Other Side Of Never (Sage Ridge #5)

Chapter 1

Peace

Istretched awake and looked around my temporary home. My fourth in the past year.

With its wide bay window, complete with a cushioned window seat, looking out onto the street below, it was, perhaps, my favourite.

I’d added a few splashes of color to its neutral gray décor since I moved in, and having my things around me made me feel more like myself than I had in a long time.

Here in Sage Ridge, I found friends and community beginning with Harley and Noelle before branching out quickly to include Shae and finally, sweet Wren.

A tease of spun sugar and vanilla wafted up through the vents from Mary Lou’s below. My Aunt Anita, God bless her, was already hard at work in her sweet shop.

Providing an old-fashioned candy counter, freshly baked cookies, bear paws dripping with every kind of topping you can imagine, real dairy ice cream, and her famous waffle cones to the good people of Sage Ridge, Mary Lou’s manufactured happiness.

It had certainly worked its magic on me.

When I first landed in Sage Ridge, I stayed with my aunt in her house in the neighborhood of Little River.

When it became apparent I was none too ready to leave, I began to look for my own place.

She offered me this apartment: free of charge no matter how I protested.

It wasn’t until she pulled the family card that I relented.

In exchange, I added to her sweets inventory as often as she’d allow. Which wasn’t often. She was none too keen to give her kitchen over to anybody else, even family.

I rolled over in my comfortable bed and tucked my hands under my cheek. Facing the open window, I watched the treetops gently sweep across the sky, their leaves dappled with sunlight. A summer breeze lifted the sheers and caressed my face. I closed my eyes at its gentle touch and breathed deep.

Despite its location in the heart of the tiny downtown, here in this tiny apartment, I had space to breathe.

In a few weeks, when the heat of midsummer rolled over Sage Ridge, I’d have to keep that baby closed. But for now, I cranked my window open as often as I could, even getting up in the wee hours of the morning to open it before crawling back into bed.

Ever since I left, I couldn’t stand to be caged.

Leaving my heart and most everything I valued behind was the most difficult and the best thing I could have done. Not that I had much choice.

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, breathing through the pain as I always did when remembering poked too sharply at the abscess in my heart.

It haunted my periphery. A shadow dance of grief and light, joy and pain.

Those first few weeks after he kicked me out, I lived at a motel. Located on a busy through street that hosted a series of bars, a few businesses, and the requisite strip joint, the best my rented room could boast was bug-free bedding and a surprisingly decent coffee maker.

Half in shock and still fully under his spell, I’d curled up into a proverbial ball to wait for the storm to blow over and his call to come home.

The motel was a far cry from the luxury upscale condo we lived in when we stayed in the city, never mind the sprawling Tudor style monstrosity he owned in the suburbs.

The constant drone of traffic and the more-than-occasionally raised voices of my neighbors rattled me, especially in those first days, but after a few weeks I realized that low-budget motel provided something he never did.

Peace.

The hand he’d held for years around my throat had tightened so slowly, I didn’t know I was suffocating until he cast me aside.

Even then, I held my breath.

Three sharp knocks on the ceiling below shook me from the past and split my face into a happy grin.

My aunt’s voice reached me. “Get up, lazybones! If you want to take over the world, you’ve got to get out of bed!”

Throwing off the bad memories along with my covers, I crossed to the window and watched the activity on the street until the echo in my hollow heart subsided. I showered and dressed quickly then reluctantly closed the window before heading down the narrow, winding stairs to the store.

Ignoring the door leading to the street, I turned right and swung open the door leading to Mary Lou’s kitchen.

“Good morning,” I called.

“Morning?” she snorted. “It’s practically afternoon!”

I pointedly looked at my watch. “Double A, it’s 9:00 a.m.” Putting my hands on my hips, I pretended to study her. “Do you need to go to the doctor? Perhaps get some testing done?”

Grabbing the broom, she lurched after me, giving me a good pop on my ass with the bristly side. “Stop calling me Double A. I’m not a battery.”

“Would you prefer Auntie Anita?”

“I’m too young to be your aunt.” She side-eyed me slyly. “Or maybe you’re too old to be my niece.”

“Okay, okay,” I spoke through my laughter, holding my hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry.”

“You always were a little rascal,” she grumbled, not quite able to quell her smile. “Just like my brother.”

Younger than my dad by nearly fifteen years, she had been the recipient of the best and the worst of him. Mercilessly teased, outrageously spoiled, and fiercely protected, she grew up under the shelter of his wide wing.

And did not hesitate to take me under hers.

God, I missed him.

From the pain on her face, I knew she did too.

“Okay, Auntie. No more Double A,” I said softly. “What are we doing today?”

She wagged a finger in my face. “Never apologize for being you, duckie. If you want to make your heart your home, you lean in.” She cocked a burnished eyebrow in my direction, her eyes twinkling. “I came in extra early and finished all my baking. You want free rein in the kitchen?”

I brightened. “Yeah?”

“Go for it.” She picked up her E-reader and left the counter behind as she headed for the tiny corner table she favored when the store was quiet. “And make me one of those hot cocoas you’re always bragging about.”

I grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sharply, she reprimanded, “Don’t call me ma’am!”

I laughed as she continued to grumble, so fucking thankful she loved me so wholeheartedly as I pulled out the tools of my trade.

I inhaled deeply, something loosening in my chest as I filled my lungs with the sweet smell of chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon and rich cream.

The kitchen was the one place I always felt at home.

Here, my nerves calmed, my mind quieted, and my senses came alive.

Setting a cup of whole milk to warm on the stove, I measured out and chopped a few squares of dark chocolate, resisting the urge to lick my fingers.

Whisking it into rich, creamy milk steaming with brown sugar, a splash of vanilla, and a pinch each of espresso and salt, the heavenly smell washed over me.

This was the smell of home.

Of family.

Of my mom at the stove, and my dad poking at the logs in the fireplace on cold winter nights. That house was a home.

Why didn’t anybody have a log-burning fireplace anymore?

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I poured the rich, chocolatey goodness into a thick, ceramic mug and delivered it to my aunt before returning to the kitchen and retreating into my bliss.

Hours passed in mere minutes. I slid three full pans of assorted chocolates into the fridge, then straightened my aching spine and rolled the cricks out of my neck.

Only then did I notice the laughter coming from the front of the store.

Pulling the chocolate dusted apron over my head, I tossed it in the bin to be laundered, a task I’d taken off my aunt’s hands, and followed the sound of happiness.