The Moonglow Sisters - Lori Wilde Page 0,6
coaching viewers on how to pretty up their lives.
As if she had all the answers. Despite having achieved the lofty dream she’d fought so hard to win. Despite having built an orderly, controlled, and glamorous life. It seemed she was standing outside herself from a great distance and looking down at her world, absolutely numb.
Absentmindedly, she fingered the crystal star necklace at her throat. Sighed a bone-deep sigh of loss and longing.
More sorrow was in store. No escaping.
Madison unzipped her purse and reached inside for her cell phone to text Gia for an update on Grammy. Her fingers brushed against the piece of paper and her heart skipped a beat. Quickly, she stuffed it to the bottom of her purse. She should have destroyed the paper, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go.
Not yet.
Her fingers kept searching for the phone, but she found instead the bottle of Xanax her doctor prescribed after her first panic attack.
She opened the bottle; shook out one pill, stared at it, then for good measure, shook out another. The last thing she needed was another panic attack. She uncapped her water bottle and popped the pills into her mouth.
Madison caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. Eyes, hollowed and stark, stared back at her.
“Don’t judge,” she muttered and swallowed the Xanax. “I gotta deal with Shelley.”
“You say something, miss?” The bulky middle-aged driver met her gaze in the mirror. He smelled of cheap cologne and expensive salami, and he had a loose, lived-in face and a foreign accent she couldn’t quite place.
Ukrainian maybe?
“No.” She shook her head and posted up her automatic, camera-ready smile. Ta-da.
“This is Moonglow Bridge.” He motioned as the tires hit the metal bridge.
“I grew up here.”
“You lucky. Prettiest town on Texas coast.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “it is.”
Down the hill and around the first curve and they hit Moonglow Boulevard. Stately houses built during the early 1900s graced the right side of the road; the beach and seawall, alive with tourists, shops, and restaurants, were on the left.
Madison sipped water and watched the ocean gliding past like a ponderous dream, too much blue, long and endless. She’d forgotten how bright it was here. The beach stretched full of umbrellas, kites, and bodies. Light and casual and seriously, much too happy.
She didn’t trust happiness.
It faded.
Always.
The beautiful old Victorian where she and her sisters once lived with Grammy Chapman lay straight ahead. Built by their two-times-great-grandfather, Josiah Chapman, it stood out among the other buildings lining the beach. It was one of the few historical homes along the waterfront that had survived Hurricane Allen in 1980.
The three-story B&B looked like something from a fairy tale—all gingerbread trim, towers, turrets, dormers, and wraparound porches. Over the decades, five generations of Chapmans had painted it many shades and hues. Today, the color was a gentle aqua with violet shutters and white porch rails and columns. She and her sisters had picked out those colors, painted the house together.
Back when things were good.
A small orchard of Moonglow pear trees bloomed white in the side yard. Butter-yellow daffodils proliferated around the base of the pear trees. And in the tidy flower beds, irises and hydrangeas thrived, scenting the air with their sweet perfume.
Grammy adored those pear trees, and every fall she made preserves in her commercial kitchen. To supplement her B&B income, she packaged and sold the preserves online and through local vendors.
Madison hadn’t been home since Christmas. Almost half a year since Grammy, smelling of cinnamon and Shalimar, had wrapped Madison in her arms and told her how much she loved her. An erratic five months of giddy ups and sharp downs. Until now, she hadn’t realized the depth of her homesickness and she ached to go inside the house.
“Wait, stop!”
Startled, the chauffeur trod the brakes. “What’s the problem?”
A topless, doors-off Jeep blasted the horn behind them. The angry frat boy driver whipped around the town car, thrusting a proud middle finger skyward as he sped by.
The chauffeur eased the car over. “You sick?”
“No, no.” Madison waved away his concern. What was wrong with her? She had a mission. Get to Grammy. Fix this thing. No reason to stop, except . . . “Never mind. Just go. Please keep going.”
He made a chuffing noise and merged back into the flow of traffic.
She peered over her shoulder at the Moonglow Inn. Nostalgia took Madison’s hand and led her down memory lane.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the hopscotch squares they’d drawn on the sidewalk outside the white