“No, ma’am.”
“Let me put somethin’ together for you. You like oxtails?”
“I love them.”
“Good. Then I’ll fix you some oxtails with ham hocks. I’ll also give you some rice, because you need some meat on your bones. Collards and a slice of my coconut cake should fill you right up.”
“That sounds good, Miss Vina.”
“Rest yourself and I’ll be right back.”
When Deborah sat down, closed her eyes and pressed the back of her head to the wall behind her, she realized she was hungry and unbelievably tired. Tired from stress that had worn her down like a steady rush of water over a pile of rocks.
Her parents had come up from Florida for the funeral and had all but begged her to move down there, but Deborah told them she couldn’t uproot Whitney and Crystal. Whitney was in his last year of high school, and fifteen-year-old Crystal would have problems adjusting and making friends at a new school. Crystal had taken her father’s death much harder than Whitney, who’d grieved in private.
Her musings were interrupted when Luvina’s granddaughter walked over to the table with a large glass of sweet tea and a plate with two biscuits. “Sorry about Mr. Robinson, Miss Deborah. All the kids cried for days when we heard he’d drowned. He was the best math teacher in the whole high school.”
Deborah smiled at the girl, who lived on the island but went to high school with her children. “Thank you, Johnetta. How are you?”
“I’m good, Miss Deborah. Right now I’m applying to nursing schools up north, but my momma and daddy don’t want me to leave the state, so I have to apply to one here.”
“Charleston Southern University has a school of nursing. You can live here while you’re taking classes. That would save you a lot of money.”
Johnetta smiled, displaying the braces on her teeth. “You’re right. I could take the ferry or get my father to drop me off when he goes to work.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“Thank you, Miss Deborah. I’m going to go and bring out your food.”
Deborah stared at the tall girl, who’d at one time admitted she liked Whitney, but he’d acted as if she didn’t exist. She’d wanted to tell Johnetta that Whitney was more interested in sports than he was in a relationship with a girl. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like girls, but sports and academics were his priority.
Johnetta returned with a bowl of okra gumbo and after the first spoonful Deborah felt as if she’d been revived. The soup was delicious, the biscuits light and buttery and the sweet tea brewed to perfection. She’d tried over and over, but whenever she brewed tea it was either too strong or too weak. Too strong meant adding copious amounts of sugar and too weak made it taste like sugar water.
She finished her lunch and paid the check, reminding Johnetta she’d come back to pick up her takeout order. Leaving Jack’s, Deborah strolled along Main Street, stopping to stare through the windows of stores and shops. Grass had sprouted up through the cracks in the sidewalk. There had been a time when there were no cracks and the only thing that had littered the sidewalks or curbs was sand and palmetto leaves. The sand-littered streets added to the charm of the town, but dead leaves and debris were swept away by shopkeepers every morning.
She continued her stroll, turning onto Moss Alley, and then came to a complete stop. Moss Alley was appropriately named because of the large oak draped in Spanish moss on the corner. Shading her eyes, Deborah peered through the glass window of a store that had once been a gift shop. The space wasn’t particularly wide, but deep enough for her bookstore. And what made it even more attractive was it had a second floor—space where she could store her inventory.
A flutter of excitement raced through her. It was perfect for The Parlor. It was off the main street, but on the corner where anyone walking or driving by would notice it. With hand-painted letters on the plate-glass, a colorful awning, and furniture resembling a parlor, it would generate enough curiosity to draw in customers.
She walked down the street, stopping at the opposite end of the block. Smiling, she waved through the window of the Muffin Corner at the woman behind the counter, who beckoned her.
She opened the screen door and was met with tantalizing aromas of fruit and freshly made cakes, pies, and donuts. Lester and Mabel Kelly had opened the shop the year before. Both had worked as pastry chefs for a hotel chain, but had tired of the frantic pace of baking for catered parties and returned to the Cove to open the Muffin Corner.
Mabel Kelly flashed a gap-tooth smile when Deborah walked in. Coming from behind the counter, she hugged her. “How’s it going, girl?”
Deborah returned the hug. “I’m good.”
Pulling back, Mabel narrowed her eyes. She and Deborah were the same age, thirty-eight, but there was sadness in Deborah’s eyes that made her appear older. “I’m sorry about Louis, Debs. It’s a damn shame folks accused him of something he didn’t do, and would never think of doing. I can tell you that folks here were ready to get in their cars and start some mess Charleston hasn’t seen in a while.”
“I know that, Mabel.”
“Is that why you decided to have a private funeral?”
“It was one of the reasons.”
“You know I called your house but some woman named Barbara answered. Damn, you thought I was trying to set up a lunch date with President Obama the way she interrogated me. In the end, I told her to let you know I’d called.”
“She did, Mabel. And, I do appreciate you calling.”
“Can I get you something?”
“No thanks. I just came from Jack’s.”
Physically Deborah and Mabel were complete opposites. Mabel was barely five foot and had what people call birthing hips, yet she’d never had any children. She said she didn’t want any because she’d helped her father raise six younger siblings after her mother got hooked on drugs. The year she’d turned fourteen her mother had taken the ferry to Charleston to score and never came back. There were reports that someone had seen her in Savannah, strung-out, but it was never confirmed.
The wind chime over the door tinkled musically. “Excuse me, Debs,” Mabel whispered. “Let me take care of this customer, then we’ll sit and talk.” Her smile grew wider. “Afternoon, Asa. Can I get you to sample today’s special along with your black coffee with a shot of espresso?”
“No thank you, Mabel. I’ll just have coffee,” she heard the man reply.
Deborah sat, enjoying the aromas of the shop before her gaze lingered on Mabel’s customer. He was a tall, slender, middle-aged black man. Though he was dressed casually in khakis, long-sleeved light-blue button-down shirt, and black leather slip-ons, Deborah couldn’t take her eyes off the handsome stranger. He didn’t look familiar, so either he was a newcomer, visitor, or tourist. Cavanaugh Island didn’t get many tourists during the winter months, but the balmy seventy-degree temperatures attracted a few snowbirds from the northeast and Midwest.
Without warning, he turned and caught her staring. Their gazes met and fused, and they shared a smile. He continued to stare and Deborah couldn’t control the rush of heat in her face; she lowered her eyes and didn’t glance up again until the wind chime tinkled when the door closed behind the very attractive man.
“I like what you’ve done with the shop,” Deborah said to Mabel when she joined her at the table.
“We don’t have a Starbucks here in the Cove, so Lester and I decided to offer something other than regular coffee to go along with the muffins. Business has really picked up since we put in the tables. We mostly get retirees who order their favorite muffin, coffee, and read the newspaper whenever it gets too hot to sit in the square, or during rainy weather. It’s a big hit, especially with the snowbirds.” Mabel bit her lip. “If it wasn’t for the snowbirds businesses in the Cove would really have a hard time staying open.”
“It’s that bad?” Deborah asked.
“Just say it could be better. Most of us are hanging on by the skin of our tee
th, waiting for the summer season. Take Asa Monroe, the man who just left.”
“What about him?” she asked. For a reason she couldn’t fathom, Deborah wanted to know more about the stranger who unknowingly intrigued her.
“He rents a suite at the Cove Inn, been here about six weeks. He eats lunch at Jack’s, sends his laundry out and comes in every day for his black coffee with a shot of espresso. Multiply that by twenty or thirty snowbirds and it’s enough revenue to keep small shopkeepers afloat until the summer season.”
Deborah nodded. “I noticed a few more vacant stores since the last time I was here.”
“The gift shop closed up last month.”
“I just rented it.”
A beat passed before Mabel said, “You’re kidding?”
“No I’m not. I’m moving to the Cove and—”
“Permanently?”
Deborah nodded again. “Yes. I’m also moving my bookstore. I called the chamber and they gave me a listing of the vacant stores. Once I found out the gift shop had closed, I realized it would be perfect. It has more square footage than my Charleston store and having a second floor is a bonus.”
Mabel leaned closer. “What about your kids?”
“Nothing’s going to change, Mabel, except that they’ll live here instead of in Charleston. They’ll still go to the same high school and hang out with their same friends.”
“What are you going to do with your house on the mainland?”
“I’m putting it up for sale. I know the real estate market is soft,” Deborah said quickly when Mabel opened her mouth, “but I’m willing to accept a reasonable offer because I don’t want to rent it.” She glanced at her watch, then stood up, Mabel rising with her. “I have to get back to the house. I’ll drop by again in a couple of days.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I’m leaving New Year’s Eve. I promised the kids I’d be back in time to bring in the new year with them.” Extending her arms, Deborah hugged Mabel.
She left the Muffin Corner, stopping again at the vacant store on Moss Alley that was soon to be the new home of The Parlor bookstore.
ALSO BY ROCHELLE ALERS
Sanctuary Cove
ACCLAIM FOR
SANCTUARY COVE
“4½ stars! With this introduction to the Cavanaugh Island series, Alers returns to the Lowcountry of South Carolina. Readers will enjoy the ambiance, the delicious-sounding food, and the richly described characters falling in love after tragedy. This is an excellent series starter.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Soaked in an old-fashioned feel, Alers’s hyper-realistic style… will appeal to readers looking for gentle, inexplicit romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I truly and thoroughly enjoyed the book. I found it a wonderful, warm, intriguing romance and was happy to find a new author to read.”
—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author of Simply Irresistible
“Carolina Lowcountry comfort food, a community of people who care, and a wonderfully emotional love story. Who could ask for more? Sanctuary Cove is the kind of place you visit and never want to leave.”
—Hope Ramsay, bestselling author of Welcome to Last Chance
“The author writes in such a fluid way that it captures the readers’ attention from the word go. The ending is surprising and satisfying… A sweet, charming romance, Sanctuary Cove is a quick read you will remember.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Sanctuary Cove is a gripping, second-chance-at-love romance… real and truly inspiring… I highly recommend it!”
—NightOwlReviews.com
“The first Cavanaugh Island romance is a wonderful barrier island second chance at love. The support cast is superb, especially the teens and islanders… [Readers] will enjoy visiting the Lowcountry with Rochelle Alers as their guide.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“Reading about two tattered souls finding each other and moving on with their lives is romance at its finest.”
—TheReadingReviewer.com
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Rochelle Alers
Dear Reader,
I would like to thank everyone who told me they couldn’t wait to return to Cavanaugh Island. And like the genie in the bottle I’m going to grant your wish.
You will get to revisit people and places on the idyllic island, while being introduced to others who will make you laugh, cry—and even a few you’d rather avoid. It is a place where newcomers are viewed with suspicion, family secrets are whispered about, and where old-timers are reluctant to let go of their past. Most inhabitants believe what happens in Sanctuary Cove, Angels Landing, or Haven Creek stays in Cavanaugh Island. Angels Landing—or “the Landing,” as the locals refer to it—takes its name from the antebellum mansion and surrounding property that was and will again become a crown jewel on the National Register of Historic Places.
In ANGELS LANDING you will meet newcomer Kara Newell, a transplanted New York social worker who inherits a neglected plantation and a house filled with long-forgotten treasures and family secrets spanning centuries. Kara finds herself totally unprepared to step into her role as landed gentry, and even more unprepared for the island’s hunky sheriff. Her southern roots help her adjust to the slower way of Lowcountry life, but she finds herself in a quandary when developers concoct elaborate schemes to force Kara into selling what folks refer to as her birthright. Then there’s hostility from newfound family members, as well as her growing feelings for Sheriff Jeffrey Hamilton.
Jeff has returned to Cavanaugh Island to look after his ailing grandmother and to assume the duties as sheriff. His transition from military to civilian life is smooth because, as “Corrine Hamilton’s grandbaby boy,” he’s gained the respect of everyone through his fair, no-nonsense approach to upholding the law. However, his predictable lifestyle is shaken when he’s asked to look after Kara when veiled threats are made against her life. When Jeff realizes his role as protector shifts from professional to personal, he is faced with the choice of whether to make Kara a part of his future or lose her like he has other women in his past.
So come on back and reunite with folks with whom you’re familiar and new characters you’d want to see time and time again. You will also get a glimpse of Haven Creek, where artisans still practice customs passed down from their African ancestors. Make certain to read the teaser chapter from Haven Creek for the next installment in the Cavanaugh Island series.
Read, enjoy, and do let me hear from you!!!
[email protected]
www.rochellealers.org
From the desk of Christie Craig
Dear Reader,
Have you ever stared in the mirror and had yourself a mini identity crisis? Felt unsure of who you really were? I have, and that was the inspiration for BLAME IT ON TEXAS. But for my heroine, Zoe Adams, her identity crisis isn’t so mini.
Imagine seeing a childhood picture of yourself splashed across the TV screen on an unsolved mystery show, which claims you were kidnapped from some highfalutin’ Texas millionaire family. Imagine learning that your corpse was supposedly discovered shortly after you were kidnapped. Imagine it, when all your life you’ve had some strange memories that didn’t make sense.
With Zoe’s parents—or people she thought were her parents—deceased, she’s certain of only one thing: She’s not dead. (Although, after her fiancé ran off with another woman, taking her heart with him, she hasn’t felt too alive.) So Zoe does the only thing she can: She takes a leave of absence from her job as a kindergarten teacher, packs up the only thing that matters in her life—her handicapped cat—and hightails it from Alabama to the Lone Star State.
Her search for answers lands her in a whole lot of trouble, too. When someone starts taking pot shots at her, she winds up under the protective arm of a sexy commitment-phobic PI who is more than willing to play bodyguard.
Between Tyler Lopez, his family and friends, and all the zany characters she meets while working at Cookie’s Diner, Zoe learns that who you are isn’t so much about your birth name or who your parents were. It’s about whom you let into your life and whom you love.
From Texas-sized flying cockroaches and ticked-off clowns, to games of strip Scrabble, writing the story of Zoe and Tyler was the most fun I’ve had doing something that wouldn’t get me arrested. The chemistry between these two characters lit up the page from the moment she drops three plates of food on him. Hot grits and sunny-side up eggs never looked so good. I hope you enjoy the story of two people stumbling their way through life’s bumpy roads and landing smack-dab in the lap of love.
I love hearing from readers, so please come visit me at www.christie-craig.com; find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/christiecraigfans; or follow me on Twitter at @Christie_Craig.
Laugh, Love, Read.
From the desk of Nina Rowan
Dear Reader,
Confession #1: I’m terrified of math. I have been a math-o-phobe since first grade, when we learned basic addition and I had to count on my fingers to make sure I was getting the answers right. Confession #2: I still count on my fingers. Confession #3: I’m way, way beyond first grade.
Math and I have never found a groove. I’m okay with some numbers (2 and 5 are polite acquaintances of mine, if not exactly friends), but others make me nervous (7 is somewhat flinty, and 9 is plain evil). I never memorized the multiplication tables. I still can’t do long division. My son is now a first-grader and completes his math homework faster than I can check it.
So what provoked me to create a heroine who is a brilliant mathematician? Lunacy, of course, and maybe a little bit of “Ha! I will confront you, Math, even though you scare me.” At least in writing about a mathematician, I could channel my fear into creating a hopefully unique and memorable heroine.
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