Till Death(3)

This was significant; seeing this was important, because now I knew I’d checked out way too deeply.

A knot formed in the back of my throat and stupid tears burned the back of my eyes. “Oh God,” I murmured, wiping the back of my hands under my eyes as I blinked rapidly. “Okay. Pull it together.”

Counting to ten, I cleared my throat and then nodded. I was ready to see my mama. I could do this without breaking down and crying like an angry, hungry baby.

Once I was sure I wasn’t going to have an epic meltdown, I got my feet moving. The scent of roasted meat led me to the back of the house. A pocket door with staff only posted was closed. Reaching for it, I was suddenly thrust back into the past, and within seconds I saw myself running through this very door and into the arms of my waiting father after the first day of kindergarten, the watercolor painting I’d done flapping from my outstretched hand. I remembered shuffling through this door the first time my heart had been crushed, my face streaked with dirt and tears because Kenny Roberts had pushed me into the mud at the playground. I could see myself at fifteen, knowing my dad would never be waiting for me again.

And I saw myself bringing the boy I’d met in Econ 101 through this very door to meet Mom, and my heart did an unsteady flop, pulling me right out of the stream of memories.

“God,” I groaned, shutting that train wreck of a thought process down before those pale blue wolf eyes formed in my mind. Because once that happened, I’d be thinking of him for the next twelve thousand years, and I really didn’t need that right now. “I’m such a mess.”

I shook my head as I slid the door open. The knot returned with a vengeance the moment I spotted her behind the stainless-steel counter, standing where Dad used to until he passed away from the widow-maker—a massive, undetected morning heart attack.

Forgetting about the dread I’d felt the whole long-as-hell drive up here and what I’d heard on the radio, I felt like I was five again.

“Mom,” I croaked, dropping the bag on the floor.

Anne Keeton stepped out from behind the counter, and I stumbled in the rush to get to her. It had been a year since I’d seen her. Last Christmas, she had traveled to Atlanta, because she’d known I wasn’t ready to come home then. Only a year had passed, but Mom had changed just as much as the inn had.

Her shoulder-length hair was more silver than blond. Deeper lines had forged into the skin around her brown eyes, and fine lines had formed around thinner lips. Mom had always been curvy—after all, that was where I got my hips and breasts, and belly, and, okay, thighs from—but she was at least twenty pounds lighter.

Concern blossomed in the pit of my stomach as she wrapped her arms around me. Had I not noticed this last year? Had I been gone too long? Ten years was a long time to miss things when you only saw someone sporadically.

“Honey,” Mom said, her voice thick. “Baby, I’m so happy to see you. So happy that you’re here.”

“Me too,” I whispered back, and I meant it.

Coming home had been the last thing I wanted to do, but as I hugged her tight and inhaled the vanilla scent of her perfume, I knew it had been the right thing, because that concern grew and spread throughout me.

Mom was only fifty-five, but age didn’t matter when it came to mortality. Nothing did when it came to death. I knew that better than anyone. Dad had died young, and ten years ago, at nineteen, I had . . . I had almost taken my last breath after everything else had been taken from me.





Chapter 2




The iron bistro table in front of the large window overlooking the veranda and garden had been in the kitchen as long as I could remember. Smoothing my hand over the surface, I found the tiny, familiar indentations carved around the edges. It was at this very table where I colored as a child and did homework in the evenings as a teenager.

The door to the old kitchen, which now served as a break room/storage room, was on the opposite end, also marked with an employees-only sign. That door, like everything else in the updated kitchen, had been painted a fresh white.

Mom brought two cups of coffee over and sat across from me. The room now smelled like a coffee store, and I wasn’t thinking about the way I’d freaked out before.

“Thank you,” I said, wrapping my hand around the warm cup. A grin tipped up the corners of my lips. Little green Christmas trees decorated the cup. Even though it was two weeks past Christmas and all the decorations were down, the Christmas-themed coffee cups would remain out and in use all year. Glancing around the kitchen, I frowned and asked, “Where is James?” James Jordan had been the chef for at least fifteen years. “I smell something cooking.”

“What you smell is two roasts.” She took a sip of her coffee. “And there’s been some changes. Guests have to notify us by one if they will be having dinner here and then we cook the dinner based on that request. It cuts down on the work and we’re not wasting as much food.” She paused. “James comes in just three times a week now. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.” She lowered her cup to the table. “We’re still pretty steady with business, but with the newer hotels springing up around here every year, I have to be careful with what we’re spending money on. Do you remember me telling you about Angela Reidy?”

When I nodded, she continued, “She’s our main housekeeping staff in the mornings and afternoons Wednesday through Sunday, and Daphne is still here, but she’s getting up there in age, so I’ve moved her to part-time. That gives her more time with her grandbabies. Angela is amazing, but a little flighty and sometimes forgetful. She is always locking herself out of the townhouse she rents, so much so that she keeps a spare key in the back room.”