#FoodFiction Sugar-free Chocolates From Verity and the Villain

Sugar-free Chocolates

Prep Time 5 minutes

 Cook Time 15 minutes

 Total Time 20 minutes

 Servings 8 servings

 Calories 170 kcal

Ingredients

3/4 cocoa butter

1 cup unsweetened cocoa I used Ghirardelli (start with 1/2 cup and add additional if needed)

1/2 teaspoon stevia concentrated powder

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions

Melt cocoa butter in a chocolate melter or double boiler.

Stir in cocoa powder and sweetener(s).

Keep on heat until dry ingredients have been fully incorporated.

Remove from heat and stir in vanilla extract.

Pour into chocolate bar molds.

CHAPTER 16

Melt with butter over low heat. Take care, if overheated, chocolate can develop a grainy texture.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

A thick, sensuous aroma filled the kitchen. It had a heady odor that Mercy had never before encountered. By mixing cocoa, butter, sugar and cider, she’d created something that had seemed to conjure every stray animal in Seattle. Dogs and cats lined the alley behind the shop. They stood shoulder to shoulder, each jostling for position outside the open the door.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Cassie said, wiping her forehead with the end of her apron before returning to the pie crust.

Mercy shook her head at the gathered menagerie. “Do animals like chocolate?”

“They certainly seem to think so,” Hilda said, scooping out a cup of sugar and adding it to the vat of lard.

“I can’t imagine that it’s good for them,” Mercy said, wiping her hands on her skirt before brushing her damp hair off her forehead.

“That doesn’t mean that they don’t like it,” Cassie said considering the animals. “There’s plenty of pleasurable poisons.”

“Like that scoundrel Drake,” Hilda said, as she stirred a long handled wooden spoon through the concoction bubbling in the pot on the stove. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as each of the girls seemed to remember where they’d been and how they’d gotten there.

He was the one thing all the girls had agreed upon. Drake Wallace had been their poison. None of them had seen Rita or recognized a description of Steele, but they’d all been intoxicated by Drake Wallace, the cleft-chinned man whom she’d first met on the ship.

“I wonder if he likes chocolate,” Cassie said, her hands on her hips.

Hilda stopped the flour cup mid-air. “What are you thinking?”

STEALING MERCY IS FREE IN THE KINDLE UNLIMITED PROGRAM

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Food Fiction: Sugar Free Blackberry Pie

Sugar Free Blackberry Pie

1½ cups  Honey

3 Tbsp     Cornstarch

¼ tsp       Ground Cinnamon

¼ tsp       Ground Nutmeg

¼ tsp       Salt

4 cups     Fresh Blackberries

2   Pie Crusts

1 Tbsp     Margarine

Directions:

Heat oven to 425 degrees. Place blackberries into bottom of one of the pie crusts. In large mixing bowl, combine honey, salt, cornstarch, nutmeg and cinnamon. Blend well and sprinkle this mixture over blackberries and dot with margarine. Unroll and flatten the other pie crust using a pin roller. Break into long, even strips, then layer strips in a cross-crossing diamond pattern. Place in oven and bake for 45-50 min, or until crust is golden brown.

From Stealing Mercy
FREE in kindle Unlimited

CHAPTER 1

Some herbs, like eucalyptus and wormwood, can be used to repel animals and insects.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

#

New York, New York

December, 1888

New York City’s night noises seeped through the wall chinks and window: the jingle of horse harnesses, the stomping of hooves, the mournful howl of a dog, but one noise, a noise that didn't belong, jarred Mercy awake.

 A creak on the stairs that led to her apartment. The third from the top, five steps past Mr. Bidwell’s door. Only those wishing to reach her home crossed that step. She never entertained visitors in the tiny attic; she wasn’t expecting company.

Lying in bed, she held her breath while the unwelcome guest paused. The walls were thin, the door as substantial as paper, the lock inconsequential. Her thoughts raced and her body shook. A shock of cold hit when she slipped from the bedding, the wooden floor felt like ice beneath her feet. The embers in the grate had burnt to a smolder and her shivering had as much to do with cold as with fear.

Mercy padded through the doorway to the sitting room. Dying coals in the potbelly stove cast an orange glow and shadows loomed large. Grabbing a fire poker from the hearth, she waited for a knock on the door. She tried to think of an innocent reason for a neighbor to call, an emergency or crisis in which she could assist, but when no knock came, she crept behind the pie safe stocked with the previous day’s unsold pies and pastries. Stars winked through the window and Mercy wondered if their pale light could penetrate her chiffon shift. She felt naked, alone, and friendless.

She could call out. Let the visitor know she was awake, alert and fire poker armed. Perhaps someone on the street below would hear, but would they come to her aid? Her only neighbor, Mr. Bidwell, as old as Satan and twice as mean, would never stir from his bed for her. As she so often did, Mercy missed her father and longed for family.

The splintering wood shattered the air as the lock gave way.

Across the room, a mirror, tarnished and misty, gave a wavy reflection of the opening door.  Mercy slid a fraction lower behind the pie safe. The odors of the pies mingled with her own smell of fear. She could feel the panic spilling out of her like a cloud that blurred her vision.

In the mirror she saw first a boot and then a thigh. Then Mr. Steele, his face a study of lust and cruelty, stood in the semi-darkness. The moonlight glistened on the six inch knife blade in his gloved hand. Mercy choked on a sour tasting sob. Suitors don’t carry knives.

Mr. Steele pushed the door open more, inviting in a breeze that circulated through the room. She knew why she’d been attracted to him. He looked and moved like royalty. His dark hair curled away from his forehead and his lean muscles rippled beneath his breeches. She thought of his laughter, the lilt of his voice when he asked if he could call, the gleam in his eye when she’d accepted his gift. Mercy fingered the silver charm, a four leaf clover that he’d given her. She’d tied it with a ribbon and wore it around her neck. Why hadn’t she taken it off when she’d denied his suit? When had she become suspicious of his flattery? Why was she not surprised to find him in her room past midnight wielding a knife?

Of course, he’d been angry and insulted that a mere shop girl would reject his favors. Impoverished girls without families and connections should fawn over a handsome, wealthy and prominent man such as Steele, but Mercy wasn’t typical, and she wasn’t as impoverishedas one might suppose. And so when Mr. Steele had invited her on a voyage to South America without proposing marriage, she’d turned him down.

Rumors whispered that Mr. Steele had also invited her friend Belle on such a voyage, before Belle had disappeared.

Mercy held her breath as Steele passed the pie safe, and then stopped, as if thinking. Mustering strength from the muscles that spent long hours kneading dough and beating eggs, gathering courage grown from burying first her mother and then her father, Mercy shoved the pie safe and it gave way with a creak and shudder. The safe caught Mr. Steele on the shoulder and he stumbled under the assault of the swinging doors and sailing pies. Apple, cherries, peaches, the sweet cinnamony odors of Faye’s wares pelted Mr. Steele. He danced in the pastry goop and landed hard on one knee. In a different circumstance, she’d have laughed at his abandoned dignity and awkward bobbling, but now she stepped into the fallen pastries with her mouth in a stern line, her anger as hot as fire.

One blow from the poker sent him to the floor. A second blow brought his arms over his head. With the third he winced, fell face first into the smashed pastries and then went still. When she stopped beating him her arms were shaking and her breath ragged. Blood oozed from behind his ear. His body sprawled in the spilt pies; his face pressed against the floorboards. She nudged him with the poker, but he didn’t stir. For a long moment she stood above him, waiting for a sign of life.

Her heart raced as she considered her options. The police? Would they believe her plea of self defense? She tried to imagine herself in a court of law, pitted against the wealthy and prominent Mr. Steele.

He lay motionless in a mess of stewed fruit and crust. A smashed, oozing cherry clung to his eyebrow. And then she noticed papers protruding from his jacket pocket. It looked like passage fare and she considered it with a hammering heart.

Squatting beside him, she drew the papers loose, her fingers shaking so badly the papers caused a noisy breeze. A silver key slipped from the packet to the floor and landed with a ping. The skeleton key had a curlicue top with embossed leaves swirling around the words Lucky Island. The papers were first class passage to Seattle. It seemed Mr. Steele had been undeterred from the voyage he’d proposed. The boat left at first light.

Seattle.

She couldn’t.

She had an aunt in Seattle.

She mustn’t.

Silly Tilly, her father had called his sister. Mercy hadn’t met her aunt, but Silly Tilly always remembered Mercy’s birthday.

Why not go? Mercy turned her head away from the tiny sitting room and looked out the window to the river while hastily drawn plans formed in her mind. Perhaps Lucky Island was in the Puget Sound. It sounded more fortuitous than Faye’s Bakery off Elm. Would her aunt take her in? Mercy had written Tilly of her father’s death, but hadn’t, as yet, heard a reply. Perhaps an invitation was already in the mail.

Mercy went to the wardrobe and tossed through her dresses, nothing seemed practical. What did one wear for flight? She caught sight of her father’s trunk and nursed an idea as she drew out her father’s clothes.

The pants, well worn and loose, she slipped on and then tucked into her boots. She rolled the sleeves of the cotton work shirt and shrugged into a boiled wool coat. She tugged at the belt holding up her father’s pants and took a deep breath in an effort to restore the calm she’d lost the moment she heard the boot on the stairs. The jacket made her warm and the faint smell of leather and shoeshine she always associated with her father gave her courage. It felt odd and freeing to move without the cumbrance of skirts and petticoats. She kept one eye on Mr. Steele as she packed the knapsack: her father’s watch, her mother’s bible, a bag of gold coins, a loaf of barley bread.

She sat down at the table where she’d taken her solitary meals and she struggled to control her shaking hands. One pinned the paper and the other grasped the quill. Her handwriting looked spidery, the ink blotchy. A splash of ink stained her father’s denim work shirt, but Mercy didn’t care.

To whom it may concern, I, Mercy Faye, have taken my life on the night of December 15, 1888, she wrote, but she mentally added, to Seattle.  She left the note on her unmade bed.

She snuck a glance at the blood still seeping from the man’s temple and fought the bile rising in her throat as she squatted and pulled out a locked trunk from under her bed. Her shivering increased, making it difficult for her fingers to work the key. Quickly, she rifled through her mother’s things which smelled of must, neglect and a lingering hint of lavender. Forgive me, Mama, she thought, when she found the velvet bag containing the Bren jewels.

Not trusting the sapphires in the knapsack, she tucked the bag next to her heart beneath the ink-stained shirt. Then she went to the safe where she kept the shop’s proceeds. Perhaps someone, most likely her landlord, would wonder, but who would question the scant means she left behind? The coins seemed to weigh a hundred pounds and they jingled like a tambourine in her father’s pockets.

Since her father’s death four months prior, there’d been times when Mercy contemplated selling the jewels, but the bakery had become increasingly successful. Mercy took a deep breath, inhaling the warm pastry smells that permeated her life. She would miss the shop, and it would only be a few hours until her customers would miss her. She pictured Mr. Lester, impatient for his muffin and coffee, Mrs. Nicole, eager for her biscuits. The customers would wander away, wondering what had happened to their supply of baked goods. Eventually her landlord would bang on the door, demanding rent, fair compensation. Would he find Mr. Steele?

Two hats hung on the hook by the door, a simple straw affair and summer bonnet that she wore walking. Mercy tucked the bonnet beneath her arm, shouldered the knapsack and then bade a silent goodbye to the only home she’d ever known.

Then she felt it. A shift in the air.  She stopped, listened and heard movement. Mr. Steele flinched.  

Michelle Knowlden’s Found Dead in Arugula: Faith Interrupted Short Mysteries

From Michelle Knowlden’s 

Found Dead in Arugula:

 Faith Interrupted Short Mysteries

(If you haven't tried Michelle's books, you really should. They're even more delicious than her cookies)

Officer Saito sat comfortably as if he were born to sit in the burgundy chair. In another life, she thought as sorrow arrowed through her, he might have been. Regret and the sound of a car braking hard in front of her house—a reminder of Darryl’s death—made her wilt against the door frame. A microsecond later, she rallied and stepped into the room.

“The Lenten cookies should be eaten while still warm.” She handed him a plate with three cookies.

“Lenten cookies?” he asked.

“Meant for those fasting from sugar during Lent, but I serve them year around.”

He took a tentative bite and grinned. “I’d eat these year around.”

After finishing two cookies, he picked up the tablet. “How did you know the deceased, Mrs. Towe?”

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Michelle’s Lenten Cookies

One very ripe banana

A cup of oatmeal (add less if using a smaller banana)

A tsp of vanilla (optional)

Optional add-ins: pecan pieces, cranberry or bittersweet chocolate chips.

Directions:

Thoroughly squish banana and oatmeal together. To each tablespoon of mixture, add in two pecan pieces and two chocolate chips or two cranberries. Can be made plain. Slightly depress each raw cookie ball on a parchment-lined cookie sheet.

Bake at 350 degrees F for fifteen minutes, but check after ten. Should be eaten while still warm.

When Dead Friends Visit

I had a dream last night that a dead writer friend came to visit me. (You can read more about Marilou here) We were in the home of another more successful (alive) writer. The house was chaotic, food-on-the-floor messy, and full of readers and writers--most of them argumentative and generally unhappy.

But I was so happy to see Marilou. We talked about my books and I told her I had started a new one. I was excited about it, but, for some reason, yesterday I wasn't able to focus. It took me several hours to write what I can usually write in one. She was encouraging and when she hugged me goodbye, I was surprised that she felt the same in my arms as before.

After she left, a woman from my church told me how inappropriate it was for Marilou to visit when she was dead. "She needs to stay dead." That was really sad for me. And not even true. People who have truly lived leave behind a legacy. Especially writers. Talking to Marilou reminded me of a quote I heard once that goes something like this: People will forget and ignore the thou shalt nots, but they'll remember and love the once upon a times. (That's why some fairy tales have been around for thousands of years.)

Our world, just like my friend's house in my dream, can be chaotic, messy, and contentious, but talking to Marilou reminded me that we write to try and make sense out of our world and hopefully make it a better place to be.

Here's the first chapter of my novel, A Ghost of a Second Chance. It's the story of a woman who, with the help of her grandmother's ghost, goes in search of her missing but also dead grandfather.

                          Only $0.99

             CHAPTER 1

The Chinook wind stirred the fallen leaves and tossed them around the deserted street. An eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes, Laine’s mother had told her; it uproots secrets. And everyone knows once one secret is told, no secret is safe.

Hers included.

Laine paused in front of the Queen Anne Hill Chapel doors. The sun, a faint pink glow over the eastern hills had yet to shine, but Laine hadn’t any doubt that it would rise to another scorching Indian summer day. She looked out over sleeping Seattle. The dark gray Puget Sound stretched away from her. On the horizon, distant ships bobbed and sent quivering beams of light over the water.

She turned her back on the ships, on any dream of sailing away, and inserted the key into the heavily carved wooden doors. They creaked open before Laine turned the key. Odd. The chapel, built in the 1930s, had a musty, empty smell. She stepped into the cool shade of the foyer and the door swung shut, closing with a click that echoed through the cavernous room. The morning sounds of birds, crickets and insects disappeared when the doors closed. Laine’s sneakers smacked across the terracotta tile, her footsteps loud.

She had thought she’d be alone, which is exactly why she’d chosen to come near dawn. Not that she’d been able to sleep. She hadn’t slept for weeks, which may explain why at first she’d thought the girl standing in the nave, facing the pulpit, her face lifted to the stained glass window, might be a ghost—or, given her surroundings, an angel.

Although Laine couldn’t see her face, the way the child’s head moved, it looked as if she was having a conversation with the Lord trapped in the glass, or one of the sheep milling about His feet, giving Laine the uncomfortable sense of interrupting. The meager morning sun lit the glass and multi-colored reflections fell on the girl, casting her in an iridescent glow. Slowly, she turned and Laine realized she wasn’t a child, but a young woman, around twenty, maybe half her own age, wearing the sort of thing her grandmother would have worn. Vintage clothing, Laine noted, incredibly well preserved.

“Good morning,” Laine said, smiling. “I’m sorry to intrude. I wasn’t expecting anyone…” She let her voice trail away. Laine had certainly never felt any peace through prayer, but that didn’t mean she wanted to interrupt anyone seeking grace. Pastor Clark had given her the key, so naturally she’d assumed the chapel would have been locked, and that she’d have this time to practice alone.

“Well, where is he, then?” the girl-woman demanded, placing her balled fists on her hips. She had yellow blonde hair, cut in a curly bob, and wore a pale blue sleeveless dress that fell straight to her knees. Laine considered the young woman. Given the scowl and hostile eyes, she didn’t look like a humble Christian follower, but she did seem oddly familiar.

“I’m sorry—who are you looking for?” Laine tucked her hands into her pockets, feeling inappropriately dressed. She’d thrown on Ian’s sweats, one of the few sets of clothes he’d left behind. Perhaps he didn’t exercise at the hotel, or, more likely, he’d just bought himself a new pair of running clothes. Now that her grandfather had died, making Ian The-Man-In-Charge, Ian could afford new running clothes, the hotel suite, and room services of all sorts. Which didn’t explain, really, why Laine wore his cast-offs. Just because he’d left them behind didn’t mean Laine should wear them. And yet, she did. Frequently.

“Sid!” the woman spat the name. Her gaze raked over Laine, making her uneasy.

Laine tugged at the drawstring holding up the sweatpants, wondering why this woman would be looking for her grandfather. “He’s still at the funeral home.” She swallowed. “They won’t bring the casket here until tomorrow morning. There’s the viewing tonight at the house…” She heard her own sadness in her voice.

“Then what are you doing here?” The woman’s eyes matched the color of her dress and as she drew closer, Laine saw she wore a necklace of the same steely blue. Laine’s hand instinctively crept to her own necklace, a gift from Sid, an emerald he’d said matched her eyes.

“I’ve come to practice the organ.” Laine shifted on her feet. A tingle of déjà vu ran up her spine. Looking at this woman was like watching a rerun of an almost forgotten and yet beloved television show. They must have met some other time at some long ago, forgotten place; Laine was sure they’d been friends. Although, at the moment, this woman was not a friendly person.

The woman looked at the massive organ and then back to Laine. “Why are you playing the organ? I’m sure Georgie could spit out the money for an organist. No need for freebie-family members to play.”

Laine opened her mouth to ask how this woman knew her father or her relationship to Sid, but then remembered her family had never lived a quiet life. Well, except for her. Her own life had been, until now, ungossip-worthy. Her breath caught in her throat and then she let it out slowly, bracing herself for the difficult weekend. She’d weather the rumors and the chit-chat. She could be strong.

Even if she’d never been before.

“I wanted to play,” Laine told the woman, lacing her voice with resolve she didn’t feel. “As a gift to my grandfather.”

Why are you here? How did you get in? How do I know you? Laine wanted to ask, but years of social training held back her questions.

The woman snorted. “Not much of a gift, that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s something I want to do.” Laine let a little of her social training slip and she brushed past the woman. She marched up the aisle toward the organ, lifted the massive cover, turned on the switch and adjusted the bench.

“A gift to your grandfather, or an excuse not to sit by your husband?” The woman appeared beside her.

Laine squared her shoulders and bit back a rude retort. She’d have to get used to the questions. Even if they weren’t asked so bluntly, they’d still be asked. Maybe not to her face, maybe behind her back, but the questions would be there, either in people’s eyes or on their lips. Laine would not provide answers.

The woman stood at her elbow. “If you’ve come to practice, where’s your music?”

Laine gave her a tight smile as she settled onto the bench. “I memorize.”

“If it’s already memorized, why are you practicing?”

For the first time Laine caught a hint of the woman’s French accent. “Who did you say you are again?”

“I didn’t say and you didn’t answer my question.”

 Laine began adjusting the stops. “Every instrument is different. A pedal may be broken, the bench could wobble… I’ve learned from sad experience that it’s best to give every instrument a test run. I mean, an organ’s not like a violin. You can’t just bring your own.”

The woman cocked her head. “What would you know of sad experiences?”

Most people would say her life was charmed, but if she lived such a fairytale, why was she so sad? Because the prince she’d been kissing for most of her life had turned into a toad?

“Do I know you?” Laine asked, her fingers pausing above the keys.

The woman leaned against the organ. “I don’t know, do you?”

All of Laine’s politeness drained away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. And because I don’t know you, I don’t feel I need to share.” Laine hit the keys, a D minor chord, and music reverberated through the deserted chapel.

“Good for you.” The woman chuckled and hitched herself up on top of the organ. She had reed-thin legs, pale as porcelain and covered with silky hose. She swung them back and forth, like a child pumping a swing, her heels rap-tapping the organ.

Laine lifted her fingers, horrified. The sudden cessation of music filled the room. “You can’t sit on this organ.” Her words echoed.

The woman cut her a sideways smile. She wore bright red shoes with ribbon ties on the ankles and the red heels continued bumping rhythmically against the organ. “No?”

“No. It’s a 1930’s Wurlitzer, solid walnut. It’s extremely valuable, and you’re kicking it.”

“You’re very rich.” The woman smiled, but didn’t budge or stop swinging her legs. “You could replace it.”

Laine hated being reminded of her money. It made her feel guilty and dirty. She supposed that’s why she worked so hard at the foundation. She pounded out the first line of Pie Jesu and said, through gritted teeth, “Get off!”

And to her surprise, the woman did. Laine almost stopped playing, but after watching the woman wander down the aisle, her hands trailing along the pews, Laine turned her full attention to the music swirling through the chapel and, for a moment, she felt better than she had in weeks.

***

Walking down Lily Street past the turn-of-the-last-century mansions, Laine pulled her blazer close, as if by buttoning it she could hold in all her broken pieces. The suit hung on her. She’d had to pin the back of the skirt to keep it from sliding off. At least wool breathes, she told herself, refusing to consider that wool, heat, nerves and sweat could, and most assuredly, would, cause a smelly combination.

When had she lost so much weight? How had that happened? Had she discovered the miracle weight-loss program? Could she market it? The Lose Your Guy, Lose Your Gut diet?

Because she’d walked, she’d worn her flats, but stopping at the gate, watching her relatives, friends, and business associates climb from their cars in their suits, dresses, and heels, she considered going home and changing into something less worn. It’d seemed ridiculous to drive such a short distance, ridiculous to walk the three hilly blocks in heels, and it would be equally ridiculous to walk back and forth just to change her shoes. Of course, she could walk home and then drive for the return trip. But—then where would she park?

I’m stalling, she thought. Her eyes flicked over the cars lining the tiny street. This was supposed to be a private viewing, family and close friends only, and yet, somehow, her stepmother had managed to turn it into a celebrity photo opportunity. She told herself she wasn’t looking for Ian’s Mercedes, but she stopped checking the cars when he pulled up.

She stepped behind a mammoth rhododendron, and through the petals and branches, she watched him climb from his car. Despite the suit and graying hair at his temples, from a distance he looked nearly the same as he had in high school. Which just wasn’t right. She’d aged, why hadn’t he grown old beside her? The sprinklers had recently shut off and Laine’s flats sunk into a patch of mud. Her feet slipped slightly in the muck and she felt off balance and shaky.

A voice spoke in her ear. “Why are you hiding in that bush?”

Laine jumped and put her hand on her heart to slow its beating. She turned and scowled at the tiny woman at her elbow. “You!”

“You’ve got mud on your shoes and plant rubbish on your jacket.”

Laine looked down at her shoes and brushed twigs and petals off her blazer.

“I thought your outfit this morning was perhaps the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, but now,” her gaze swept over Laine, “I can see I was wrong.”

Laine cast Ian another look to make sure he hadn’t noticed her standing behind the bush and then whispered, “What’s wrong with my suit?”

“You mean besides the fact it’s ugly and must be incredibly itchy and hot? Well, for one thing, it doesn’t fit you. Where did you find it?”

“In my closet.”

“That explains a lot.” The woman fingered the pleats on her own blue silk dress. She’d changed her shoes. The red heels had been replaced with a pair of black pumps that would have been sedated if not for the faux diamonds on the toes. “You obviously need a new closet.”

“This is a viewing, not a fashion show.” Laine folded her arms, studied the woman and used the voice she only trotted out when donors tried to renege on their pledges. “Who are you? Did you work for my grandfather?”

The woman looked sly. “Sometimes.” So, that’s who she was—one of her grandfather’s girls. Laine didn’t deserve abuse from one of her grandfather’s ladies. She looked too young for even Sid. And she thought that it had been years since Sid’s Romeo days, but with her grandfather—it was hard to know who was who in his revolving love life.

Sid hadn’t been a paragon of virtue, but Laine had tried to live her life by a strict code. Insulting grieving granddaughters at funerals breached that code.

“Oh hello!” Ian called.

Laine’s head snapped up. Even from a distance, the timber in Ian’s voice made her quiver. She’d thought he’d seen her, thought he was speaking to her, but now she saw him cross the grounds, his arms open, his eyes kind, warm and generous—he could afford all those emotions now—as he approached a girl in a white sheath dress. Mary or Marie somebody from the reception desk. So much for family and close friends. But then Laine remembered, vaguely, something about Mary or Marie being related to Denis Openheimer, of the Openheimer Weiner fame. Of course, her stepmother would invite an Openheimer.

“Who wears white to a funeral?” the woman asked, before bringing her gaze back to Laine. “Although, it’s better than your frumpy suit.”

Laine turned away from Ian, not wanting to watch him embrace Mary or Marie, and looked at the woman just in time to see a fistful of mud flying.

“Hey!” Laine called out as the mud splattered across her chest. Clods of dirt stuck to her blouse as she pulled it out of her waistband, trying to prevent the mud from running down her skirt.

“I think the proper response would be ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.” The woman brushed off her hands, spun on her heel, and headed toward the back entrance of Sid’s house. “Now, follow me.”

Laine looked down at the disaster of her shirt. “I will not follow you.”

The woman stopped in the driveway by the white catering van. “What, you’re going to walk three blocks to change into something equally dowdy? You’re going to risk being late or possibly even not showing your face at your grandfather’s viewing? Think of the gossip, the rumors. Everyone will know for sure that Ian’s left you. He will think you weren’t brave enough—”

“Stop it!” The words and emotions flew out of Laine’s iron-clad control.

A teenager holding a large pink pastry box stepped from around the corner of the van. “Ma’am?” He had freckles dotting his nose and he looked hurt and surprised by her outburst.

“Not you,” Laine said, her voice sounding weak. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to—”

She looked around, but the tiny woman had disappeared.

The kid edged toward her, as if she were a wounded Doberman in need of help and yet still capable of doing serious injury. “Can I help you? Get you some water or something?”

 Laine sighed and put her fingertips on either side of her temples. “Look, I hired your company.”

The kid began to back away from her. His hands, clutching the pastry boxes, turned white around the knuckles.

“I just…” Laine swallowed, following him. “There’s a short, blonde woman hanging around here. She’s about this high.” Laine held up her hand so it was even with her chin. “If you see her, I want you to come and get me immediately.” She’s going to pay, Laine thought, for at least my dry cleaning.

The mud seeped through her blouse and felt cold and oozy. What to do? Totter home, change into something, anything, clean? Go into town and buy something? She didn’t have her purse. She glanced at Sid’s house. It had rooms and rooms and closets full of stuff.

She looked out over the lawn. Ian stood on the front porch, pumping hands with Uncle Harry. Ian had on a dark, well cut, custom-made suit. Even as a teenager he’d been fashion conscious. Other girls had shopped with their boyfriends, selecting their clothes, dressing them as if they were the Ken to their Barbie. Laine had always been too busy studying, working on the student council, organizing the next fundraiser. Even then, she’d been raising money for somebody, or something else.

Laine stomped into her grandfather’s kitchen and the catering staff, who had been bustling around the counters and mammoth oak table turned to stare at her, their conversations and chatter coming to a sudden and stunned stop.

“There’s a crazy short lady here,” Laine said. “If any of you see her, I want you to tell me immediately.”

Most of the staff gave her blank stares, but a few turned away, smirking. Short, crazy lady, Laine thought as she kicked off her muddy shoes. Yeah, right. Short and crazy are both subjective adjectives and could just as easily be applied to me.

Laine ran up the back stairs and turned into what was once her aunt Claire’s room. The room still smelled of violets, her aunt’s smell, and Laine’s heart clenched with the sudden memory. Softly, she closed the door behind her and went to sit on the bed. The room hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties. Tiny yellow and blue flowers covered everything—the walls, the bedspread, the host of pillows, the dress of the Cabbage Patch doll resting against the brass headboard.

What would happen now to Sid’s house, to Claire’s things? Why hadn’t she thought about this? Had anyone? Perhaps her stepmother and her dad had plans. Although, thinking and planning had never been their fortes.

Ian would now officially run the company. He’d been Sid’s puppet for years, until slowly, almost imperceptibly, he’d begun pulling the strings as Sid had aged. No one had expected Sid to live to ninety-seven, especially not his string of ex-wives. He’d outlived all his spouses and two of his children.

Thinking about spouses, exes and current, Laine unfolded from the bed and went to the closet. She had known her aunt Claire as a fussy old lady and didn’t expect to find anything other than flowery muumuus, Claire’s favorite daywear. A muumuu or a dirt-crusted suit? Laine had to find something without mud clinging to it and she didn’t need a whole outfit. Her suit was fine, thank you very much. She just needed a blouse.

She glanced out the window and saw Ian talking to a circle of her employees from the foundation. Marie laughed and placed her hand on Ian’s sleeve. White heat flared through Laine and she closed her eyes against the pain and anger.

When she opened her eyes she saw a dress hanging in the closet. Long sleeves, high neck, black lace over a strapless taffeta under-bodice, a pleated band at the waist. The sort of thing she’d never buy.

And yet.

She looked back out the window. Marie had on an impossibly short skirt, something no one over the age of thirty should ever wear. Allison, a mother of four children, had on a blouse that lifted when she moved her arms and exposed a bright strip of white belly. In a world of inappropriateness, Laine, the good daughter, the philanthropist, could wear a black lace dress.

She took off her suit, kicked it into the closet’s corner, and stepped into the dress. To her surprise, it didn’t smell of violets or mildew, but of Chanel Number 5. The lining felt luxurious against her skin and the lace clung slightly as she moved.

Considering her reflection in the mirror, she decided she couldn’t wear the muddy flats. Tearing into the shoe boxes on the closet shelf, she discovered black lace shoes with pearl buttons and three-inch heels. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to walk. With the shoe box tucked under her arm, she went to the bed, sat down and slipped on the heels. They fit perfectly. Odd.

Looking at her herself in the mirror, she wondered when and where her aunt had bought the dress and matching shoes. She tried to imagine the woman she’d known, the wearer of shapeless muumuus and of the collector of Cabbage Patch dolls, wearing such a dress, wearing Chanel Number 5 perfume. There are so many things we don’t know about the people around us, even the people we love, she thought, and we pass so quickly through our lives, briefly colliding before sailing away.

 On an impulse, she reached up and took the pins from her hair. Her curls spilled down her back. Remembering the handkerchief in her suit pocket, she drew it out and promised herself that she wouldn’t use it. No one would see her cry, but if they did, they would think she cried for Sid. Not Ian. Perhaps Ian would cry and she could magnanimously lend him her handkerchief and give him a condescending smile, accompanied by a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. She smiled at her reflection, braced her shoulders, and left the room.