In her head, she listed off the names of every family who used to live in every single house, but strangers mowed the lawns and picked up the mail. People had moved, died and retired. Mirabelle had changed. If the Duffys had moved out of their farmhouse, then it was also possible that the Setterbergs had, too. For all she knew the Grotes may have relocated, as well as the Hendersons and the Millers.
But as she approached the cotton candy-pink Victorian next door to her parents’ home, it was apparent Shirley Gilbert still owned the bed-and-breakfast. The grand old house was still in tip-top shape as were the gardens already overflowing with pink, white and purple petunias.
The house where she’d grown up couldn’t have looked more different from the Gilberts’. Grace turned up the front sidewalk to the modestly sized, but classically designed Victorian and noticed that very little had changed with either the structure or the yard in the years since she’d left home. The house still looked terminally white. What else could you call white shutters and trim on white siding? Virginal?
Her mother had even ensured the landscaping didn’t step out of line. Bridal veil spirea bushes. White petunias in the pots on the front porch. A white crab apple tree in full bloom on the front lawn. Other than the grass and leaves, the only color in the entire yard came from the shingles on the rooftop. Green, naturally, so as not to clash with the vegetation.
She glanced up to her old bedroom window in the second-floor turret to find white—of course—sheers hanging in the window. The pale pink polka-dotted curtains she’d had to stare at for most of her teen years were gone. Thank God. She’d always hated those damned frilly things.
A large honeysuckle—white again—climbed up the trestle near the corner. How many times had she climbed down the drainpipe outside her window? If she hadn’t been escaping off into the woods to meet some boy vacationing from Chicago, she’d been meeting up with groups of kids to hang around a fire and drink stolen liquor out at Full Moon Bay.
One childhood memory after another tumbled through her mind. More often than not her memories involved boring gatherings with boring guests. Their front door had practically revolved with the comings and goings of visitors. There were some fond memories, some of them involving Carl. Most of the time, she and her older—perfect—brother argued whenever they’d gotten within twenty feet of each other, but there’d been a few times when they’d connected.
Other memories involved her childhood best friend, Gail Gilbert, who had lived next door. At least they’d been best friends until junior high when Mrs. Gilbert had decided to send her daughter to Bayfield for school for what she’d believed would be a “better, more well-rounded” education. As soon as Gail had made better, more well-rounded friends, she’d dropped Grace like a hot potato. At the time, it’d stung that Gail wouldn’t even look at Grace on the few occasions their paths had crossed, but it was all water under the bridge at this point.
“Grace?” The almost shrill sounding voice came from next door. “Grace Andersen, is that you?”
Grace glanced toward the Gilberts’ and found Gail’s mother heading up her sidewalk from the street. “Hello, Mrs. Gilbert.”
“I heard you were back home,” she said, crossing her lawn to stop at the hedge separating the two yards. “I just didn’t know if I should believe it.”
“Whaddya know,” Grace said, keeping her distance from the smug woman who had never failed to point out to Grace’s mother that the Gilbert house was nearly three times the size of the Andersens’.
“How long will you be staying on Mirabelle?”
“Not sure,” she hedged. “Probably most of the summer.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Gail comes every year over the July Fourth holiday week and she’ll be so excited when she finds out you’re here.”
Naturally. Now that skinny stick Grace Andersen had become famous Grace Kahill. “Tell her I said hello.” Grace waved as she climbed the steps of her father’s wide front porch, effectively cutting off any more conversation.
For a moment, she stood at the ornately carved front door, not sure whether she should knock, ring the doorbell or simply walk inside. It might be her childhood home, but the only time she’d come back to Mirabelle since she’d left had been for her father’s retirement party and her mother’s funeral. In the end, she knocked and waited.
Within a moment or two, footsteps sounded from inside and the door swung wide-open. “Grace! I thought I heard someone out here,” her father said, pushing open the storm door. “For heaven’s sake, since when do you knock at your own house?”
“Since it ceased being my house?” She shrugged and smiled.
“You have me there.” He held out his arms.
As she hugged him, she couldn’t help but notice he’d lost some weight. “How are you, Dad?”
“I’m managing. Some days are better than others.” He gave her a weak smile as he drew her inside and closed the door. “Have you talked to Carl yet?”
“No.” She hadn’t been able to get herself to call her older brother. Not only were they several years apart in age, but so much time and distance had created an even bigger gulf between them.
Carl had been the good child. The straight-A student. The apple of their mother’s eye. He’d been able to do no wrong. Grace, on the other hand, had never been able to do anything right. If she wasn’t getting Cs, she was getting into trouble with teachers and coaches. As far as her mother was concerned, Grace had a tendency to flirt too much with the wrong sort of boys and not enough with the right ones. While her mother had insisted Grace take choir, Grace had wanted to join the basketball team. Grace wore too much makeup, dressed too strangely and swung her hips too much when she walked.
By the time she’d turned sixteen, Grace had simply quit trying to please her mother. Perhaps that’s why modeling had drawn Grace in so thoroughly and completely. She may not have been perfect, but her body had been.
So much for that.
“Carl will be disappointed you haven’t called,” her dad said, reining in her thoughts.
Not likely. “I’ll call him in the next couple of days.”
“Well, come on in.” He motioned toward the kitchen.
If her mother had been home, they’d have gone directly to the living room to visit, but Pastor John Andersen had always been a kitchen man, as simple and relaxed as Grace’s mother had been formal and proper. Though he was retired now and doing only an occasional wedding service, her father had been a soft-spoken preacher, a kind dad and as far as Grace had known, an affectionate and loving husband.
As Grace walked down the slightly uneven hardwood floor of the main hall, she glanced from living room to formal dining area. Even less had changed in the interior of the home than the exterior, but surprisingly the rooms didn’t look the slightest bit dated. Jean Andersen had, by design, decorated with timeless antiques she’d collected through the years. Her father, she noticed, had kept things as immaculate as when her mother had still been alive. Except for in the kitchen.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the mess that had accumulated. Her mother would be rolling in her grave if she could see the state of her domain. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and on the counter, mail and newspapers lay haphazardly across almost every flat surface, and a distasteful odor came from the garbage can.
“Dad?” she said. “You look like you could use some help around here.”
“Oh, I know, honey. Can’t seem to stay ahead of everything.”
Stay ahead of it? He wasn’t close to