Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(109)

“And who knows, if there are changes, maybe I’ll be able to find work close by. I hear there’s a block of commercial development coming to Southern Lakes. That’s just one town over. We could live here, and I’ll commute.”

“Jack?” Holly touched his arm. “I have proof My Love arranged for the chilli thrips. I found an invoice in the trunk of the Buick I was driving. Michael’s signature was on it.”

“I know,” he said.

“You do? How?”

“The ferroequinologist told me everything when I dropped the Buick off this morning. We were checking for dents and other signs of damage as per the rental agreement—opened the trunk—and saw the infestation. The train guy told me everything.”

“I should have told you last night. I’m sorry.” Holly searched his eyes for signs of disappointment but didn’t find any. “It’s just—Mary-Margaret was so devastated. She was just standing there in the night sky like planet Mercury, and her life appeared to be moving backward. And she seemed so, I don’t know . . . weakened. There was no more ‘hooray.’ Her ‘hip, hip!’ went bye-bye. She wilted, Jack. Right there before my eyes—like Plume, who went up in smoke. A fragrant, majestic, legendary topiary died last night, covered in bugs. Torched by villagers.” And me? I was at the center of it. Seat hung low, butt dragging, devastating Primm from the trunk of a smelly red Buick.

“If I were a betting man? I’d put all my chips on Mary-Margaret,” said Jack. “She’s been knocked down, but she’ll get up again.” He kissed Holly’s forehead. “See you inside?”

“Sure,” she said. “Be there in a minute.”

Porch items gathered in her arms, Holly walked the length of her sidewalk slowly, seeing her naked front porch with fresh eyes. She thought she’d leave the columns white but paint the floor of her porch and the tread of the stairs black to match the shutters. If it worked, great. If it didn’t, she could always paint the floor a different color and leave the treads black. If I learned anything this week, it’s this: nothing’s permanent; everything changes. And there’s more than one word for happy.

Lime green. Maybe she’d paint her door lime green.

She certainly wasn’t the naive new homeowner seeking the promise of perfection in a village filled with zip-a-dee-doo-dah, persnickety plants, and charming enclaves. No. Holly’s front porch didn’t look like the front porch she’d first seen when coming to look at this house with Penelope Pratt by her side. It was different now, changed. It was definitely not Collette’s porch anymore. It was Holly’s porch, the porch that led to Holly’s home, where Holly’s family lived.

Holly climbed the porch steps, placing her new welcome mat beneath her front door, where it belonged. Where Holly belonged. Greta opened the front door to let Struggle out to sit beside Holly on the top step. Then Greta closed the front door, giving Holly time to be alone.

“Hey, Struggle. You a good girl?” Holly pulled Struggle close, scratching behind her ears. “You’re always right by my side, aren’t you?”

When they were leaving the festival and driving past the Topiary Park, a smoldering arcus cloud loomed overhead as Eva Cassidy’s rendition of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” played on the radio. Holly had imagined the Village of Primm as one big movie set with her as the main character. Was she Dorothy? Was the Village of Primm her Land of Oz? In this movie playing out in Holly’s mind, Greta was the scarecrow, Caleb the tin man of industry, and Jack the courageous lion. Ella was Toto. She’d like that. And Struggle too. Struggle was Toto. Two Totos. Why not?

One thing was certain: If this was Holly’s movie, Holly’s screenplay, Holly’s novel? She’d open with the snap of a clapboard slate. Welcome to Primm: take one. Her story would mash quirky, woebegone, and prim, but it would be her story, as only Holly could tell it. In it, she’d give voice to a less-than-perfect mom and her pursuit of mostly happy in a pretty good life. At least, that was how she’d pitch it to Wilhelm Klaus.

And when there was nothing left to say, when all the words and all the dash marks had whooshed and poofed away, Holly’d write the word she most longed to see:


FIN.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS




Writing a book is harder than I thought, takes longer than I’d like to admit, but is more rewarding than I ever could have imagined.

I am indebted to my literary agent, Jo?lle Delbourgo, bringer of life-changing news, who took a chance on an unknown writer who made her laugh. This novel wouldn’t be what it is without the skill, support, and hard work of my editor, Alicia Clancy, and the entire spectacular team at Lake Union, to whom I extend unending gratitude. I especially want to thank those who were instrumental in getting me there: Samantha Stroh Bailey, Arielle Eckstut, Francine LaSala, and Kris Spisak. Early readers Sara-with-an-A Allen, Sarah-with-an-H Sneed, Josie Brown, Meredith Schorr, and Pauline Wiles.

I am blessed beyond measure by family and friends who have been there for me in countless ways. My parents, Bill and Jeanne Breitbach, for a lifetime of patience, encouragement, and support. I couldn’t have stepped out if you hadn’t stepped in. My sisters, Sarah Sneed and Jill Taylor, with their husbands, Skip Sneed and JT Taylor, for listening when I shared my thoughts and for putting up with me when the road was long. My sister, best friend, and companion on the Appalachian Trail, Beth “Crème Br?lée” Cuzzone, for a lifetime of getting lost before reaching the summit. My brother-in-law Jamie Valerie, for always asking when it would be ready and for always letting me know he couldn’t wait to read it.