Bart Morgan had never agreed with Ellie’s choices, from the way she spent her free time growing up (wandering and daydreaming rather than studying and excelling at music or sports) to where she applied to college (art school). But as their mother was quick to point out, it was Ellie who had stayed at the house and taken care of Gran in her final years, so there was really nothing that Bart could say about anything. He had been free to run his steel company in suburban Ohio, and Gemma’s mother, Celia, had been free to enjoy her private tennis lessons at the club.
It had been nearly a year now since Gran had died, peacefully, at the island hospital (something else that Bart didn’t agree with, thinking she should have gone to Cleveland for better care). Nearly a year since Gemma had moved into this apartment. And nearly a year since she’d given her notice at the agency and walked home to the smaller walk-up she had then shared with her fiancé Sean, feeling purposeful and excited, knowing that now she would have all the time in the world needed to write the second book on her publishing contract. But the months had passed quickly, almost in a blur, and now that book was due in a month. Twenty-seven days, really.
And she only had seventy-three pages written. Well, seventy-two if you took away the title page.
Gemma turned from the window. The day was slipping away, as the days seemed to do lately. She glanced down at her attire: pink tee and grey sweatpants that still bore the stain of spilled pizza sauce from last night (yes, she had slept in them, too), because she hadn’t yet showered. She had cleaned the apartment, though. Scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees and even dusted the blinds. But she hadn’t written anything. And now it was already after two.
Was it any wonder that Sean had broken up with her?
Though, really, back when she was with Sean, she didn’t walk around the apartment wearing the same clothes for days on end, eating exclusively from takeout menus. Back when she was with Sean, she had written seventy-three (okay, seventy-two!) pages of her second contracted novel.
She could blame it on the time it had taken to undo her wedding plans; the endless calls to the photographer, band, church director, and hotel event coordinator had left her hot with humiliation and unable to do much more than sit in her lovely new apartment in flannel pajamas with a bowl of ice cream on her lap and a box of tissues at her side. She could blame it on the way her mother had cried, “But what are we supposed to tell all our friends? They’ll be so disappointed!” when she’d finally broken the news, after three weeks of waiting for Sean to change his mind. But ultimately the blame was hers alone. She was in a funk. And she needed to snap out of it.
If only she knew how.
After all, who was she to write a romance novel when she knew nothing about love?
Quickly, she showered and dressed, cringing a little when she realized how tight the waistband of her jeans had become since she’d worn them last month for Hope’s thirty-fourth birthday celebration at a trendy restaurant in the suburbs, where Gemma had felt like a third wheel surrounded by her sister’s beautiful family and realizing that, not even three years younger, Gemma was in danger of never having the wonderful things her sister possessed at this rate.
Now the top button of the jeans pressed against her stomach, making it a little hard to bend over and reach for her shoes. Regardless, they would have to do, because she didn’t have any time to shave her legs for a skirt or a dress if she wanted to make the three-fifteen train to the bucolic suburb where Hope was throwing a birthday party for her twin gir
ls.
Gemma grabbed the birthday gifts she’d ordered last week, paying extra to have them wrapped in bright pink paper because she knew that if she wrapped them herself, they would have tape marks and creases, whereas Hope’s gifts always looked professionally wrapped, even though they were not, and hurried to the elevator at the end of the hall, hoping that she would be able to flag down a passing cab.
They pulled up to Union Station with ten minutes to spare. Enough time for her to stand outside, on the edge of the Chicago River, and take in the view of the skyscrapers across the bridge. There, two blocks to the north and hugging the river to its west, was Sean’s office building—once her office building, where they’d first met, years ago, when the city was still new and life still felt full of possibility. His view, she knew, faced this way. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, and couldn’t even justify, she counted up the floors until she found the twenty-third, and stared until she liked to think he might just sense her presence, and then, she held up her hand, just in case he was working on a Saturday, which he sometimes did when he was working on a big campaign, and just in case he’d swiveled in his chair and turned to look down, catching her in that moment, she flipped him the bird.
She smiled as she hurried through the station and paid for her ticket. And she smiled as she boarded the train and pulled out her latest paperback (that she was reading, not writing), and she smiled when her brother-in-law picked her up thirty minutes later, even though she would have preferred a little one-on-one time with Hope instead.
“Hope would have come but she was busy with last-minute party preparations,” Evan said, giving her a wry look. They both knew, after all, how Hope could fuss over details. He turned onto their winding, tree-lined street where large, four- and five-bedroom homes sat beneath the eaves of old elm trees, their lawns professionally manicured, the grass forever green.
Hope’s house was not the largest on the block, but it was, in Gemma’s opinion, the prettiest: a Tudor-style common in the Chicago area, with original paned windows and a bluestone walkway leading to the arched front door. Inside, Hope had painted out the dark woodwork, leaving only the exposed beams on the ceiling in the living room, giving it a light and airy feeling even if those white sofas did seem a little impractical with twin girls. Still, they were always pristine, every pillow plumped, every surface bare aside from a few cozy touches: a vase of fresh-cut seasonal flowers, a few coffee-table books, a framed photo of the girls at the lakefront, looking absolutely adorable.
Sometimes Gemma didn’t know how her sister did it. Her house was perfect. Her kids were perfect. Her husband was perfect. She was perfect.
Whereas Gemma… Well, Gemma realized as Evan closed the door behind them that the top button on her jeans had popped open.
Hope sailed into the room in navy linen pants and a pale pink blouse, looking fresh and relaxed. Her honey-colored hair trailed down her back in a low ponytail. Gemma caught a waft of her peony-scented perfume as she reached in for a hug, and whispered in Gemma’s ear, “Thank God you’re here.”
Gemma pulled back, perplexed, but still smiling. It was only when she held out the gifts that she noticed the slightly wild look to her sister’s eyes. It was the stress of the party, she decided. Hope was too hard on herself, always had been. No doubt she wanted everything to look perfect. And it certainly couldn’t be easy to host fifteen four-year-olds when you had those white sofas.
They walked into the equally white kitchen, where a three-tiered cake with pink frosting was resting on the center island. It had been doused in colorful sprinkles, looking like something you’d see front and center in a bakery window, but Gemma knew her sister well enough to know that Hope had made it herself.
Through the screen doors, Gemma saw that Rose and Victoria were dancing around with fistfuls of balloons in bright, happy colors that were a contrast to their white party dresses. On their heads they wore gold crowns that matched their gold Mary Jane shoes, to show everyone that they were the birthday girls. The entire patio had been set up with tiny tables for the kids, a food station for the parents (complete with a drinks bar), and centerpieces of colorful spring arrangements. At the edge of the fenced-in yard, Gemma saw that a man was leading a white pony by a glittering gold harness.
Gemma squinted out the window as something caught her eye. “Is that?” It couldn’t be! The pony wasn’t just a pony. It was…She turned, catching Hope’s failed attempt at a casual shrug. “It is! Oh, Hope! A unicorn?”
“The girls think it’s real, so don’t tell them it isn’t!”
Gemma laughed and turned back to the window to admire the majestic gold horn that was attached to the pony’s head by a strap.
“Did you tell Mom?” she asked, accepting a glass of chilled white wine. It went down easily and helped dull the nagging dread she felt about her deadline. Coming up here was always a good distraction, she thought. She hadn’t thought about Sean in—she checked the clock on the wall and calculated how long it had been since she’d gotten off the train—eleven minutes!
Her shoulders slumped. Now she’d have to restart the timer.
Hope took a sip from her own glass. Gemma noted that her fingernails were painted the exact shade of pink as her blouse. Growing up, Gemma always thought Hope adhered to these habits because it was expected of her, but as she’d carried these traits through to her married life, it became clear that Hope preferred it this way.
“I sent her a picture but I think they’re in France now, right? Or was it Spain?”
“Neither,” Gemma replied. “They’re in Iceland. I’m surprised it’s not on your calendar,” she joked. Everything was on Hope’s calendar. Her entire life was planned out by the hour.
The doorbell rang, and Hope sighed, took another swig of wine, and then breezed into the hall. A moment later, voices could be heard greeting each other, and Gemma took this as her cue to go outside, where Evan was now trying to keep the girls from the pony—ahem, unicorn.
“Auntie Gemma!” the girls cried when they saw her. They ran toward her, arms outstretched, baby teeth on full display, and for a moment, all was right in the world.
Gemma squatted down, opening her arms to pull them in, hoping that she wouldn’t accidentally spill the glass of wine she was clutching in one hand on the back of Rose’s white dress.
“We have a unicorn,” Victoria said, whispering reverently and then clasping her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.
“I saw!” Gemma rounded her eyes, playing along.
When the twins ran toward the door to the house to greet their friends, she saw Evan raise an eyebrow. “Hope had to have a unicorn.”
“Or the girls did?” Gemma tried.
Evan gave her a knowing look before he crossed the patio toward the door to greet some new arrivals.
The backyard filled quickly, and more than once she heard Hope remark that she was happy the rain had cleared. Rain meant no unicorn, Gemma supposed. It also meant a lot of people in a very pristine house, many under the age of five. Really, she was surprised that Hope had been willing to take that risk.
“Next year we’re doing high tea, in the city,” Hope informed her once the games were underway for the kids and the guests were mingling amongst themselves.
Gemma frowned at her sister, wanting to say that she thought the party was a success, but Hope quickly said, “They’ll be five then. Perfect age for that sort of thing.”
Gemma smiled. Of course. “I seem to recall we always did that for your birthday, didn’t we?”
Hope seemed to frown. “You’re right. We did. Meanwhile Ellie always got to have her party at the country club pool.”
“Well, she has a summer birthday,” Gemma pointed out, but she knew what Hope meant. When Ellie pushed for later bed times, she was met with heaved sighs and resigned nods of the head. Whereas if Hope or Gemma had asked, the answer would have been a firm and immediate “no.” Rules were rules in the Morgan household. At least, until Ellie cam
e along.
“Have you spoken to her recently?” Hope asked.
Gemma was quick to shake her head. “I haven’t been good at keeping in touch with everything that’s gone on lately.” She felt uneasy thinking about her sister. They had exchanged words, last summer, at Gran’s service. Words that didn’t sit right with her and that she couldn’t take back. Still, she and Ellie had always gotten along, and surely Ellie had to know that tensions were high then. They were all grieving. And, of course, they were at their childhood home, under their father’s roof and his tight control over everything they said and did. They were tense and nervous, just like they’d been as kids.
“Service is always hit or miss on the island.” Hope smiled at a passing guest.
Gemma wished it were just that, but she had a feeling there was more to it. “She did call and leave a voicemail after she heard about the wedding…” She trailed off, hating that she’d now broached the topic when all she wanted to do was push it out of her head for an afternoon.
Hope nodded. She was the peacemaker, always had been. The role model. She made monthly calls to Ellie, even had it written on the calendar in the kitchen. Sunday nights were for calls to their parents, and even if she wasn’t able to reach them, Gemma knew her sister well enough to know that Hope was dutiful enough to try.
“How’s the book coming along?” Hope asked, and the eager smile told Gemma that her sister was trying to steer her off the topic of Sean in a helpful way. She had no way of knowing that she’d just brought up something equally prickly.
It was the dreaded question, and one that Gemma didn’t hear very often other than from her editor and literary agent, because she tried not to engage with anyone, especially of late. But this was her sister. She could be honest with Hope.
“Not well. I’m…blocked.” There, she’d said it. She didn’t know where her story was going. She didn’t know the ending.