The Last Chance Matinee: A Book Club Recommendation!

PREFACE

Everyone is familiar with the adage write what you know; it’s a saying that has dictated much of my decades-long career in publishing. But this time, it was what I (or rather, my mother) didn’t know that formed the basis for this first book in my new Hudson Sisters series.

When my mother was in her mid-forties, she received a letter from a woman named Alice, the wife of her recently deceased cousin Bill. Alice thanked my mother for the sympathy card she’d sent her, and finished her note by saying, You do know that Bill was your half brother, right?

Ah, no. She did not.

Before she could sing the opening bars of Poppa Was a Rolling Stone, my mother had Alice on the phone. The story Alice told my mother was almost too crazy to be true.

Almost.

My grandfather was in vaudeville from around 1906 to 1915, and during that time struck up a romantic relationship with a woman named Trudy. In 1910 Trudy gave birth to a son, the aforementioned cousin Bill. Three years later, Trudy had a daughter, but both she and the baby died. Shortly thereafter, in 1913, my grandfather gave Bill to his sister, Bess, and her husband, who were childless. And a few years later, my grandfather met and married my grandmother, none the wiser to his partying ways, at least to the best of our knowledge.

Bess and her husband ultimately adopted Bill, who was never told that the man he called uncle was actually his father. After Bill passed away, and sometime before her own death, Bess finally came clean to Alice, who shared the story with my mother, who then shared it with me.

Of course, I was fascinated. My grandfather died when I was four or five years old, and I have very little memory of him other than his deep, hearty laugh. I’ve been thinking for years that this foundation of a love child and secret siblings would make a great story, but not knowing all the facts, I was free to fill in the blanks—and so I did. Years passed before I felt I had the right story in my head. This is that story.

I hope you enjoy my version of what could happen under such circumstances.

Best,

Mariah

Disclaimer (intended for my cousins, should they wonder if someone’s been holding out on them): The Last Chance Matinee is total fiction. There is no theater, no Hollywood wife, no yoga studio in Devlin’s Light, New Jersey (and no Devlin’s Light, either), and definitely no fortune waiting to be distributed. The sisters were not based on anyone we know, and sorry, but there are no secret relatives living in a Victorian mansion somewhere in the Poconos.

PROLOGUE

Cara

DEVLIN’S LIGHT, NEW JERSEY

The bell rang halfheartedly over the door of the only bakery in Devlin’s Light, New Jersey (the self-proclaimed best little town on the Delaware Bay). Cara McCann’s eyes met those of the proprietor and her best friend, Darla Kerns, and they both laughed.

I know, Darla said. The bell sounds anemic. I have to get a new one. It’s on the list.

Some days the list is longer than others. Cara went to the counter to make her morning’s selection from the freshly baked muffins.

So what’s it going to be? Darla rested her arms on the thick countertop.

Cara scanned the case. The selection of her one high-calorie treat of the day deserved serious thought.

The chocolate zucchini muffin is new, Darla pointed out. As is the raspberry lemon. Before Cara could even ask, she added, Lemon muffin with raspberry cream filling. Divine, if I do say so myself.

That does sound good. I think I’ll try—

Amber, listen to me. You need to make a decision and make it fast. You don’t have all the time in the world. The voice from the back boomed as it came closer.

Help, Cara begged Darla.

Darla opened the case and grabbed a raspberry lemon muffin and placed it in a small white bag. She was handing it to Cara when the stout woman behind the loud voice emerged from the back of the store.

I’ll call you later. The woman dropped the phone into her pocket and greeted Darla with a big smile. Good morning, boss.

Morning, Angie.

And Cara, how’s it going this morning? Angie Hoff slipped on her white apron and tied it around her waist.

Not bothering to wait for Cara to respond, Angie launched into her usual morning down-to-the-last-detail recitation of her daughter’s wedding plans as if they were dying for an update. As if Amber Hoff hadn’t been one of Cara’s best friends, once upon a time. As if Amber’s fiancé, Drew McCann, wasn’t Cara’s ex-husband. As if Amber hadn’t moved in with Drew and gotten pregnant while he was still married to Cara.

So the florist calls my daughter and says she can’t get peonies for the bouquets and the centerpieces after all. Something about a frost somewhere where they grow this time of the year. Did you ever hear of such a thing? A florist can’t get something their client wants? Amber’s crying, she’s a wreck. It’s ruining her vision, she says. She needs peonies. Has to have white peonies. Angie looked from Cara to Darla. Either of you girls know where we can get white peonies? I mean, they have to be in season somewhere, right?

Sorry, I don’t know anything about flowers, Cara muttered, and went to pay for the muffin.

Me either. I just bake. From behind the counter, Darla made a shooing motion with her hand. Just go, she mouthed.

Thanks. See you later. Cara waved as she left the shop, her exit marked by the barely audible ring of the soon-to-be-retired bell.

She stopped at the storefront three doors down and unlocked the door. Once one-third of a hardware store that dated from the 1890s, Cara’s yoga studio had been the first section sold when the previous owner had succumbed to the big chain store that had opened right off the highway outside of town. Using the proceeds from her late mother’s life insurance policy, Cara had worked hard to repurpose the space. Back then, Drew had fully supported the venture and had worked by her side to make her dream a reality. He’d laid the black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern on the floor, and helped her paint the walls in a soothing lavender. He’d taught her basic carpentry skills so she could help hang drywall and frame out the walls for her office. He’d helped the electrician install the sound system and changed the locks on the doors.

And somehow, while he was doing all that, he’d found the time to fall out of love with her, and into love with Amber Hoff.

Cara picked up the mail that had been pushed through the slot earlier that morning and went straight to her office. She tossed the mail onto her desk and plopped down in the chair. The voicemail light on the phone was flashing but she ignored it.

She was so tired of hearing about Drew’s upcoming nuptials, tired of pretending she was okay with it when she was anything but. Tired of hearing about the names he and Amber were considering for their baby boy due in May. Tired of wondering why he was seemingly so happy about his impending fatherhood when he always swore he’d never have children. It had been the one thing he and Cara had seriously argued about.

She should have listened to her mother when Susa tried to tell her that having or not having children was a fundamental issue and needed to be addressed before the wedding. But Cara had been so sure that Drew would change his mind once they’d been married for a while.

Oh, Mom. Cara sighed. What I wouldn’t give to have you here with me now.

Susa would understand that the hurt she covered with a smile went deep. Cara liked the way she’d seen her life’s path playing out. Being blindsided by someone you loved and trusted and being forced to change direction had shaken her to the core. Most days she could cope. Today she felt every emotion and every ounce of betrayal all over again.

She heard the door open and the voices of her students for the nine o’clock class trickled in, and she smiled. Most had become friends, and she loved them. Loved the calm that surrounded her when she focused and freed her mind, and loved that she could teach others how to obtain that same sense of peace and well-being. Her students brought her joy daily. They had sympathized with her plight, readily offering comfort when the news trickled out that Drew had left her for one of her oldest friends. Not that most of them hadn’t known about the affair before she did. Everyone in Devlin’s Light had apparently figured it out before Cara.

That was one of the drawbacks of living in the town you grew up in. Everyone knew all your business, and yes, sometimes you were the last to know because no one who knew you wanted to be the one to spill the beans and break your heart.

It would’ve been nice if Drew and Amber had moved to, say, Cape May, or Somers Point after they started to cohabitate. But no. Now that they were expecting, Amber had to be within shouting distance of her mother and her two sisters.

Don’t dwell on it, Cara could almost hear her mother say. Move past it and greet each new day as an opportunity to bring fresh joy into your life. Look beyond today to the future and trust the universe to bring you what you truly need.

That was Susa. Always the optimistic flower child she’d been raised to be by her hippie parents. Even as she lay dying, she’d smiled and held Cara’s hand. Don’t cry, sweetie. I’ve never been afraid of what happens next. Why, there’s a secret to life, to all this and what comes after, and I’m now going to find out what it is. . . .

Mom, please . . . Cara had pleaded. Don’t . . . The words had stuck in Cara’s throat.

Tell your father that I know. Susa’s voice had begun to fade as she slipped away. Tell him I’ve always known, and it’s all right . . .

You know what? Cara had clutched her mother’s hand. You’ve always known what?

Susa had passed quietly then, an enigmatic smile on her face. It had fallen to Cara to call her father and tell him that he was too late. The heart attack had been fatal. Susa was gone before he boarded his plane in L.A. As heartsick as she’d been, her father had been broken. He’d sobbed through the services they’d held graveside and was still sobbing a week later when he left Devlin’s Light to fly back to California, where he worked and lived for part of the year. Cara had forgotten to give her father the message her mother had wanted her to pass on. As many times as she’d reminded herself, it always seemed to slip her mind.

It had been Susa who, years ago, introduced Cara to yoga, and following her mother’s death, Cara had come to appreciate even more the feeling of inner peace, of contentment, the connection to Susa she found in her studio. Even today, with visions of Amber’s wedding flowers dancing in her head, Cara could lead her students in an hour of contemplation and gentle motions with a heart that was at peace. Susa would have expected nothing less.

Looking forward to the class, Cara rose to join her students. Time to embrace my inner goddess.

She managed to maintain that lightness for the rest of the day, but while walking home late that afternoon, she had a niggling sense that something wasn’t right. All in all, it had been a good day: Her classes had been full, and she’d had a surprise visit from an old friend of her mother’s, who’d stopped in to say hello. She’d even laughed out loud when she’d received a text drawing from Darla showing Amber chasing giant white peonies with cartoon faces that fled along the beach. So why did her heart suddenly feel so heavy?

Susa would’ve said that her uneasy, unsettled feeling had been the universe’s way of preparing her for news she wouldn’t want to hear. Susa somehow always knew about such things.

Cara was just about to start clearing the table after dinner when the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and smiled.

Uncle Pete. How are you? she said. Peter Wheeler was her father’s best friend since childhood as well as his lawyer.

Not so good right now, honey. She could hear the tension in his voice, and the earlier feeling of unease returned.

What’s wrong? she asked.

Honey, I want you to sit down. . . .

What’s going on?

Cara, I don’t know how to tell you this, so forgive me if I just lay it out there. Pete took a deep breath. Fritz passed away early this morning.

For a moment, Cara sat still as a stone, as if she had not heard.

Cara? Honey?

"My . . . my dad . . . ? Cara stumbled over the words, her mind trying to grasp the unimaginable. What happened? But I just spoke with him a week ago—he was fine. What happened?"

Six weeks ago, your father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The doctors gave him a month. He managed to hang on a little longer, but there was nothing anyone could have done for him. He didn’t want you to know.

But there are treatments. . . .

Not when the disease has progressed as far as his. Trust me. He went to a half dozen different doctors but they all told him it was too late. I’m sorry, Cara, but there wasn’t a treatment that could have saved him.

But . . . Cara began to weep softly.

I know it’s a shock, honey, and I’m so sorry that I had to be the one to give you the news.

"But he told you, didn’t he? How could he tell you and not me?"

He had to tell me. I’m his lawyer. He had affairs that had to be taken care of, and he knew he could trust me to do everything exactly as he instructed.

Where is he now? I’ll have to have him brought back here—he’d want to be with my mother. Even in her shock, her mind began to organize the tasks to be done. How do I arrange to have him transported? And I’ll have to call the little church here to set up the funeral and ask how to—

Cara, there won’t be a funeral.

What? Surely she hadn’t heard correctly.

There isn’t to be a funeral. He’s already been cremated, Cara. It was his wish and part of the explicit instructions he gave me.

Cara’s throat threatened to close and she couldn’t hold back the sobs.

Cara, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but Fritz was adamant that everything be done this way.

Why? Why would he do this? How could he do this?

He had his reasons.

What reasons?

Cara, you’re going to have to trust me for a while. Things’ll be as he wanted, and it’s my duty as his lawyer, the executor of his estate, and his friend to make sure that everything is done to the letter.

So we just have a memorial service and that’s it? Cara tried to wrap her mind around the situation.

No memorial, either. He specifically nixed that.

No memorial, she repeated. You can’t be serious. What about all the people who will want to pay their respects? What about his friends? What about his clients? Cara protested. What about me?

In accordance with your dad’s wishes, there’s to be no service of any kind, Pete said firmly. As for friends and clients, I’ll contact every one myself. I wouldn’t put that burden on you.

What about his—she swallowed hard—you know, his ashes?

The urn holding his cremains will be sent here to my office. I’ll hold them for you.

Why not just have them sent directly to me? I’m his next of kin, his only living relative.

He paused for a long moment. Again, it’s what he wanted, Cara. I have to respect his wishes, and you’re going to have to trust me.

I don’t understand, Uncle Pete. I can’t think of one good reason why he wouldn’t have told me he was dying. Why wouldn’t he want to say goodbye to me, to give me a chance to say goodbye to him?

What can I say, honey? You know your dad could be a stubborn coot when he got something in his head. In any case, we can’t change things now. We can only move forward. She heard a rustling of paper. So as soon as things are in order, I’ll contact you and you can come into the office and we’ll talk over the terms of his will.

Terms? She frowned. What terms?

We’ll discuss all that when you get here. I’ll be in touch, Cara. I have to go, but call me if you need anything. You know I’m always here for you.

But . . . She realized he’d hung up.

She disconnected the call and gave in to her need for a good cry. There were so many questions speeding around inside her head. Why hadn’t her father told her he was ill? Why had he wanted Pete to wait until after he’d been cremated before breaking the news of his death? She was certain Pete knew exactly what her father had been thinking when he’d issued his instructions. Pete knew her father better than anyone. So why wouldn’t he share that information with her? Her father was dead. Whatever his reasoning had been, surely it no longer mattered. So why keep it a secret? Cara had lost her father under unusual circumstances, to say the least, and she’d been denied the chance to say goodbye. What could possibly be worse than that?

Allie

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

One stray stone had somehow landed on the otherwise pristine path that led to the front door of Allie Hudson Monroe’s equally pristine abode, and she kicked it onto the lawn, where it belonged. Today was not a good day to get in her way. She unlocked the door and kicked off last year’s Manolos with the same ferocity with which she’d attacked the stone.

From the moment she first saw it fifteen years earlier, she’d loved this house, known in the neighborhood as the cottage because of its rustic appearance. She’d begged her then-husband, Clint, to buy it, but wanting something grander, he’d balked, until he realized how much grander was going to cost in the Los Angeles suburbs. Over the years, they’d added on: a larger kitchen and family room on the back, a sunroom on one side, an office on the other. There were still only two bedrooms upstairs, but the first-floor renovations had provided for a more spacious second floor, two baths, several walk-in closets, and a sitting room.

It was killing Allie to have to sell it, but the TV show on which she’d worked as assistant director had been canceled two months ago, and the résumés she’d sent out to everyone she knew had failed to produce so much as a thanks but no thanks. The house represented the bulk of her divorce settlement, but the increase in property taxes over the last two years combined with her lack of a steady income had taken a huge bite out of her shrinking savings. She’d tried not to panic, but as weeks went by without even the prospect of an interview, Allie could no longer pretend not to see the writing on the wall. Hence the FOR SALE sign out front, which she tried to ignore. It made sense from a practical viewpoint, but still. She loved the place, and every time she thought about giving it up, she found herself pissed off at her ex all over again.

This afternoon she’d attended a cocktail party hosted by Ivan Corrigan, actor turned director who’d once shared the silver screen with Allie’s late movie star mother, Honora Hudson, and who, if rumors were to be believed, had carried a flaming torch for her right up until her death three years ago. At Honora’s funeral, Ivan had cried on Allie’s shoulder, and before he left, he’d handed Allie a card and told her to call him if she ever needed anything.

She’d called Ivan two weeks after her show folded, and again two weeks after that before his secretary returned her calls with an invitation to the party that would kick off his latest sure-to-be-a-hit show. She’d tried not to get her hopes up, but even so, she’d been disappointed when he’d introduced her by her sister’s name to his latest protégé.

It’s Allie. She’d tried to smile good-naturedly after he’d called her Des for the second time.

Right. Right. Des was the one who had the hit series that ran so long. How’s she doing, by the way? She ever mention wanting to get back in the business?

Before Allie could respond, he’d turned to his girlfriend and said, "You remember her sister, Desdemona Hudson? Had that show years ago, Des Does . . . something, I forget the name. Great little actress, that one. So much talent for so young a girl."

Allie had gritted her teeth to the point her jaw hurt.

As if that hadn’t been bad enough, he’d patted Allie on the back and said, Tough about your show, but you know, that time slot never seems to work for drama. He’d put his arm around his girlfriend, leaned over to kiss Allie on the cheek, and said, Listen, give me a call if there’s anything I can do for you.

That’s why I’m here, you bonehead, she’d wanted to say, but he’d already moved on.

She’d known she’d have a tough time finding another job, and she knew she had no one to blame but herself. But even so, Ivan throwing her sister in her face had made her want to grab him by the collar and hold him still while she poured her drink over his head. The last thing she needed right now was the reminder that her sister had been the talented one, the successful one, the one who’d had her own series from the time she was nine until she turned sixteen.

Reliving the party made Allie’s jaw hurt all over again. She went into the kitchen and poured herself the evening’s first scotch. Gold bangles jangling on her arm, she sorted through the mail she’d dumped earlier and simultaneously listened to her messages, one each from her sister; her attorney; her friend Blair, with whom she shared dinner and gossip, though little else, every other Wednesday night; and Nikki, her daughter, in that order.

She called Nikki back first.

Hi, sweetie. It’s Mom. What’s up?

Would you be upset if I didn’t stay with you on Friday?

In this respect, Nikki was exactly like her father. No reason to beat around the bush, just come right out and say whatever was on her mind.

What’s happening on Friday? Allie lowered herself slowly into a nearby chair.

There’s a big dance at school—

That’s fine. I can pick you up after, Allie told her.

But . . . see, there’s a sleepover at Courtney’s after the dance, and I really want to go. Nikki paused. "Everyone is going. All my friends. I can’t be the only one who doesn’t go."

I don’t know, Nik. We missed last weekend because of the soccer tournament.

That wasn’t my fault, Nikki protested. "I had to go. I’m a starter."

Don’t you have an away game this Saturday as well?

Yes, but Courtney’s mom said she’d drive us all and take us for pizza after.

Allie fell quiet, deliberating whether it was worse to insist that her daughter spend the weekend with her and risk the silent treatment, or to be the cool, understanding mom who let her daughter have her way even if it meant Allie had to spend more than half her custody weekend alone.

Mom?

I’m thinking.

Please? I don’t want to be the only girl in the class who doesn’t go to Courtney’s. Pretty please? Nikki pleaded. I don’t want everyone talking about me.

What do you mean?

You know, someone always talks about the girls who aren’t there.

If they’re talking behind your back, they’re not really your friends, Nik.

"Mom."

Allie sighed. She wouldn’t be any more successful in winning this one than she had been last weekend, or the weekend before, when Courtney’s mother had taken three of the girls to a beach house in Malibu for a few days of fun in the sun. Allie often wondered what Courtney’s father was doing while her mother shuttled the kids everywhere.

All right. Allie silently cursed her ex-husband. It had been his idea to enroll Nikki in Woods Hall, the tony private school that was four blocks from the spacious new house Clint had bought after the divorce was final, and twenty-seven miles from Allie’s. Nikki had made a whole new circle of friends at Woods Hall, most of whom Allie couldn’t have picked out of a lineup. At the neighborhood school, Allie had known every kid in Nikki’s class, and most of their mothers. Just one more reason to hate that man.

I’ll pick you up . . . where should I pick you up? Allie couldn’t remember where Courtney lived.

Courtney’s mom can drop me off at Dad’s and you can pick me up there.

Swell.

All right. Give me a call when you get to the pizza place and I’ll get on my way then.

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Nikki squealed. You’re the best mom ever! Love you!

Love you more.

Best mom ever. Allie toasted herself and tossed back the scotch after Nikki hung up.

It was all Clint’s fault. Their original custody agreement provided that their daughter spend weekdays with Allie and weekends with Clint. That had worked for the first year, but it’d started to crumble one night last summer when Clint brought Nikki back from a weekend with him. Nikki had run straight up to her room, and Clint had proceeded to blindside Allie with a brochure from Woods Hall.

Nikki deserves the benefit of a private school education, Clint had said solemnly. Don’t you want her to have the best?

Of course I do, Allie had snapped. But what’s wrong with the junior high she went to last year? It’s only a few blocks away.

He made a face. Really, there’s no comparison, Al. Woods Hall has small classes, an excellent art program, music, athletics, more of everything she likes. Oh, and their language program is second to none.

Allie tried to come up with a retort but couldn’t. The arts and athletic programs at the local public schools had been cut drastically over the past two years, and the only language they still offered was Spanish. Nikki had taken French for two summers at camp and had loved it, and several times she’d grumbled about the fact that she couldn’t continue her study during the school year.

Besides, she’s already met some of the girls who’d be in her class, and—

Oh? And how did that happen?

One of my neighbors has a daughter Nikki’s age, and Nik spent a lot of time with her over the summer when she was visiting me. They’ve become friends, and when Nikki expressed interest in Courtney’s school, I made an appointment for a look-see. We went on a tour yesterday, and Nikki fell in love with the campus. It goes without saying that academically, it’s head and shoulders above her old school. You know how bright she is. Think about how much more Woods Hall has to offer. Clint had remained calm in the face of Allie’s gathering storm of emotions, as he always had. It never failed to drive up the drama. So what do you say, Al? Give her the best, or be content with the rest?

I really hate when you say things like that.

Clint had shrugged. "What we like or dislike about each other has already been established. Right now, we’re talking about our daughter’s future. About her life."

How much is the tuition?

It’s been taken care of. Realizing he’d tipped his hand, he’d tried to smooth it over by saying, It’s refundable if you decide you don’t want her to go. But there was only one spot left in her class and I didn’t want her to lose out.

Sounds as if this really isn’t a discussion about will we or won’t we, but whether or not I’m going to be a bitch and ruin her life by saying no, she can’t go to this exclusive, wonderful school that her daddy has offered to send her to. Allie folded her arms across her chest.

I knew you’d get into a snit over this. He’d tossed the brochures onto the coffee table and stood to leave. Let me know what you decide.

You know how far it is from here to there. And you also know that I have to be at work by seven. Allie followed him to the door. How am I supposed to get her to school in the morning and get to my job on time?

I’m sure you can work something out. He opened the door. Think it over, Al. Think of what’s best for her, not what’s convenient for you.

He’d quietly closed the door behind him. She’d wanted to slam it, but he hadn’t given her the chance.

Allie had caved, but insisted on paying half the tuition.

The school year had begun with Allie driving Nikki every morning, which had been an enormous pain, but it’d worked, mostly because Allie’d negotiated a later starting time at work. Of course, a later start meant a later finish, which meant most days Nikki went to Clint’s after school to wait for her mother, but more often than not, the rush hour traffic increased Allie’s drive time to the point that Nikki was eating dinner with her father every night. By mid-October, even Allie had to admit that the arrangement simply wasn’t working. And Nikki had joined the soccer team, which practiced every day after school and often had Saturday games. When Nikki begged Allie to let her live with Clint during the week and stay with her on the weekends, effectively reversing the custody agreement, Allie couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse. She hated losing those five days with her daughter, but as Clint reminded her every chance he got, it was all about what was best for Nikki.

It had broken Allie’s heart to watch Clint’s car drive away with the only person in the world she truly, deeply loved in the passenger seat. After the car had disappeared around the corner, Allie had gone into her daughter’s room and sat on the edge of the bed to cry. Nikki had left her old quilt but had stripped the room of just about everything else. It had felt empty, a ghost room, a place that had lost its heart. Even now, Allie would stand in the doorway and stare at the mural she’d painted on the wall, a happy forest scene with all of Nikki’s favorite animals frolicking together. It had taken two months to complete, but Nikki’s delight when it was finished had made every minute worth it.

The first Monday night that Nikki was gone, Allie had parked herself in front of the TV with a bottle of wine. They’d always watched Castle together. Watching the show alone had taken the fun out of the evening. It had come as a shock to her the next morning when she realized she’d fallen asleep on the sofa, with the empty bottle on the floor next to the remote, and she was late for work.

Fallen asleep sounded so much better than passed out.

After that, wine and a few game shows became Allie’s nightly routine. She’d come home from work and, too lonely to fix something to eat alone, she’d pull the cork on her favorite pinot grigio. Before she knew it, it’d be morning, and the pain and loneliness she’d tried to smother the night before would surface again. Somehow she made it through work until it was time to go home and pull another cork.

Then Allie discovered scotch, and she pretty much forgot about wine. Scotch had been Honora’s drink of choice, a choice that had led to the once popular actress being fired from more than one film when she proved incapable of remembering her lines, or showing up on time, or filming an entire scene. After a while, the roles had stopped coming, and the humiliated Honora bought a ranch house far in the Hollywood Hills, where she could ignore the gossip, and had replaced her husband and daughters with two parrots and a cockatiel. The entire family seemed to splinter then, with Allie and Des going their separate ways and their father, Fritz, seeming to fade from their lives.

Long before her death, Honora had ceased to be a presence in her life, but tonight, for some strange reason, Allie felt the loss acutely.

We should’ve been closer. I should have tried harder to understand what she was going through. I should have been kinder. Less judgmental. Especially since I seem to be following in her footsteps, Allie thought wryly as she tossed a few more ice cubes into her glass and poured another two fingers of the amber liquid.

Of course, I’m nothing like Mom. I’m a good mother. A great mother. I’m always there for Nikki when she needs me. I’ve earned a drink or two after a long day to help me relax.

She remembered the earlier message from her sister, and wondered if Des had the same regrets where their mother was concerned. If she did, she’d never shared them with Allie, which, Allie acknowledged, was her own fault. Des had tried over the years to reach out to her, but Allie had never been able to set aside her resentment of her younger sister.

I should call her back before it gets too late. . . .

Allie went out to the patio and peered over the stone wall that surrounded the rose garden she’d planted five years ago. Clint had laughed when he came home from work and found her sweaty and dirty after having dug and planted and watered all day, and had told her she smelled like a field hand, but she’d been pleased with the effort and taken much pride in the many buds that had bloomed. She hated the thought of someone else picking her roses, making pretty arrangements for the front hall or the dining room, but inevitably, someone else would.

Mostly, she hated Clint for having turned her world upside down. The roses were just one more thing she loved that she’d have to give up because he just wasn’t feeling it anymore. She hated feeling bitter, but there it was.

Clint, is there someone else? she’d asked.

Clint had rolled his eyes, and his face wore that expression she hated most. The one that said, Oh, please, in an exaggerated tone of exasperation. Really, Allie, you’re such a cliché. You can’t imagine that I could fall out of love with you without having fallen in love with someone else. I’ve already told you. I just don’t feel it anymore.

And just like that, her marriage—her life—had crumbled.

Inside the house, the phone was ringing, and she hurried inside to answer it. Maybe it was Nikki calling to tell her Friday’s party had been called off. . . .

Hello?

Allie, it’s Uncle Pete. I’m afraid I have some bad news. . . .

Des

CROSS CREEK, MONTANA

You’re going to have such a great life. Your new family is going to spoil you like crazy. You are one lucky little doggie, Sasha.

The small white pit-mix female sat on the front seat of the big SUV as if she owned it, and thumped her tail.

Des Hudson followed the GPS to the lakefront home of Jim and Mary Conner, the couple who’d soon become the proud owners of Des’s latest foster dog via the Cross Creek Animal Shelter.

Here we are, Sasha. Des parked at the foot of the driveway. Let’s get this leash on you. Yes, you are so pretty in pink.

The little white dog jumped into Des’s lap and planted a dozen sloppy kisses on her face.

Now, be a good girl, just like I taught you, she whispered. You remember your manners and be sweet, okay?

Des gathered the dog and her bag and got out of the car. She set Sasha on the ground and took a deep breath. This was always both the happiest and the hardest day for her, when all her efforts to prepare a dog for a new home paid off. Like so many dogs before her, Sasha had come to Des after having been abused and abandoned, in need of love and a gentle hand. Sometimes it took longer than others, but by the time Des was ready to turn over her charge to its new owners, she knew for certain that dog would be the best pet they would ever have.

Des loved fostering, loved being the one who helped the animals find their new homes, but still, it nearly killed her every time to hand over a dog she’d come to love, and she’d loved every one she’d taken into her home over the past five years.

Now it was Sasha’s turn to get her happily-ever-after.

There’s your new mom and dad, Des told Sasha. "Go get ’em. Turn on the charm. Go on, Sash. Time to