The Keepsake Sisters (Moonglow Cove #2) - Lori Wilde Page 0,4
across a reference that said while yellow roses once signified jealousy in a romantic relationship, in modern times, yellow roses had come to represent friendship and were a favorite gift for Galentine’s Day.
But that was from a florist’s website, so perhaps the story was just a way to sell more yellow roses.
Amelia hitched her bag up on her shoulder, wishing now that she’d gone straightaway to her accommodations at a local bed-and-breakfast where she’d made reservations, checked in, and dropped off her luggage.
What had she been thinking?
Thinking?
She wasn’t thinking. She’d been running on adrenaline for three days. Yes, and that was unlike her. She was a planner, cautious and controlled. She’d learned a long time ago that giving reins to her emotions never worked out in her favor, and yet, she’d done just that.
Amelia clamped her jaw, fighting for control, trying to find inner strength amid the wreckage of her life.
A canopy of trumpet and Mandevilla vines twined up and over the long arbor, creating a lush, green tunnel dotted with the flame of scarlet-, ginger-, and saffron-colored flowers, offering a beguiling respite from the relentless sun and perfuming the air heavy with a scent that reminded her of Bit-O-Honey taffy and Juicy Fruit gum. Around her, the hummingbirds whizzed and squabbled. Other than the quarrelsome creatures, the grounds were eerily quiet.
Amelia canted her head, listening. As a musician, sounds drew her attention before other sensory input. She was an auditory learner and noticed the soft snick-snick of water sprinklers, the lazy drone of a faraway lawn mower, and the slap of the driver’s footfall against the asphalt.
She shaded her eyes with a hand and glanced back over her shoulder. They were parked at the end of the long cul-de-sac. Stately Victorians, complete with whimsical gingerbread trim, framed both sides of the road. The houses sat on generous two- and three-acre lots, plenty of elbow room to keep the neighbors at bay.
So homey here. Peaceful. Dull, even. A far cry from her penthouse lifestyle in downtown Chicago.
Standing there, she experienced the same fugue she’d experienced following her visit to the specialist’s office two months ago, where he’d confirmed her diagnosis. She’d spent an entire day stumbling around Chicago, not knowing where she was going, or even who she was. She felt disassociated, as if viewing her life from a long distance.
How had she landed in this surreal environment? Why had she come here?
The driver set the luggage at her feet. “You got sumbody to carry this inside for ya?”
Amelia drew herself up. “I can manage.”
He eyed her skeptically. She knew what he saw. Skinny white woman. Arms like pencils. Legs like straws. Hacked hair. Designer slacks, pricey white silk blouse, gauzy cover-up jacket, and modestly high-heeled pumps. Weak. Helpless. Northerner. Out of her element in coastal, slow-talking Texas.
“Ya sure?” His brow furrowed in mild concern.
She gave him a short, tight rubber-band smile along with a terse nod.
“Okay.” He shrugged and ambled around the limo.
A minute later, he was gone, leaving Amelia alone in a strange place. She missed him already and fought the urge to call the limo service and ask them to send him back. There were wheels on the luggage. She could and would handle this.
Beneath the arbor a cobblestone path stretched out in front of her, and when she stepped to the other side of the archway, each hand towing a suitcase behind her, her oversized handbag hiked up on her shoulder, the temperature seemed to plummet at least fifteen degrees.
From this vantage point, she couldn’t see the end of the path as it turned slightly some distance ahead and disappeared from view down a steep slope.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Here we go.”
The suitcase wheels made ragged clacking noises as they hung and tugged against the uneven pavers. Moss grew up through cracks in the bricks, and she had images of Goldilocks and three disagreeable bears. Of Red Riding Hood and a ravenous wolf. Of Hansel and Gretel and a cannibalistic witch waving a stick of butter.
“Your fierce imagination is your worst enemy,” Dr. Ellard told her often. “You build farfetched stories around your emotions. Try not to think too much.”
What lovely, useless advice, Doctor. Don’t think. What kind of thing was that to say to an introvert who lived inside her head?
The arbor seemed to lengthen endlessly as Amelia walked, giving her the sensation that she was moving in place. The longest journey begins with a single step.