The Moonglow Sisters - Lori Wilde Page 0,7
picket fence that surrounded the house. Shelley had been the hopscotch queen, athletic and leggy, but Madison kept an eye on her. Shelley cheated. Which, Shelley claimed, was Madison’s fault because she made too many impossible-to-keep rules.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed plump Pyewacket, curled on the front porch, swishing her tail. She remembered when Gia brought the skinny, bedraggled kitten home from the animal shelter, thirteen and full of angst for all creatures in trouble.
“Grammy,” Gia declared. “We hafta keep her.”
Madison pressed her fingertips to the window and watched until the house was out of sight.
At four P.M. on the dot, the town car deposited her and her luggage at the emergency room entrance outside Moonglow Cove Memorial Hospital.
She was here. Goal in sight. At least the get-to-Grammy part. The fix-this-thing part was more complicated.
Head throbbing, heart sinking, Madison stared at the red neon Emergency sign over the door. She felt the flutter of panic stir at the bottom of her spine and inch up vertebra by vertebra.
C’mon, Xanax, kick in.
She curled her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to slow her breathing, pulled in a lungful of hospital antiseptic mingled with fragrant ocean air.
The pneumatic doors opened and Darynda walked out, arms wrapped tightly around her chest as if she were chilled. Her snow-white hair was pulled back into her signature low chignon, elegant as the woman herself. She wore pleated gray slacks, a soft purple blouse and matching sweater, and silver kitten heels. No one would ever guess where she’d come from originally.
Darynda Fox was a self-described sand hill tacky, a Texas term for a girl who’d grown up poor in the sand hills of West Texas. She was the daughter of a cowhand, raised riding and roping and punching cattle. She was a crack shot with a rifle, and sometimes, Grammy affectionately called her Annie Oakley. Her vivid blue eyes shone like beacons in her wrinkled face, and her gaze latched tight to Madison’s. Without a word, she held her arms wide for an embrace.
Madison hesitated.
She and Darynda had never been buddy-buddy, but she was Grammy’s best friend in the entire world and she had taken up the slack after . . . well, after everything zoomed to hell in a wicker handbasket.
Madison steeled herself and moved in for the hug, catching the light honeysuckle scent of Darynda’s perfume. Quick squeeze and she was out of the greeting, stepping back, fetching another made-for-TV smile.
Willowy, graceful, Darynda dropped her arms. “It’s so wonderful to have you home, Maddie.”
“Thanks,” Madison mumbled, not knowing what else to say, and hitched her purse up on her shoulder. She was out of place on the hospital sidewalk of the coastal beach town in her white Ralph Lauren silk suit and Manolo Blahniks, her Louis Vuitton carry-on beside her. She’d come straight from the set of Madison’s Mark without going home to change, instead sending her assistant to her apartment to pack her bag while she wrapped up shooting.
Luckily, the morning show would go on summer hiatus in two weeks, and until then, her producer had coaxed a popular, retired talk-show host to fill in for her. But if things went well with Grammy’s surgery, Madison hoped to return to New York by next week at the latest.
And if things don’t go well?
Madison moistened her lips. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. She met Darynda’s gaze. “Grammy?”
“Still in surgery.”
Alarm sent fresh pounding through her head. “It’s been hours!”
“Eight and counting. It could go even longer.” Darynda’s voice turned husky and tears shimmered in her sharp blue eyes.
“What happened?”
“About three weeks ago, Helen started having dizzy spells, and she fell a few times. I insisted she go to the doctor. She’s got brain cancer. Grade IV glioblastoma.”
Fear spread heat throughout Madison’s body. She didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded bad. “What’s her prognosis?”
Darynda briefly closed her eyes, wobbled her head. “Not good.”
“She’ll make it.”
Darynda didn’t respond.
“She will make it.” Madison injected steel into her tone.
“I don’t pussyfoot around,” Darynda said, in a let’s-get-something-straight voice. “The cancer will kill her, but the surgery and radiation will give her time.”
Madison gasped. The truth, and Darynda’s blunt delivery, was a stake through her heart. Too much to process, even with Xanax. “But she’s fine. She jogs three miles a day. She runs a B&B at seventy-six. She’s iron woman.”
“Madison”—Darynda pulled no punches—“those days are over.”
She did not run from responsibility, or the truth. If Grammy was dying, then