A Cup of Silver Linings

by Karen Hawkins

   PRAISE FOR  The Book Charmer

  A LibraryReads Pick

  A SIBA Okra Pick

  A Woman’s World Book Club Pick

  “Entrancing! Fans of Practical Magic and Garden Spells will love this book.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Susan Andersen

  “Hawkins has created a delightfully quirky town.… Reminiscent of Sarah Addison Allen, Abbi Waxman, and Fannie Flagg, this is a great summer read for those who love small Southern towns filled with magic.”

  —Booklist

  “This heartwarming story by Hawkins will delight fans of cozy romantic fiction with its quirky characters and charming small town.”

  —Library Journal

  “Take a sleepy Southern town known for its barbecue, two fiercely independent women, and a truly magical friendship, and you have the elements of Karen Hawkins’s latest novel.”

  —The Augusta Chronicle

  “I didn’t ever want it to end!”

  —Maddie Dawson, bestselling author of Matchmaking for Beginners

  “A tale of friendship and family and love in all its forms, of taking chances and starting over, of opening your heart and finding who you were always meant to be. Toss in a touch of magic, and prepare to be enchanted.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Mariah Stewart

  “Brimming with enchanting charm… A heartwarming and mesmerizing testament to the power of a good book.”

  —Woman’s World

  “Set in a small Southern town filled with both extraordinary and ordinary magic, this novel sparkles with quirky, endearing characters, dialogue, and setting. Fans of women’s fiction will love this sometimes whimsical, often insightful, always absorbing story.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “A story about a quirky Southern borough filled with eccentric characters and bizarre happenstance, which the locals label magic.”

  —All About Romance

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  To my sister Robin, who left us far too early. Every now and then, I read your old emails, and they still make me laugh.

  And to everyone who has lost a sister, brother, mother, father, spouse, child, or friend:

  If I could, I’d give each and every one of you a comfy lap blanket, a cup of hot chocolate, and a great big hug.

   CHAPTER 1  Ellen

  Standing beside her daughter’s open grave, Ellen Foster dug her fingernails into her palms as the annoying sound of a kazoo wafted through the wintry, pine-scented air.

  A kazoo.

  At a funeral.

  Worse, the kazoo wasn’t playing anything remotely appropriate, like “The Lord Is My Shepherd” or “Amazing Grace,” but instead ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”

  Ellen tried to ignore the other mourners who were silently lip-synching the song as they swayed to the music. Safely hidden behind her large sunglasses, she closed her aching eyes for a long moment. It was all so tasteless. But then, everything Julie had planned for her own funeral was, so far, bizarre and uniquely tasteless. Julie would have loved it. She was always good at irking me. Frightfully so.

  Ellen pressed her lips firmly together, holding back both a torrent of tears and the deep desire to shout a curse. She’d never uttered a curse in her entire life. Not once. But right now, it was all she could do to keep it inside. She was discovering that grief was a devious beast, a bitter mixture of loss and regret that ripped its way through her heart not once but over and over again, leaving her exposed and furious.

  Two elderly women wearing Game of Thrones T-shirts under their open coats stepped up to Julie’s shiny black casket, which had been painted with outrageous red glitter flames along each side and signed with Julie’s familiar swooshing signature. With military precision, the women unfolded a huge dragon flag and draped it over the casket, nodding at the preacher as they rejoined the other mourners.

  The purple dragon flag fluttered in the chilly January breeze, one heavily lashed eye seemingly locked on Ellen. The kazoo began playing once more, the lilting notes of “Macarena” drifting into the air.

  Ellen cast a baleful gaze at the sky. That’s not funny, Julie. Not even a little.

  The echo of Julie’s hearty, unchecked laugh rang through Ellen’s mind, so immediate and clear that for one glorious second, hope flared and she instinctively looked around, searching the small crowd for her daughter. The almost-instant realization that the laugh was just a memory was followed by bone-crushing disappointment. I’ll never hear that laugh again.

  Chest aching, Ellen silently sucked in a deep, shaky breath. I don’t have time for this. I should be thinking about how I’m going to help Kristen. My granddaughter deserves a happy life, and I’m going to make sure she gets one.

  To accomplish Project K, as Ellen had labeled it in her Louis Vuitton Noir Epi leather agenda just this morning, she had to accomplish three Action Items. Focus on the Action Items, she told herself as the preacher started tapping his toe to the kazoo’s hum. Kristen is all that matters.

  Ellen closed her eyes and ignored everything going on around her.

  Item One: Make it through the funeral without crying.

  So far, so good, mainly thanks to the heavy cover provided by her sunglasses. All she had to do was fight her way through the next fifteen or so minutes, and she could move on.

  Item Two: Fix up Julie’s house and put it on the market.

  That would be a big one, as, from what Ellen could tell, Julie’s creaky old Queen Anne–style house hadn’t been updated since the ’70s. Worse, now that Julie had lived in it for the past ten years, every closet and corner was piled high with kitsch. All of it has to go.

  That the house wasn’t in the best of shape and was stuffed with useless craft-quality items wasn’t a surprise. It was just one example in a long line of examples of Julie’s refusal to grow up. Not only had she become an artist rather than get a real job, but she’d also deliberately had a child without the benefit of either a father or a steady income. Poor Kristen. The opportunities she’s missed—I can’t bear to think about it.

  Fortunately for her granddaughter, Ellen was ready and able to handle things from here on out, and the money made from the house sale would go straight into a college fund.

  Which leaves Item Three: Get Kristen out of this backward town and to my home in Raleigh where she can begin living a normal, orderly life. Of all the Action Items, that one would be the trickiest. Ellen slanted a glance to her side where Kristen stood, loudly puffing out “Macarena” on her neon-green kazoo. Ellen tried not to gaze too long at the teenager’s purple-streaked hair or the small diamond that twinkled in her nose.

  Don’t stare. Ellen jerked her gaze away from Kristen, away from the dragon flag–draped casket, and instead focused on the trees in the distance. Ellen had to proceed carefully where her granddaughter was concerned, as they barely knew one another thanks to Julie and her stubbornness. But with some time and effort, Ellen was convinced she and Kristen would grow closer and finally have the relationship they should have had all along.

  Kristen tilted her kazoo to a jauntier angle and finished “Macarena” to a boisterous round of applause.

  Ellen bit back the urge to snap out, This is supposed to be a funeral! Although it would be al
most impossible to tell by how these supposed mourners were dressed. Behind the safety of her dark sunglasses, she eyed the residents of Dove Pond, who wore a wide range of mismatched, garishly colored clothes, just as the handwritten funeral invitation had requested.

  She flinched at the memory of that invitation. When she’d found it in her mailbox just three days ago, she’d thought it a horrible joke. Julie’s flowing script had adorned bright construction paper, breezily inviting her mother to “the funeral of all funerals, date TBA.” The invitation had requested that everyone wear bright colors, as Julie didn’t wish to leave the earth in a parade of dull black or gray. She’d also added that she wanted no weeping, as dying wasn’t really so hard “once one got over the surprise of it.”

  It had been ten years since Ellen had heard from her daughter, who’d stormed out of Ellen’s world the same way she’d entered—screaming and red-faced, refusing to be held or told what to do. After their last argument, Julie had cut her mother from her and Kristen’s lives. Ellen had been horrified when Julie had refused to allow her to even see her granddaughter, saying she didn’t want Kristen’s mind “polluted” by Ellen’s “stuffy views.”

  In those first few months, Ellen had reached out repeatedly, desperate to see her granddaughter, but her calls had gone unanswered. As the silent weeks expanded to even more silent months, Ellen had decided to give Julie some space, thinking her daughter would come around more quickly if she didn’t feel pressured. After that, Ellen had only called on birthdays and holidays… calls that had gone to voice mail so often that—as time wore on—she’d eventually stopped even that.

  Which was why Ellen hadn’t taken the invitation to her daughter’s future funeral seriously. Ellen had never understood Julie’s sense of humor, so she’d just assumed it was some sort of cruel joke and had tossed the invitation into the closest trash can.

  But then, the very next day, Kristen had called, crying. In between Kristen’s hiccupping sobs and broken words, Ellen had learned that Julie had died after a two-year fight with breast cancer.

  The invitation was real, and Julie was gone.

  Stunned, Ellen had numbly assured her granddaughter she’d be there as soon as possible and hung up. Time had slammed to a halt and for some reason, Ellen had found herself staring down at her feet. She’d been wearing a pair of blue Manolo Blahnik Decebalo pumps with gold trim, adorned with large crystal brooches. If she closed her eyes now, she could still see her long, narrow feet in those shoes while tears she didn’t even know she was crying fell onto the blue velvet, shimmering in the late-afternoon sun, brighter than the sparkling brooches.

  She’d since thrown the shoes away because she couldn’t look at them without remembering what had happened next. She’d let out a moan like a wounded tiger and had dropped to her knees, desperately digging through the trash, looking for the invitation. When her fingers had closed over the discarded paper, her tears had turned into sobs, her pain tinged a bitter blue from the impersonal tone of the invitation. The truth hurt—that even while dying, Julie hadn’t bothered to reach out to her mother.

  Ellen had sat on the floor surrounded by trash as she hugged the ridiculous piece of construction paper, weeping for the daughter she’d lost and for the relationship she’d always hoped for, but now knew she would never have.

  Eventually Ellen had run out of tears. So she’d done as she always had whenever she faced a problem: she’d picked herself up, dried her tears, closed the door on her too-raw emotions, and made a list of things that needed to be done. She’d taken time off work and packed for her trip, pausing now and then to add to her to-do list. As she did so, her sadness and fury grew. Once again Julie had withheld something precious from Ellen, her right to say goodbye to her one and only child. Ellen had been left standing on an emotional precipice, alone and empty.

  A cool breeze rippled the dragon flag, and Ellen tugged her black wool coat tighter, catching Kristen’s questioning gaze. Ellen realized her expression must be fury-tight, so she forced her mouth to curve into what she hoped was a comforting smile.

  Kristen didn’t look convinced. She turned her attention back to the preacher, the diamond stud in her nose sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. It was painfully obvious that Julie had allowed her daughter all the excesses she’d craved as a child, and Ellen shuddered to think what damage had already been done.

  As if she could hear her grandmother’s thoughts, Kristen hunched her shoulders against the breeze, causing her red-and-purple kimono to flap around her knees. Earlier today, as they’d gotten ready to attend the service, Ellen had balked at the sight of Kristen wearing the garment, but the teenager had flatly refused to change, saying she and her mother had picked out the kimono during Julie’s final week.

  Final week. Ellen’s throat tightened. She hoped and prayed Julie hadn’t suffered. Please, no. Julie, why didn’t you call me? I would have come. I would have helped.

  Fresh tears burned Ellen’s eyes, and she furiously blinked them away behind her sunglasses. She would not cry. Would. Not.

  The reverend, a round man who looked sweaty even on a chilly January afternoon, smiled at Kristen before he launched into his opening. “My friends, we are not here to mourn the loss of resident artist and beloved town member Julie Foster but rather to celebrate the beauty she added to our lives by sharing her artwork, her smile, her life, and her lovely daughter, Kristen. Julie was a warm person. A generous person. A vibrant person. We will all miss her dearly.” He faltered a bit as his gaze brushed by Ellen.

  Ellen wondered what Julie had told people about their contentious relationship but decided it was best she didn’t know. Still, she couldn’t help noticing the uncertain glances cast her way, both curious and faintly disapproving. Had Julie complained about her, or were they upset Ellen wasn’t weeping like a broken doll? They didn’t know her if they expected a public display. When she wept, it was in private, away from prying, judgmental eyes.

  Ellen’s restless gaze swept over the residents of Dove Pond. She recognized a few of them from the five years she and Julie had lived here after the divorce. During the day, while Julie was in school, Ellen had been fighting her way to the top of an architectural firm in Asheville, where she’d overseen a number of complex commercial rehab projects. In those days, getting Julie to the bus stop on time had been a struggle, and Ellen could still see her daughter dashing out of the house, her thick blond hair uncombed, her book bag half open, her socks mismatched as she ran to meet the school bus, which was usually honking urgently from the street. That was Julie in a nutshell. She’d rushed through life underprepared and thoughtless, causing her organized and orderly mother decades of worry and concern. And now, for all of Julie’s troublesome and rebellious ways, she was gone.

  Forever.

  Ellen’s stomach ached as if someone had punched her. This was not how things were supposed to end. She and Julie were supposed to overcome their issues. They were supposed to become close—friends, even—working together to make Kristen’s life better.

  Ellen’s eyes filled with tears yet again, so she took a deep breath and focused on the reverend, who had just asked Ava Dove to come forward and read. Ellen watched the young blond woman make her way from the crowd, a small book in her hands. Ellen disliked the Dove sisters almost as much as she disliked this funeral. The entire town admired the Doves, and some even believed the seven sisters possessed “special” abilities, which was beyond ridiculous. During the drive over, Ellen had been horrified to hear Kristen say how much she loved working for Ava Dove. From some of the things Kristen had said over the past few days, it was obvious she believed the specialty teas Ava made from the flowers and herbs she grew in her greenhouses could cure a number of ills, including arthritis, heart palpitations, and even broken hearts. Ellen had had to fight to keep her lip from curling in disdain.

  The Dove Family Nonsense, as Ellen thought of it, was exactly the sort of fairy tale–ish, new age baloney Julie had loved and had appare
ntly fed to an impressionable Kristen. To accomplish Action Item Three, Ellen would have to disentangle her granddaughter from the town, which meant dissolving her close relationship with Ava Dove. That wouldn’t be an easy task, as Kristen worked almost every day after school with Ava, who was planning on opening a tearoom this coming spring. Kristen positively glowed when she talked about it.

  Ellen narrowly eyed Ava where she stood beside the preacher, ready to speak. She wore horribly inappropriate purple coveralls under a mustard-yellow Carhartt coat with a bright patch on one front pocket that read AVA DOVE’S LANDSCAPING AND GOURMET SPECIALTY TEAS.

  Ridiculous. Am I the only person who understands the proper attire for a funeral?

  Ava cleared her throat. “Julie and I became close this past year during her illness, and I consider her and Kristen family.” Ava’s pale gray-green gaze found Kristen’s, and they smiled at each other, sending a twinge of jealousy through Ellen.

  “Julie asked me to share a passage from her favorite book.” Ava opened the book, removed a bright pink Post-it, and began reading. “ ‘Kama is the enjoyment of appropriate objects by the five senses of hearing, feeling, seeing, tasting, and smelling, assisted by the mind together with the soul.’ ”

  Of course Julie would have some sort of ridiculous Far Eastern babble read at her funeral.

  Kristen whispered, “Recognize the book?”

  Ellen shook her head.

  Kristen smirked. “It’s the Kama Sutra.”

  Ellen wondered if a person could burst into flames with mortification. If it had been physically possible, she was certain she would have already done so long before now.

  An odd noise came from Kristen. Ellen cut her granddaughter a sharp look and caught the teen attempting to smother a laugh, looking so much like her mother that Ellen’s heart stuttered a beat. In that grin was a streak of pure rebellion, the same streak that had pushed Julie to run away from home at the tender age of seventeen, beginning the worst years of Ellen’s life. And now, there it was, on Kristen’s face. For the first time since Ellen had arrived in Dove Pond, a sliver of fear pierced her soul. Please, God, don’t let us go down the same road Julie and I traveled. I can’t lose Kristen, too. I can’t. I just can’t.