The Meaning in Mistletoe - Rachael Bloome Page 0,5
lodged in her throat. Like Scrooge, she’d tried to explain away the unwelcome reality that she had a half sister—it was a mistake or a cruel joke. But in her heart, she didn’t doubt the truth of the letter. Knowing her reckless and capricious mother all too well, the possibility of another family—another life—wasn’t far-fetched. In fact, she had vague memories of her mother mourning the loss of a stunning brooch, crafted from emeralds, rubies, and diamonds, given to her by a man named Timothy Heart—the only man Helena ever referred to with any glimmer of warmth or affection.
Putting the pieces together, Kat realized Helena hadn’t simply left a piece of jewelry behind—she’d left a child, a sister Kat never knew existed.
When Fern gave Kat the envelope—since her mother had passed away several years before its delivery—she hadn’t pried about the contents. Part of Kat wanted to confide in Fern, but then she’d have to face complicated emotions she’d long repressed. In the end, she’d pretended the letter, and her sister, didn’t exist. They remained a part of her mother’s past, where Helena had clearly wanted to keep them.
As Kat folded the note and slid it back inside the envelope along with the photograph, her thoughts drifted to the bejeweled brooch. While her mother rarely spoke about her life before moving to Starcross Cove, she’d frequently lamented leaving the prized possession behind, presumably because it must have been worth a small fortune—a pawnshop gold mine that could feed her many addictions for years.
A small fortune…
Kat bolted upright in bed as an impulsive idea gripped her.
Chapter 3
After rising from his kneeling position on the cobbled sidewalk, Jack wiped his chalk-covered palms on his jeans, surveying his handiwork. He’d begrudgingly added espresso molasses brisket to the sandwich board featuring the day’s specials.
Long-term, they’d have to come up with a solution for their differing visions for the diner, but for now, Jack decided to let his friend explore his culinary creativity, even if it did attract the wrong clientele. In the last two days alone, he’d had one patron ask if their potatoes were humanely boiled—whatever that meant—and another insisted her coffee mug be cleaned multiple times because it was “filthy.” He’d tried to explain the tiny flecks on the speckled pottery were a part of the design, but in the end, he’d given her a plain white mug to placate her concerns.
Overall, he didn’t mind tourists and understood they brought beneficial cash flow into the community, but he didn’t agree with Mayor Burns’s high-handed marketing methods or compromising their small-town values. In fact, most visitors came to Poppy Creek to escape the doldrums of city life in favor of a more leisurely pace and peaceful mindset.
Glancing around the town square, Jack felt his chest fill with pride. The Western-style buildings with their shiplap, stone, and brick facades evoked their historic roots harkening back to gold rush days. Stores like Mac’s Mercantile and Sadie’s Sweet Shop, while updated for modern consumers, still maintained their original whimsy and charm, accentuated by old-fashioned decorations like evergreen garlands and holly wreaths. For decades, all four streets surrounding the town square had been occupied with mom-and-pop shops, not chain stores or conglomerations. And Jack hoped it would stay that way.
The slam of a car door drew his attention across the center lawn, and he stood, transfixed, as afternoon sunlight streamed through the branches of a towering oak tree alighting on the woman’s fiery red hair, setting it ablaze.
He watched her take tentative steps toward Thistle & Thorn—the town’s quirky antiques store—her long hair and fringed scarf fluttering in the crisp breeze.
Startled by a vibration in his back pocket, Jack scrambled for his phone. “Hello?” Unable to tear his gaze from the enigmatic newcomer, he answered without glancing at the caller ID.
“Flap Jack! What kind of boring greeting is that?”
His lips quirked as his sister’s playful indignation emanated through the speakers. “Hey, Lucy Bug,” he drawled warmly using her nickname. “It’s about time you called. Are you on your way?”
A gust of wind lifted the stranger’s scarf from her shoulders, and it fluttered toward the ground.
“Hang on, Luce. I’ll call you right back.” Stuffing the phone back inside his pocket, he trotted across the lawn and plucked her scarf from a pile of leaves. “Excuse me, miss. You dropped this.”
She didn’t appear to hear him as she stood stock-still in front of Thistle & Thorn, her brow furrowed as though debating whether or not she wanted to enter.
“Miss?”