In This Moment

Chapter One

Today sucked. She’d had a lot of terrible ones in her twenty-eight years on Earth, more than half of those years in this very town, but today took the whole pig pickin’ cake.

In the little black dress she’d worn to the funeral, heels dangling by the straps from her numb fingers, Rebecca Moore stood on the front lawn outside of her grandmother’s modest home and chewed the inside of her cheek. She should go inside. Should get affairs in order and her life together. Both seemed like too daunting a task and beyond her ability. So, she stayed put.

Darn fibromyalgia pain was bad right now. The strangling achiness in her neck and shoulders, which never went away, was probably angrier due to stress and lack of sleep. She’d forgotten to take her vitamins this morning and do her stretches, too, which wouldn’t help. Her own fault. Drugging weariness tugged at her, threatening to pull her under. Another fibro side effect, yet triple-fold today.

Sunlight beat down on her just to contradict her sour mood. Humidity was thicker than her first crush’s head. Cicadas buzzed and a brown thrasher chirped its three-note whistling call from a nearby magnolia tree. The air smelled like rain from this morning, roses from her grandmother’s bushes, and faintly of barbeque from a neighbor’s backyard. A lawnmower ground a grating whine off in the distance. Children laughing and playing carried on the breeze from the other direction.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. A short visit for holidays, sure. Not long-term. Not forever. Certainly not because she’d failed or because Gammy had…

Her chest hitched, and she choked on a sob. Hot tears splashed her cheeks, blurring her vision.

Gammy was gone. The woman who’d raised her after her parents’ tragic car accident, who’d tended to boo-boos and broken hearts from stupid boys, was gone. She wasn’t supposed to die, either. Especially not without Rebecca by her side, holding her hand.

Yet, they’d buried her today just the same.

Last time Rebecca had been home was Christmas. A few short months ago. Gammy had been fine. Fit as a fiddle. She’d cooked a sugar ham, sweet potato casserole, fried okra, and gingerbread cookies thick with icing because that was Rebecca’s favorite. Didn’t matter that it had been just the two of them or that they’d eaten leftovers for two days. That was all they’d needed was each other, full bellies, and a roof over their heads.

The fact she’d never get to eat Gammy’s cookies again was enough to slice agony through her midsection. Mortality was such a fragile thing. Rebecca had taken it for granted.

The house wasn’t in the best part of town, but in Vallantine, Georgia, they never had the need to lock their doors. A tiny two-bedroom ranch with a postage stamp yard. Cookie-cutter, like all the others on the block, with white vinyl and blue shutters fading more by the year. There were at least twenty casserole dishes on the front stoop, a product of townsfolk offering comfort. That’s what people did in the south when someone died. They cooked. En masse. More than any one person could consume. She’d almost forgotten that since moving north.

She vaguely wondered if that made her a Yankee now. She’d left their small, picturesque town to go to college in Boston straight out of high school, then had secured a job at a newspaper right after graduating. Big hopes and bigger stars in her eyes. She was gonna be somebody. Do great things and change the world. How foolish. Ten years since she’d called Vallantine home. She’d been unsuccessful at all of it, including fulfilling her life-long dream of becoming an award-winning journalist.

Perhaps she didn’t belong anywhere.

A loud pop, followed by the chaotic rev of a dying exhaust jarred her from her thoughts. It took mere seconds for the noise to click her memory. Shaking her head, she dropped her chin and sighed.

Good ole Harold. Dear Lord, how was he still alive? He had to have been a hundred years old when she’d started grammar school. The only thing that might be passably older than him was dirt. Or his pickup truck.

She turned her head, watching the blue rust bucket chug up the street, pausing to deposit mail in the boxes by the curb. He waved to the kids playing a few houses down. Nostalgia smacked her upside the head as he stopped by her box and stuck his face out the window. His white strands ruffled in the breeze and sunlight made the deep grooves of his wrinkles seem like caverns.

“Miss Rebecca, as I live and breathe.”

Yeah, the live and breathe part was hard for her to believe, too. “Great to see you, Harold. How are you, sir?”

“Gettin’ along, gettin’ along fine. Sorry to hear about Mavis passing.”

Her, also. She’d had to hear it from bestie number one, Scarlett, via phone. “Thank you, sir.”

He held his arm out the window, offering a stack of envelopes. “How long you stayin’?”

She took the mail from him. “Indefinitely.” No sense in stirring the rumor mill by elaborating. Small towns were synonymous with gossip, and Vallantine was the crowned victor.

“The Bookish Belles together again.”

“Yes, sir.” That wouldn’t be a hardship. Rebecca and her two best friends had been inseparable since in-utero. Their mothers had started the first bookclub in town and named each of them after great southern literary heroines. The town had dubbed them the Bookish Belles in kindergarten, a nickname that stuck through the years. “It’s good to be home.”

A truth wrapped around a lie.

“Bet it is, darlin’.” His eyes narrowed. “You ain’t gonna be actin’ like no Yankee, are ya?”

Strange she’d had the same thought. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

She swore, a good part of the south behaved as if the Civil War was still kicking. Or that they hadn’t lost.

“Glad to hear it. Have a blessed day.”

“You, too.”

The screen door slammed shut with a clack on the house beside Gammy’s, and a man stood on the stoop, hands on his hips. Oddly, he was wearing a gray suit, even in the late day spring warmth. Most people wore casual dress in these parts. He had longish black hair on top, but cropped close on the sides, and appeared to be around her age. A shadow of a beard dusted his jaw. She couldn’t make out his eyes from her spot, but tension knotted his shoulders as he stood motionless, stance wide, posture rigid. She’d not seen him before, but in a town with twenty-five hundred residents and constant tourists, it wasn’t like she knew everybody.

Harold drove right past the neighbor’s box, tossing mail onto the grass, and kept going.

Rebecca tried and failed to suppress a laugh.

“Damn it!” The man flew off his stoop, vaulting the three steps, and marched toward the curb. “What in the hell are you doing? I’m getting real tired of…”

Harold turned the corner, and with a wave out the window, disappeared from view.

“…talking to myself.” The man dropped his arms, hands slapping his thighs.

Rebecca rolled her lips over her teeth. “Sweets.”

He turned, brows raised as if surprised to find her there. “Hi.”

Green. His eyes were a shocking shade of green. Wicked Irish hellion, this one. Great athletic body to boot. Taller than her by a head, putting him at about six feet, with wide shoulders, and a lean waist. His accent wasn’t from this side of the Mason-Dixie line. Midwest, maybe?

She smiled, still firmly amused. “Hello.”

He scratched his jaw. “Sweets?”

“Yep.” She pointed to his mail littering the ground. “Harold has an affinity for sweets and an aversion to newcomers. Put cookies in your mailbox with the door open. He’ll see it as a sign of respect and warm up to you in no time.”

He stared at her, unblinking, like she’d gotten hit one too many times by the stupid stick. “Cookies,” he replied, deadpan.

“Make sure they’re homemade. Don’t want to add insult to injury.”

“Homemade cookies.” More staring. After a moment, he swiped his hand down his face. “What kind of fresh hell is this?”

“Not from around here, are you?”

“No. Where I come from, carriers actually put mail in the boxes and don’t require sweets by way of a bribe. I should call the post office and file a complaint.”

Someone was ornery.

“Harold is the post office. The whole post office.”

He crossed his arms, brows wrenched in disbelief. “What?”

She shrugged. “There’s a few people who sort packages or answer phones, others who deliver mail to the shops and businesses, but it’s pretty much just him running the joint.”

He huffed a dry laugh devoid of humor. “Of course, he is. Why would I expect any different in this hillbilly backwater town?”

Now he was just showing his ass. Irritation tapped her temples. He was a handsome devil with an angular face and wide jaw, thick lashes and full lips, but he was so stuck up, he’d drown in a rainstorm. “We might be simple folk to you, but you’d catch more flies with honey. Best remember that if you intend to hang around.”

Done with him, she strode toward the house. She got up the stoop and was digging for the keys in her purse when he shouted behind her.

“You bought the house?”

She turned, glaring at him, not bothering to reply. His nose didn’t belong in her business.

“They haven’t cleared out Mavis’s things yet.”

Tilting her head, she debated how to respond. If he had an ill word for her Gammy, she might fillet him where he stood. “I’m aware. You knew her?” Gammy hadn’t mentioned him in their weekly phone chats.

“I did.” He took a few steps closer and stopped, crossing his arms. “She lived next door, after all. She was one of the few redeeming qualities of Vallantine, thus far. I cut her grass every Sunday and she baked me a peach pie.”

Well, butter her biscuit. Maybe he had a heart under all that brass. “That was kind of you.”

“Not really. Decent thing to do. She was getting up there in age and didn’t need to be out here with a mower. Besides, I’d kill for her pies. Ever try one? Nothing like it.”

Grief, so profound, so sharp, consumed her until she couldn’t breathe. Gammy did make the best peach pie. And Rebecca would never get to enjoy one ever again. Chest tight, eyes hot, she closed her lids for a beat to compose herself.

“I didn’t realize they’d sold the house.”

“They didn’t.” She cleared her throat, drawing in a calming breath. “I’m her granddaughter.”

She didn’t wait for his response. Today had been horrible and overwhelming. The past week, actually. And her pain was bordering on crippling at the moment. All she wanted was the comfort of Gammy’s and to be left alone. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside and promptly shut it behind her.

Pressing her forehead to the door, she inhaled hard, fighting tears. But that didn’t help much because all she could breathe was the familiar scents of home. Lemon dusting spray and fabric softener. Gammy’s gardenia perfume and, oddly, tissues. That cottony soft smell tissues embodied. Familiar and typically reassuring. All they did was remind her of what she’d lost. Guilt clawed at her ribcage.

She spun and leaned against the door, tossing her shoes on the mat. The small living room, consisting of a gold and white plaid couch, two yellow wingback chairs, a flatscreen on a small stand, and a couple light oak tables with lamps, was exactly as Gammy had left it. Family pictures in mismatched frames covered the ivory walls, and crystal bowls or vases occupied tables. Rebecca had paid to have the carpet replaced with hardwood some five years ago when she’d received a sign-on bonus for joining the newspaper. Gammy had retired as a hairdresser many moons before and hadn’t had much money.

Since arriving in Vallantine, Rebecca hadn’t spent much time in the rest of the house, having clung mostly to her old bedroom. It had just been too difficult. Even now, she half expected Gammy to waltz in from another room, wrap Rebecca in a hug, and offer her something to eat, claiming she was too skinny. If Rebecca was going to keep from going insane, she’d have to get over her avoidance.

But first, comfy clothes.

Shoving off the door, she strode down the hallway to the right, bypassing Gammy’s room and the bathroom to head to her bedroom. Which had remained unchanged since she’d departed for college. A full-sized bed with a purple flowered comforter sat between two windows on the back wall. A tall white dresser rested beside a tiny desk on the left, the closet on the right. Bookshelves lined the same wall as the door, and she recalled without looking that they held everything from classics to mysteries to young-adult romances. Books, her forever escape. Books never let her down or demanded things of her.

After closing the drapes, she dug in her dresser for a pair of sweats and a tee, then tossed her dress in the hamper in the closet. She pulled her hair up in a ponytail on her way to the bathroom. The gray tile was cold and reminded her to throw on socks when she was finished. A mint green mat in front of the tub matched the plain shower curtain, which she’d left open in her haste this morning to get ready for the funeral.

Gammy’s products stared back at Rebecca as if taunting her to do something. Throw them away or let them collect dust in memory. They weren’t brands she used, but she couldn’t junk them just yet. She closed the curtain in avoidance, washed the makeup off her face, and found socks in her room.

Backtracking down the hall and through the living room, she went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Distressed dark blue cabinets and white tile. Formica counters. The kitchen was dated, but like every other room in the house, it was spick and span. Not a crumb or spot of dust. A two-seater white wood table was in the corner, an empty fruit bowl in the middle. She swallowed hard, caught up in flashes of memory.

She’d sat at that very table when Gammy had told Rebecca’s devastated eight-year-old self that her parents had died in a car wreck on their way home from dinner. Date night. Her folks used to have one every month, and Rebecca got to sleep over at Gammy’s. The rain had been terrible that evening, torrents leftover from a hurricane that had brushed near their town. Even now, storms made her uneasy. Lord, how she’d sobbed and wailed and carried on. At that age, she’d been too blinded by her own pain to wonder how her grandmother had felt or how hard on her the situation had to have been. She’d buried her only son and his wife, something no parent should ever have to do. Not once had Rebecca been afraid, though. Gammy had taken care of her, had taken care of everything. Like she always did.

She’d died alone. Just fell asleep and never woke. Rebecca couldn’t imagine a more peaceful way, but guilt for not being here churned in her belly. Her friends Scarlett and Dorothy had been the ones to find her, as they used to pop by a couple times a week to check on Gammy.

There was no one left to take care of things. Her whole family was gone. Mama’s folks had lived in South Carolina, and had passed when Rebecca was too young to remember. Her grandfather on Daddy’s side, Gammy’s ex-husband, had divorced her when Daddy had been just a boy. Simply got sick of married life and walked, never to return. She’d raised her son all on her own, on a hairdresser’s salary, in a time and in a town where that sort of thing was frowned upon. People didn’t get divorced back then. Gammy was still the strongest person Rebecca knew. She might be an adult, but she was far from having her crap together. In the back of her mind, she’d always figured Gammy would be here to pick up the pieces, offer wise advice, or hold her when she fell apart.

A brisk knock, and the creak of the front door snapped Rebecca’s gaze from the table to the doorway. Her pulse tripped.

“Rebecca? Where you at, girl?”

A sigh, and she smiled. It was only Scarlett. Rebecca had been in the big city too long if she was freaking out about who’d opened her door in Vallantine.

“We brought reinforcements.” And Dorothy, too.

Gawd, how she’d missed her besties.

“In here,” she called, stepping into the living room. What a sight for sore eyes. She’d told them at the funeral she’d be okay, not to stop by. They obviously knew her too well.

Dorothy held a brown paper bag to her chest, and sported a pair of plain blue and white PJs. Her naturally reddish hair was cropped just below her shoulders, a new addition since Rebecca had last seen her at Christmas. The video chats they did every week just didn’t hold a candle to being with them in person.

She almost laughed. Then there was Scarlett. Rocking red sparkly pajamas, she held a plastic grocery bag and flipped her long, sleek cocoa locks over her shoulder with the other hand. Only she could wear makeup with jammies and pull it off.

“What did you bring?” Rebecca took the bag from Dorothy and peered inside. Yes, alcohol. Gammy had none in the house. “Bless you.”

Scarlett held up her bag. “And snacks, but uh…” She jerked a thumb at the door. “Do you know you have a whole restaurant on the stoop?”

“Crap. I forgot.” Rebecca set the bag on an end table. “Help me bring them in, would you? I was in such a rush to get away from the new neighbor that it slipped my mind.”

Scarlett cocked a hip. “Why are you trying to get away from the new neighbor?”

“Because he’s a Yankee asshole.”

Hand at her bosom, Scarlett gasped. “How judgy of you. I love it.”

Opening the door, Dorothy picked up two dishes and headed toward the kitchen. Scarlett and Rebecca did the same until all the items were in the fridge. Afterward, they found respective seats in the living room.

“So, what’s with the neighbor? Name, age, deets. For you to drop Yankee in a sentence considering you’ve been a northerner for a decade is saying something.” Scarlett waved her manicured hand. “Out with it.”

“This convo requires cocktails.” And probably chocolate.

“I’ll get it.” Dorothy rose and sorted through the bags. Grabbing glasses from Gammy’s China cabinet, she mixed peach schnapps, brandy, grenadine, and lemon-lime soda for their customary Georgia Sunset cocktails. Good thing because Scarlett, per Dorothy, was too heavy-handed with the booze portion. “There we go.”

Rebecca took a sip. “Damn, that’s good.” She folded her legs under her and leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know the new guy’s name, but he’s about our age. Midwestern accent. He referred to Vallantine as hillbilly backwater.”

Dorothy twisted her lips in a frown. “Not cool.”

“Definitely not.” Scarlett tilted her head. “From a newcomer standpoint, I can see the reference. How long’s he been here?”

“Don’t know. He was having a duck fit because Harold was tossing his mail on the curb and not in the box.”

“Ah, so not long enough to know he needs to feed Harold’s sugar fix.” Scarlett nodded in understanding. “He could maybe be forgiven. Is he good-looking?”

Dorothy gave her the hairy eyeball. “Because that matters.”

Rebecca laughed. How she missed this, missed them. They were three very different women with three very different personalities, yet they fit. Completed one another. Supported and encouraged. She always felt like she was waiting for a punchline in their presence.

A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar…

“Well? Is he?” Scarlett demanded.

Rebecca sighed. “Oh, yeah. He’s handsome, all right.” And he also thought the sun came up just to hear him crow. No, thank you.