along the sidewalk, cursing the lack of parking along Palmetto Drive leading to Verandah House. I passed Marshall’s Garden and Antique Store, and glanced in the front window. Mrs. Marshall had owned the store for generations, and the family name was written in curved, gold letters that had been there for seventy-two years. The s winked at me, missing its middle section. I smiled—the s had been like that for as long as I could remember. I turned my head when a statue caught my eye.
I stopped, walked toward the window and stared at the miniature statue. It was two feet tall at most: a concrete garden angel, aged and cracked. The wing I could see was spread wide, her face tilted upward as if waiting for a kiss or for someone to tell her something—expectant either way. There was something about the angel that touched that spot inside me that always searched for Mama. I leaned closer—the angel knelt. I pushed the door open, and a small bell announced my arrival.
Mrs. Marshall looked up from where she stood behind the glass display case, holding a magnifying glass. “Well, lookee here. It’s Kara Larson. My, my, what brings you through my door on this beautiful day?”
I smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Marshall.”
“I heard you were sick . . . fainted right there at a party, did you?”
“Not one of my finer moments. But yes, I did.”
“I heard you scared your mother-in-law to death, making her think you were pregnant and all?”
I lifted my eyes to the ceiling. “Nothing secret in this town? Nope, not pregnant. Just the flu.”
“Did you come to check on those urns and trees you rented for the wedding? They’re all taken care of—ordered and confirmed.”
I nodded toward the front of the store. “No, I was wondering about that angel in the front window.”
“The concrete angel? Oh, she’s just for show. No one wants her—her wing is missing.”
“It is?” I tilted my head and walked toward the front of the store. “I didn’t notice that.”
“That’s because I have the marble birdbath placed just so.”
“Where did you get her?” I stopped and turned toward Mrs. Marshall.
“My junker found her in Savannah. No one wants an angel with a broken wing. I believe she came from a garden.”
“Well, I want her. How much is she?”
“Now why would you be wanting a broken angel?”
I reached into the display and lifted the angel, held her up to the light. “She’s beautiful. Something . . . I don’t know.”
“I agree with you, but she’s broken. I couldn’t sell her to you.”
“How much do you want for her?”
Mrs. Marshall rolled her eyes. “You can have her.”
“Thank you.” I hugged her.
The concrete angel wrapped and stuffed under my coat, I headed down the block to Verandah House.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Hello?” I leaned over the front desk and called into the space behind it. Silence met me. I walked out into the hall to the high-pitched calls of nurses and doctors barking orders. I recognized the tone and the words—there was a code red occurring down the hall; they were attempting to revive a resident.
I moved in slow motion toward the noise, toward Mrs. Mahoney’s room.
Lab coats flapped up and down the hall—unwelcome and menacing in their import.
“No,” I whispered. A nurse scurried by, her face somber and tight, a clipboard held against her chest. She looked up and stopped when she saw me. “May I help you?”
I motioned down the hall. “Did she . . . ?”
The nurse pressed her lips together. “Are you a relative?”
I shook my head in quick motions, which made me dizzy again. I pulled the concrete angel closer. “What happened to her?”
The nurse looked left, then right. “If you’re not family . . . I can’t.”
I nodded. “Okay.” Now I’d never find out what happened to Richard on the other side of the sea, to his brothers. I’d never discover where their love had . . . gone. I groaned and watched the nurse round the corner. Why did it matter what happened to an unknown man from 1920s Ireland with a woman I barely knew? But for some reason it did matter and, in fact, seemed desperately important.
I went down the hall toward the front desk, where a cluster of people in white coats stood talking in hushed, urgent voices.
The chaotic whirlwind of noise from inside my thoughts stilled now as surely as the eye of a storm. Inside this quiet was a hum, a white noise. My heart calmed, my